Mom looks at me and says: “You’re next.”
I am not in line at the bank or with a Home Depot cashier. I sit beside my mother in a hall after her doctor’s appointment.
Mom is cross, burdened with her new diagnosis—better said, incredulous with it as I sit numbly, staring at the wall.
It’s winter 2016, and we are in a long hallway. Ironically, I won’t remember much about the setting. I am also in a bit of shock. Shock can freeze the brain and create numbness, a type of blankness as a defense.
Two side-by-side bench seats face the opposite wall. I am on one; Mom is on the other. Is my dad talking to the physician privately? Again, it’s a blur to me.
Dad drove the three of us back to their house. It was our turn to process and digest the news. In hindsight, we should have known. Of course we saw symptoms. But the physician’s sharp words said behind his wall of papers and reports made it real.
The next day, I flew home to Buffalo, leaving my parents to move forward in a new world where the backward would slowly begin to cease.
My backward is the landscape of Long Island, the Big Apple, and my family as I moved to Western New York in 1979. I left the memories of home to create a forward with my husband.
Mom and I talked on the phone daily, keeping the connection strong even though we were miles apart. Born way before the cell phone, Mom would call on the “home phone,” the lifeline everyone used to communicate.
I had to be home, and she had to be home. For many years, I was tethered to a wall by a curly cord connecting my mother’s voice to mine.
As new technology was born, we gravitated towards cell phones. Actually, I moved towards my cell phone; Mom still preferred the home phone, which was now an overpriced cordless slim handheld.
On rare occasions, when she used her cell phone, I referred to her as “cell-fish.” She had the habit of calling me on her cell, leaving a message, and then shutting down her phone. “What’s with that? How am I supposed to call back?”
I would remind Mom that if she left me a message with her device, she should wait for me to reply before shutting down communication.
Vickie Rubin pictured with her mother, who was diagnosed with mild cognitive impairment, which can lead to Alzheimer’s disease.
Vickie Rubin
Communication shut down in other ways as the years passed. Our conversations became more superficial as Mom’s replies became increasingly vague. “I have no idea,” was a frequent response.
The stilted calls were a symptom of the larger narrative: Memory.
Memory brings me to the 1970s and my grandmother who lived with our family after my grandfather passed. Grandma developed what we called senility at the time but was probably Alzheimer’s.
Our family witnessed the ravages of mind and body after my grandmother’s diagnosis. Grandma remained in our home until she needed 24/7 daily care.
Mom feared a similar fate, but as she aged, with memory intact, I believe she (we) thought she had escaped this diagnosis—until she didn’t.
My dad, a devoted husband and future caretaker, convinced Mom to get testing. My brother and I also encouraged Mom to take the battery of tests. I recall telling Mom the result was important information for my brother, me, and our future.
Genetics plays a significant role in determining an individual’s risk of Alzheimer’s. Diagnostic memory tests are a hard sell because failing can make the patient and their family feel doomed. But I think we already knew the results.
Mom grudgingly agreed and submitted to the tedious testing.
Can you draw a clock, including the numbers and the time ten minutes past eleven? Can you listen to three words, repeat them, and then recite the words from memory after drawing the clock? Can you copy shapes? What’s today’s date? (All of us have trouble with that one at times.)
How does anyone pass the mind-numbing tests when anxiety creeps in and steals their thought process? Is it memory? Anxiety? How do neurologists know the difference?
Several weeks later, testing complete, I flew in to hear the results beside my parents. Walking down that long hallway, past the benches where we would later sit, we entered the neurologist’s office.
The same doctor sat behind a large desk with many papers. My parents were seated beside each other in two chairs; mine was slightly off to the side. It was quiet while we waited for the news. Our eyes focused on the doctor instead of each other.
I brought my ever-present notebook and pen to record the meeting on paper. We needed to remember what was being said.
The initial tests revealed the diagnosis of mild cognitive impairment (MCI)—a potentially devastating diagnosis because MCI could lead to Alzheimer’s.
Sitting in the doctor’s office with my parents and hearing the diagnostic term MCI was like a knife to the heart and brain. My mom was aware of her diagnosis and the potential journey of decline.
She repeated the word, “unbelievable.” We knew she was referring to her condition; it was heartbreaking to witness.
Following the unnerving news, the physician offered a few suggestions: “Learn a new language. How about taking up an instrument?”
I could see my mother’s eyes rolling and an expletive forming but not reaching her mouth. Mom agreed to try a daily dose of Luminosity, a brain-training program that uses games to improve cognitive function.
My loving mom was not herself that day in 2016. She needed to process her diagnosis, which is perhaps why she lashed out.
We are in a long hallway, and I, ironically, worrisomely, won’t remember much about the setting. I am on one bench; Mom is on the other. Is my dad talking to the physician privately? Again, it’s a blur to me.
Other than the foreboding omen: “You’re next.”
Vickie Rubin, M.S Ed. is a three-time award-winning author of the memoir Raising Jess: A Story of Hope, published by Page Publishing. Her blog, Vickie’s Views, gives a heartwarming and humorous view of everyday life, including raising a child with a disability, observing daily life, family, marriage, and RV travel.
All views expressed are the author’s own.
Do you have a unique experience or personal story to share? See our Reader Submissions Guide and then email the My Turn team at myturn@newsweek.com.
