I am a caregiver but I offer nothing in the way of extenuating circumstances except the fact that I am the only one in this house that actually contributes care into the task.

I remember the very day that I became a caregiver. Up to this point, I had not noticed anything strange about my mother. However, an incident occurred in which my father blatantly blurted out the apparently obvious fact that my mother was unofficially, but certainly, diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. That morning she had woken up on the couch to my father screaming asking how she could possibly be home and her car wasn’t, and she could not remember a single thing. After hours of searching and contacting fire and police departments as well as local hospitals, we found the vehicle. I had not fully understood what was in store for our family, or my mother.

Still for a few years, I did not have a set definition of the word Alzheimer’s. Eventually I came to the conclusion that it caused mommy to forget a lot, but I forgave her for that. I couldn’t see what the big deal or mishap was about the subject, until it progressed into something so twisted and wretched that I constantly questioned why God had cursed my family with it. My mother began to deteriorate, inside and out. She would mindlessly blame me for theft of objects I had not even known we owned. Her mind told her horrible things about everyone in the family, and then some, and I couldn’t understand why she would think such things. This hectic phase passed and then came the distance. She was completely gone, out of self and out of mind. She could not take care of herself; she needed others to watch her so she didn’t run away and get lost, to make her food so she didn’t end up burning the house down, and eventually led to bathing her because her muscles and bones could no longer hold up her fragile being.

I was first bitter about the ordeal, first I lost my mother and then I lost my social life. Multiple times a week, still, I must stay home in place of my father or brother to stay with her and make sure she is fed and safe. I found this incredibly cruel, because it wasn’t my fault, so why should I have to pick up the pieces? I was just a child, who needed her mother.

But changes came, and I began to realize and accept that my mother needed me more than I needed her. I began to enjoy her presence, intrigued by it really. While her mind decaying was not a pleasant experience, her fading away back into the mind of a child keeps a smile on my face. She’s constantly laughing, even when I walk in hysterically crying, & there’s nothing I can do but grin from ear to ear. Our family was the never the perfect type, much closer to hanging by a string to be exact. While it’s still bumpy today, she is the light in my life, shining her joy onto me every second of the day. I was no longer an afraid and immature little girl, but a responsible and important role in someone’s existence, whether she is aware of it or not.

But I am not tragically a caregiver. The life lesson’s and traits I’ve absorbed in the process has shaped me into the person I am today, the caring soul I carry with me. She makes me happy, ecstatic. Many days she’s the only thing I can look forward to coming home to. While many may look at this as a tragic occurrence, I’ve learned to appreciate it and everything she has left to offer. While many, like my other family members, may go into this process with bitter and angry thoughts, I can’t help but make the best out of it. If I spent everyday reanalyzing the fact that I have lost the mother I used to know, and think about everything I’ve missed out on spending with her, I’d be miserable and depressed. I think God chose the right girl to mess with, because I’ve handled it by always making fun and laughs out of it. I love my mother, regardless of her awareness of me.

Someone is always at my elbow reminding me that I am a caregiver. It fails to register depression with me. The only route I will take is the optimistic one, looking ahead to all the discoveries and cures we’re so very close to finding in the future. While they may not be able to save my mother, they will save her in spirit, when one day, I get to see thousands of families reunite with their loved ones, or never have to be left by them in the first place. I hope I am a very big part of that accomplishment, and until then I will be dedicated to the mission. It is thrilling to me, when someone brings up the disease and tends to be quite clueless of the whole idea. I love informing others, making them aware of the things in this world, hoping that I touch them as my mother has touched me.

The position of bystanders and new friends is much more difficult. Most have never experienced or been in a home with a person with Alzheimer’s. They quickly become puzzled. They don’t know whether to laugh or cry, or share their condolences or just play along, or ignore it all together.

I do not always feel like a caregiver. I do not look upon the so called “task” as a chore, but a blessing. I love spending time with my mother. I don’t look at her as a sick women, but an innocent, tabula rosa, waiting to experience the world.

When all the fresh and minuscule little buds at the end of stretching stems are getting larger by the minute and blossoming into extravagant, vibrant flowers, there are others that are doing the opposite. Flowers droop and flowers wilt, but what does that say about them? Do they become any less important? They were once beautiful and strong and displaying themselves to the world for them to see, just like the new ones. But eventually, everything dies, some far too soon than expected. It may not always be their fault; mother nature works in unfamiliar ways. A flower may be stomped on, or sprayed with a foreign chemical; maybe the others flowers sucked the water, nutrients and life out of it. These flowers deserve just as much pride and glory, because they were once just like the others, before suddenly taken by surprise.