The Deafening Silence of Alzheimer's: Navigating the Loss of Emotional Connection with My Mom

When my mom was first diagnosed with Alzheimer's, everyone and their mother warned me about the impending loss of her memories. "Cherish every moment," they'd say with that sympathetic head tilt. "Take lots of pictures, write down her stories before they're gone." And don't get me wrong, those are all valid points. The memory loss is heartbreaking, and it hurts like hell to watch the woman who raised you slowly forget the threads of her own life (and yours).

But here's the thing that no one prepared me for: the loss of emotional connection. The gradual fading of my mom's ability to meet my joy with her own exuberant enthusiasm, or to comfort me with her soothing words and warm embrace when life kicked me in the teeth. The blank stare that greets me more often now when I share my triumphs and my failures, my hopes and my fears, or just the way that she’ll react in a way that’s not in alignment with how “normal” parents should react is a really hard pill for me to swallow.

It's a special kind of messed up, watching the person who has always been your biggest cheerleader, your fiercest protector, your unwavering source of love and support, slowly retreat into a shell of stoicism. The first time I noticed it, I thought maybe she was just having an off day. But as the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the pattern became impossible to ignore.

I never realized how much I relied on my mom's validation until it was gone. Even now, I still fing myself craving her input, her reassurance, her gentle guidance. When I got a promotion at work, I couldn't wait to call her and hear the pride in her voice. When I went through a devastating loss of friendship, I longed for her comforting words and her fierce mama bear hugs (though she actually still gives great hugs, thankfully!).

But now, when I share my news, good or bad, I'm met with a polite nod, a distant smile, or sometimes a response that doesn’t exactly make sense or seem appropriate - or meet my expectations. It's like shouting into a void, watching my words disappear into the ether without so much as an echo in return. And it's not just the big stuff, either. Even the little daily updates, the silly jokes and the random observations that used to make up the fabric of our conversations, are beginning to be met with a noncommittal "Mmm."

It's the loudest freaking silence I've ever heard.

And the truth is, I don't have anyone else like her in my life. No one who listens with the same rapt attention, who knows just the right thing to say to soothe my anxious mind or light a fire under my butt when I need it. No one who can read between the lines of my rambling stories and pick out the nuggets of truth that even I didn't realize were there.

My mom may be a tiny woman, but her presence has always loomed large in my life. And now, her silence and moods fills the room like a physical thing, pressing down on my chest until I feel like I can't breathe. It's a constant reminder of what I've lost, of the gaping hole in my support system that I don't know how to fill again.

And the older I get, the more I realize just how much I depended on her emotional support. As I navigate the challenges of adulthood - the career changes and the relationship struggles and the existential crises that come with trying to figure out what I'm doing with my life and how I’ve lost the vision I once had for it- I find myself longing for her guidance more than ever.

But Alzheimer's is a cruel mistress, and it doesn't give a crap about my emotional needs. It just keeps chipping away at my mom's mind, stealing her memories and her personality piece by piece until I barely recognize the woman in front of me.

Some days, I get angry. I rage at the unfairness of it all, at life for dealing us this hand. Other days, I grieve for what we've lost, for the inside jokes and the knowing looks that used to pass between us. And still other days, I try to find gratitude for what we still have - for the moments of connection that break through the fog, for the flashes of recognition that light up her eyes, for any and all laughter we have while we can still have it together.

Because at the end of the day, my mom is still here. She's still the woman who gave me life, who shaped me into the person I am today. And even if she can't express it the way she used to, I know that she still loves me with every fiber of her being.

So, I keep showing up. I keep telling her about my day, even if she can't respond the way I want her to. I keep holding her hand and looking into her eyes, even if I’m met with a suspicious glare. I keep loving her with every ounce of my being, even as Alzheimer's tries to steal her away from me.

Because that's the thing about love - it's not dependent on memory or conversation or even emotional reciprocity. It's a choice we make, day after day, to keep showing up and keep loving, even when it's hard. Even when it hurts. Even when the silence is so loud it threatens to swallow us whole.

And so, to all the other caregivers out there who are navigating this journey - I see you. I feel you. And I want you to know that you're not alone in this. We're all stumbling through this uncharted territory together, doing the best we can with the hand we've been dealt.

Keep showing up. Keep loving. And know that even in the midst of the silence, your presence matters more than you could ever imagine.