The Seventh Wave

When I was a young girl I remember hearing that every seventh wave at the beach was the biggest one.  For surfers this was great news as they sat and waited to ride the 'big one' in.  Later I learned that it was a myth; still, I couldn't help but count the waves every time I visited the ocean.

I haven't thought of this in many years until now as I research the seven stages of Alzheimer's Disease.  I was reviewing my mother's progression through each phase almost clinically checking off the myriad symptoms, the behaviors that manifest themselves with each phase.  I had been braced for the seventh and worst stage -- the biggest wave.  I knew it was coming, I had warnings.  Just like the girl standing on the shore watching the biggest swell form far out in the deep water then build momentum and size as it approached.  On days when the swells were especially big I would run backwards as the wave approached knowing that it might break closer to the water's edge and catch me in the tumultuous contact with the shoreline.  Too often I had been upended by a large wave that threw me down and tossed me about like an abandoned seashell.  So it was when my mother's illness reached that seventh and final stage, the biggest and worst, most destructive wave (metaphorically speaking.) 

The smaller waves hit the shore in a steady progression.  I watched and waited through the agonizing years of confusions, memory loss, physical changes and finally, finally this moment. There it was, the seventh wave building in the distance.  I braced myself.  I was ready.  It built slowly causing anguish as I watched helplessly.  No.  I couldn't hold back the illness any more than I could turn back the tide.  The wave would roll in looming larger and larger before crashing down on me.  It arched itself menacingly.  I felt the foam and spray of the warning  that it was about to pound into the sand.  My mother had been showing increasing signs of anger, inability to communicate, lack of understanding of simple words spoken to her. Now here it was spewing the foam and fury, showing the power of nature, reminding me that just like the ocean, Alzheimer's rolled in with impending force.  The seventh wave was a tidal wave.  It was destructive, horrific, and totally dreaded.  There was no life preserver to throw.  There was no way to avoid it.  

My mother sat at the edge of her bed.  She was angry.  I didn't know why.  It was bedtime and instead of putting her nightgown on she threw it in the trash can.  My husband, Skip was helping with her shoes and socks.  He retrieved the gown from the trash and told her to get undressed.  Then he left the room allowing her privacy.  I remained to help her remove her clothes.  She sat on the bed glowering.  

"What's wrong?" I asked with concern.  She didn't answer immediately.  She couldn't find the words.  She gestured helplessly, waving her arms about in frustration.  I asked again.

"I don't like it!"  She shook her head.  She looked towards the door.  "He shouldn't...I don't like the way he spoke to me."

"What?  Why?  He just told you to take your clothes off so you could go to bed."

"I don't have to, and I don't want to," she proclaimed with the petulance of a small rebellious child.

"Why are you so angry?"  It was a stupid question.  I knew better than to ask.  That afternoon I had asked her several questions, each one eliciting the same response, 'I don't know.'   Why did I think that this time it would be different?   

My mother surprised me.  She provided an answer, an insight:

"It's not nice...the way he spoke!"  

 I became defensive.  I wanted to engage in an argument to defend my husband who out of the goodness of his heart jumped in to help me -- to help Mom.  How could this selfless act be misinterpreted?  Instead, I turned away and called to Skip to come back into the room.  I explained how Mom was feeling and reminded him that his abrupt demeanor had been insulting.  Skip immediately apologized and hugged her telling her that he didn't mean anything by it.  Mom smiled and her expression softened.  It wasn't his apology that made the difference; it was the physical contact.  A hug calmed her.  I thought about the importance of this since verbal communication was so difficult.  Words were confusing and misunderstood, but a loving gesture was always appreciated even among those with the most remedial cognition.  (Often I find myself behaving as a custodian rather than a loving daughter.  Instead of a hug I  execute my duties with clinical efficiency forgetting that my mother responds to the gentle touch, the reassuring gesture more than the words.  It is easy to forget, especially when my mother is combative, stubborn or irritable.) I softened and gently chided myself for succumbing to my own reactions.  I knew that as much as I fought it, my mother had entered the final stages of Alzheimer's and I would be dealing with all of its ugliness, all of the anger, the frustration, the fear and the emotional upheaval that it caused both for the patient and for the caregiver.  

Yes, I  am now observing the seventh wave, and rather than stepping back higher up the sand, I wade into the water.  I hold my breath and dive into the crest praying that I will survive while knowing that the wave itself will soon be nonexistent as it spends itself on the beach before withdrawing.