When I first met my future mother-in-law, I thought she was terrific. What a sweet, caring woman she was, complete with a quirky sense of humor and an insatiable love for ice cream and sweets.

Loretta was one of the first true "baby people" I ever met—those who light up when a baby rests in their arms, seeking out the small creatures when their own babies are grown. Every baby born into the family thrived under her loving attention.

Loretta was hard-working and always seemed to have more energy than her daughters and daughters-in-law who were half her age. She prepared good, basic dinners when we came to visit, but never ate much of them, saving room for whatever dessert she had concocted. (She could whip up a batch of brownies in a New York minute).

She had a connoisseur's eye for chocolate, especially "nuts and chews," never wasting calories on anything that was below her standards.

Later, after I had married her son, my husband Larry, I lost all understanding for those popular mother-in-law jokes, the mainstay of many stand-up comedians. I realized how lucky I was to be related to this woman I enjoyed so much.

These days, when we visit Loretta in an Alzheimer's center in Erie, PA where she has lived for nine years, we feel the weight of the tremendous feelings of loss this disease has created as it took her away from us.

When a relative has Alzheimer's disease, you get a long time to say goodbye—years of time to spend together, yet it's impossible to forget that the person you knew and loved, the very essence that made her her, is gone.

As if that weren't enough, and it can be, our loved one is still walking around, looking much the same as she always did. She just doesn't recognize us anymore.

There are medical explanations for why those with Alzheimer's progress the way they do, but to a lay person, it appears as if they have retreated to a world of their own making; a world we can't visit no matter how hard we try.

When she was more coherent, Loretta's new world centered on her childhood; on her mother and father and siblings and unfortunately not on her own children and theirs. She often asked when she could go see her mother who was waiting for her at home. At that point, her mother had been dead for many years.

She was convinced that her youngest daughter Bridget was really her older sister. Loretta looked up to her as a younger sister would for help.

Having lost close relatives to heart disease, cancer and other tragedies, I believe Alzheimer's disease may be the worse of all. To lose your mind, your past, your memory, yourself. . .what could be worse?

About ten years ago when Loretta's behavior first began to suggest she was having problems, we tended to think she was just going through normal aging. Heck, didn't we forget things all the time, too? But the symptoms evolved to a point where there was no denying that something had to be done for her own safety.

Loretta was evaluated at a center in Erie where the diagnosis of Alzheimer's was finally made, sadly the first of many tragic experiences for our family and others who go through the same thing. Only later—after living for a year with Bridget's family during which time her symptoms worsened—did she move into a center specially designed for those with Alzheimer's.

Loretta turned 86 on February 3, 2002, a day which should have been a celebration of her long and full life. This wonderful woman who raised seven children with her husband Bud has lived to a grand old age. Her family gathered round to mark the day, wishing with all their hearts that Loretta could really have been there, too—making us laugh, savoring the birthday cake and holding her newest great-grandchild.

By Teresa K. Flatley
2002