As I was ruminating on what this month’s blog would be about, I kept having little snippets of memories and conversations wandering through my brain. As the detritus gelled, it suddenly shocked me to realize that my blog this month would be totally unlike any other I have ever written. It didn’t seem appropriate, somehow, but it wouldn’t leave me alone. And so here we are discussing memories, or lack of them.
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So many of us take our brains and stored memories for granted. We say,
“Hey, remember that time we rode horseback almost all the way to the next town?” Or perhaps,
“Do you remember when you decided it was time to teach me to drive? (And you were 13, and I was 10!)
Or, “Do you remember how she used to chase us away with a broom, because she didn’t like us?”
Some memories are crazy, some are funny, and some are sad, but they are always there. We think. Until they aren’t.
When my paternal Nana died, she had a form of dementia—I don’t think they had particularly labeled Alzheimer’s then. My mother died having suffered from Alzheimer’s for a few years. Another of our family is exhibiting signs of “forgetfulness” and making us all doubt our own brains when we can’t come up with a word, or name that we really know. It’s unsettling.
Let me tell you a true story. When we moved (40 some-odd years ago) from Phoenix to Olathe, KS, I was determined to continue to take my children to visit folks in a nursing home, as we’d done weekly in Phoenix. Sometimes the kids would sing songs, or quote Bible verses, or just sit on a “grandmother’s” lap. Or we’d bring cookies. Or we’d bring books and let the elderlies read to the kids. It is my firm belief that children need elderlies, and vice versa.
Well, we went to the local (kind of upscale) place close by; the kids knew just what to do. They would walk around the room and visit or ask the person if he wanted to read them a book, or whatever happened. I sat down next to a stately lady who greeted me warmly. She had her hair and nails done, lovely skirt and sweater set on, beautiful jewelry. She was so pleasant. We sat and talked, oh, probably for about 10 or 15 minutes. Then I gathered up the children, and we left. Why? Because it had occurred to me suddenly that even though we’d been carrying on a lovely conversation, I had realized that vocal modulation, smiles, and nods later, she had not said a single thing that made sense. Suddenly I was fearful—not of her, but of myself! How can one have a conversation for 10 or 15 minutes before he realizes it wasn’t really a conversation?!
Since then, I have learned to laugh at myself. And I’ve probably told the story too many times. But a couple of weeks ago I ran across a letter written to a columnist in the Lawrence paper. Here, let me share it with you:
“Some years ago, I went to a nearby office supply shop, where I saw a local couple looking around. The woman, a local musician, had Alzheimer’s, but she seemed to recognize me, so we began a conversation. I don’t recall what it was about, but it was the silliest, most illogical, and the most fun conversation I’ve ever had with anyone. I just went along with whatever she said, never trying to force reality onto her and augmenting whatever her ideas were when I could.
Meanwhile, her husband seemed to be mortified beyond embarrassment.
I later left the shop, having purchased what I needed and I felt so happy at connecting with this woman, as ridiculous as the conversation had been.
I think it is not good to try to convince such people about what “now” is like. In a way, that is reminding them that they are not well: this will make them feel bad and feed their depression. It is better to greet them “where they are” and find a way to spread some cheer in that.”
And then recently I had a discussion with my perfectly wonderful daughter-in-law, who is a nurse and also had been a director for a memory unit home in town. As we discussed the pros and cons of dealing with “forgetful” folks, she said something that also reaffirmed what the letter above said. It turns out that lady was exactly right. Sweetie said that the standard for many years was to try to make the forgetful one realize he was wrong. To correct him. To try to help her think correctly. Now, however, the medical people are saying:
1) They cannot overcome what their brain has become, and it is not kind to try to make them “snap out of it”.
2) The process now is to go along with them as much as is feasible, and if you do that, you can keep them calm, and not fearful or drag them into a past time which isn’t there for them.
Her example was, if one has lost a spouse—even many years ago—and they are waiting for the spouse to show up for dinner, encourage her to go ahead and eat while it’s hot and someone can always warm his up. No sense in both eating cold food, right? If you tried to correct her and said, “Gladys, Walter died 12 years ago. He’s not coming.” Or whatever, then the forgetful one has to go through the shock of loss and the grieving all over again. Better to keep her calm and enjoying her food, than to put her through losing her husband all over again. Pretty soon, she has forgotten the problem.
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And now you are saying to yourself, “This is one weird blog!” And it’s my turn to say, in the words of the immortal infomercials, “But wait! There’s MORE!” Here’s something to think about. I tend to be a bit of a harpy about people not telling stories, or whatever, correctly. It has suddenly dawned on me, since I started this piece, that I need to apply the above information to everyday situations in which the other person does not have dementia. If it is a bit exaggerated or even flat out wrong, why should I make a big deal of it? It’s not my story. I’m not the final arbiter of storytelling. Maybe I have even “mis-remembered” a few things myself. Who made me the mind-policeperson?
So there you have it! I hope this causes some of you to take a deep breath and give the people in your life a little breathing room. But I really hope it makes me do the same. Life’s too short. Let’s make it kinder and gentler.
Oh, and Happy Mother’s Day!
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