One of my fondest memories is the night all the stars momentarily realigned and everything seemed alright with my mom. She’d had a terrible choking event some months earlier, and two recent falls within ten days of each other, and had since gone through many tribulations that left me in a heightened state of worry for her safety and sense of well-being.
But on one particular evening, in the midst of it all, short staffing not the least of concerns, especially in the evenings during Covid, I enter the Memory Care Unit and see Mom right away at the other end of the long hall. She is sitting quietly in the light-dimmed dining room, in a facility wheelchair locked in place at the end of one of the tables. She has a cup of coffee and a soft brownie she is clearly enjoying, quite focused on the chocolatey sweet. I drop my things off in her room and walk down the hall to join her with Gracie, my mini schnauzer. Dana, the new Assistant who is kind and clearly cares about my mother, has an eye on her from the kitchen where she is performing some clean up chores.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, hi!”
She is happy to see me, and delighted, as always, to see Gracie.
“I gave her a soft brownie,” Dana says from the kitchen.
“It looks delicious. Thank you. Is the brownie good, Mom?”
“Mm-hmm.”
Mom picks up her brownie and manages what she can, doing fairly well to take a bite and chase it with a sip of coffee. I go to pour myself a cup, chatting with Dana a bit, who tells me my mother has had a good day. I am glad to see Mom enjoying the simple pleasure of eating a brownie, though each bite needs a sip of coffee in order for her to swallow. I notice this, but it will be a few more weeks before I recognize and admit to myself what it means. I come next to her with the dog and my cup of coffee.
We sit quietly for a time, my mother chewing, then sipping, then chewing, slowly, and sipping again. I already know that focusing on one task is about all she can do. It is either chew then sip or stop and talk. She asks an occasional question that I follow as best I can. She's talking a little better again, but over the past year her language capabilities have very much faded and I’ve learned how to create conversations with her. I follow her, as if I understand, understanding clearly when there is clarity, and learning how to pivot when I’m offered a question to which I have no clear response.
“Well, when did you see him?” Mom asks.
Who? Who is she talking about? It will do no good to ask or to say I didn’t see him. It is better to respond as though I am following, because, I also know, she cannot hold the same thought for more than one second, if at all. She free-flows, and this is what it is.
“I think it was Thanksgiving, Mom, but now I’m not sure. Was it when he came for Thanksgiving?”
“That could be.”
If I really miss my mark, and my mother gives me a quizzical look, I say, “I’m sorry, Mom. I think I misunderstood. What did he tell you?” Anything to allow her the answer instead of me. Because I am likely to get it wrong. While we sit, another resident walks near to the table. I will learn his name is Hugh.
“Hugh Frederickson!”
I have seen him often, in the hallway, watching as I go by with the dog. He is, in a way, testing whether to sit and talk. He waits, standing behind his walker, in front of an empty chair. Another resident, Penny, who doesn’t talk much but is almost always roaming the halls,
follows closely by. I always greet her when I come in.
“Hi Penny, how are you?”
“I’m fine.” Penny rarely says more than this.
Suddenly, my mother says, “Little Miss Muffet.” We laugh. I don’t know where it came from, the reference. Did she mean her eating? Had she recently recited this at an activity?
“Little Miss Muffet,” I start, “sat on her tuffet…”
The group begins with me. Penny can hardly say it, but she joins in, mumbling the cadence perfectly, even one or two of the words.
“…eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider and sat down beside her and frightened Miss Muffet away!”
We all laugh! There is joy in this moment, and it makes all of us glad. Joy. My heart is lightened by this. It has been such a hard ten days. I am relieved to see my mother smiling and peaceful. I am amazed at the recitation, like so many things locked away in long-term memory, things dementia won’t erase, and once again, I feel as though I am sitting in the middle of a movie based on the writings of Oliver Sacks. An unlocking has occurred, and we were able to share a thing we all knew. Hugh takes a seat and saddles up next to me. Soon, he's telling me about his 200 acre farm in Pine City and how he's going to go home pretty soon and what he did there when he was a boy and how they had to “drop hay” and what they grew. Corn and oats and wheat and alfalfa, and it was quite a delightful talk with my mom kind of interspersing nonsense to him and he'd say yes and she'd take another sip of coffee, so it was a lot of fun.
Eventually, Mom finishes her brownie and we go to her room to relax and watch TV. She is able to transfer to her recliner with Dana’s help and she does pretty well. Dana is patient and kind and cultivates trust in my mother. Mom is still very afraid to transfer, but I immediately offer Gracie to her and she forgets she is afraid, so calmed by having Gracie on her lap until we leave.
This night, driving home, I can see the lights in the park where the bridge is—the bridge Mom and I walked during my emergency guardianship. It’s too dark to see the bridge, but I know it’s there. I feel a sense of peace, relief, and a wonder at how there is joy to be had, joy in making even the smallest circle of community, even under such a circumstance that my mother is in, and even with others like her.
So don’t be shy about visiting the Day Room, the Living Room, or whatever it’s called in your facility. Walk your loved one around the building. Allow for greetings to happen. There is company to be had, if you make room for it, to stave off the terrible loneliness that comes with dementia and, too often, caring for a loved one who has it. And if you are at home with your loved one, arrange to have visitors come, friends and family. You can also bring your loved one to an Adult Day Center. Adult Day Centers offer you time to take a break or run errands while providing your loved one with socialization and staffed activities.
Need more info about Adult Day Centers? Click on THIS LINK that will take you to the Alzheimer’s Association’s Adult Day Center page.
Blessed be….