The Unremembered Road
I am missing my mother today. She's still here, but this frail, confused shell of a person, with so little awareness of what or where or when, is so unlike the enthusiastic, lively woman of my youth and middle age, that she is a virtual stranger, save for a glimpse of the impish smile; the unexpected moment of awareness rising momentarily out of the mixture of jumbled memories; the warm comfort of her touch, or mine. She is aided by fine, sympathetic professional caretakers, yet they don't know her well enough to see past her infirmary and recognize the once-was within her. Dementia is a cruel, narrow road down which the afflicted one wanders aimlessly, each turn opening up a brand new world which, by the time the next turn is met, has passed irrevocably away.
- Randall D Larson 10/01/2010
The Unremembered Road, Part 2
Stopped by to see mom today. She was in very good spirits. When I got there she was talking to two of the long-time aides in the main sitting room, having a friendly conversation about something that clearly made no sense to anyone but her. But she was enjoying herself, and smiling. She introduced me to her two “new” friends. “This is my friend Harry,” she pointed to the young man, whose name was not Harry, then turned to the young lady. “And this is di-ribbity-ribbity-do,” she said matter-of-factly. I still do not recall the young lady’s real name although I knew it wasn’t “di-ribbity-ribbity-do,” but I played along. “I know, I’ve met them before,” I said to my mom, winking over at the young lady whose name wasn’t really “di-ribbity-ribbity-do.” She grinned back. My mom smiled and asked if we could go for a walk out into the garden. I said we’d go for a roll.
Resting my hands firmly on the grips of her wheelchair, I pushed her out into the backyard, where a cement walkway passed through an aisle of plants, small fountains, a few hanging garden ornaments, and some potted flowers on either side. Each time we took this stroll the garden was brand new to her, and she – a lifelong gardener whose green thumbs had made magical gardens out of our yards as far back as I can remember – marveled at the shrubs and plants we passed, seeing each for the first time.
Back inside the care home we took the hallway loop that passed the resident apartments. There were about a dozen of them circling around a central core that houses the laundry, rest room, aides’ office, etc. Mom’s was in the bottom of the “U” shaped corridor, while the main sitting room was at the top of the U’s two upper limbs. Each resident’s room has a 2’ x 2’ framed display case outside the door in which photos of the resident in younger days, and pictures of their family, are pinned. I made sure when I moved mom in last May, along with photos of the grandkids, to pin up a color photo of mom at age 18 – I wanted the aides to know that she was more than the frail, confused Ellie they see before her; that there was a time when she was full of life, young, creative, sharp of memory and insightful of thought, enthusiastic traveler, devoted reader, lover of sweet music whose operatic soprano wafted through our home while she was cooking, and an effervescent entertainer who could remember names precisely, even if they happened to be “di-ribbity-ribbity-do.”
So I have been making a point, largely for the same reason, of looking at the younger photos of my mom’s fellow residents in the memory care unit, pinned in their own glass display cases along with pictures of their families – smiling couples, young and happy youngsters who some decades from now may well be sitting in a room very like one of these talking to a woman they believe is named “di-ribbity-ribbity-do.” All I know of the other Alzheimer and dementia patients who share my mom’s wing here are the quiet facades of mannequins whose intellect and awareness has faded like teapot steam, whose conversation runs in cycles of unresolved puzzlement, whose personal needs from getting up and dressing to showering and toiletry require the attendance of one or more of the aides like “di-ribbity-ribbity-do.” But, like my mom, there is much more to these people. They once were young, had full, vividly complex lives, lifetimes of memories, loves and joys, pain and passion, networks of friends and families, things that existed now only in the faded color and monochromatic photos pinned to the bulletin boards inside those hushed glass display cases. So I take the time to look at those pictures, matching them to the frozen countenances I recognize in the big room, those faces that now stare at dust or grimace uncontrollably or gaze without apparent comprehension at the blaring TV set as it plays old movies, old Oprah, or old Huell Howser. Ah, this was Harry. This was Betty. This was the one who murmurs. There is more to each of them than what I see sitting in that other room, before Alzheimer’s or dementia siphoned so much of their being out into the ether and left a confused, unhappy, bewildered shell behind, shuffling with situational ignorance along that unremembered road.
The aides see that too, and I am thankful for that. Glad they see beyond the human husks, understanding the grinning young man Harry used to be, the happily posing woman Betty had been, the buoyant lady my mother once was. They take good care of her here. Especially the one mom calls “di-ribbity-ribbity-do.”
- Randall D. Larson / 11/01/2010
