One Final Thing

I’ve read some books on Alzheimer’s and dementia (A&d) illnesses, how they impact the brain, and how we can relate to people with these illnesses. My mother has dementia.

One thing about these mental illnesses which was new learning for me was the fact that these illnesses diminish the abilities of the brain in roughly the reverse order in which the brain achieved new abilities. So with A&d, one of the first things to diminish is short-term memory. This is seen when older people begin repeating themselves. My mom may repeat the same thought 5 or 6 times in a row, only minutes apart. She’s forgotten that she just said the same thing.

With age also comes wisdom, the linking of complex thoughts and a lifetime of experiences. With A&d, these more complex wisdoms and insights begin to diminish. (I read that the brain doesn’t really “forget” the facts, it just loses the ability to “link” them.) The Alzheimer’s person may put on their clothes in the morning, but the underpants are outside of the jeans; they forget the complex sequence of properly getting dressed.

Among the last things to go, as A&d patients become more disconnected, are those things which were first gained, as babies. So even if they can no longer communicate verbally, a hug, a touch, or the sight of a loved one can be very comforting to a frightened, confused A&d patient – whose brain holds so many facts, but they just don’t make sense. One of the very last things to go is an appreciation of music, which might have been played to a baby in the womb.

Recognizing this regression in an A&d patient is important to those caring for their needs. It was written that the caregiver needs to “put themselves in the patient’s reality.” So if the Alzheimer’s patient believes it is 1985, talk about 1985 events. If he asks where a deceased brother is, answer that he is out shopping, or perhaps sleeping. Address the questions and anxieties with calming answers – they’ll forget the question, and your answer, shortly. This is true caring for them, true love for them. Without having to say it aloud, you are telling them to “Do not be anxious.”

I was reminded of all these thoughts at the funeral of my friend, Pat. The priest spoke lovingly of her, he knew her well, and mentioned how Pat “lived in the reality of others.” (No, she didn’t treat everyone as if they had Alzheimer’s!!) No, Father Richard was making the point that Pat was so loving of everyone that she immediately forgot her own cares or worries and had a great empathy for her friends. If her friends were happy, celebrating some joyous occasion, Pat was among the first to loudly proclaim: “Wonderful! That’s great! God is so good to you; I’m so happy for you!” And if a friend was sad, had lost a loved one, was having a fight with their kids, or was just in a down mood, Pat was the one who quickly sought to hear their stories --- with loving empathy (and almost always with a hug), but then help move their spirit on, to see the positive side of events, and to help return their joy with life. Pat was a real friend to so many people. A real friend.

Especially in her final months, life was anything but kind to Pat. To see the large 50” television her family had bought her, Pat had to sit up right next to it. To read her email, the font size was set on 50 or 60, and it took hours for her to slowly read the words of her friends --- “they might be important.” To go anywhere, to the hair dresser, to her Civitan meetings, to church, or to her many doctor appointments, she had to find someone to take her (“I had to bother someone”). To prepare her simple lunch at her small apartment often took an hour of slow, deliberate, and sometimes painful actions. And as she struggled to live out her simple life, friends and neighbors would often drop by, unannounced, and Pat would drop whatever she was in the middle of, smile and loudly proclaim: “Wow, it is so great that you took time to come here. No, I’m not busy with anything. Come in! I’m so glad you’re here! What’s going on with you.”

That was Pat, dropping her many concerns and worries and putting herself in the reality of her friends, as if we were the patients needing help. She dropped everything, to be happy with them, or to cry with them. She was instinctively concerned about others, it was not a sacrifice she made: that was just Pat, the way she was.

Fr. Richard said it well: “That’s just the way she was.”

Would that we could all have friends like that.

Would that we could all BE friends like that.

http://www.stephenministries.org/