A familiar college promotion from a few years back—
“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”
A familiar cry when the issue is dementia or Alzheimer’s—
“A mind wasting away is a terrible thing to watch.”
That’s how many describe a dementia diagnosis. A cancer diagnosis is frightening, yet loaded with hope that medication, radiation, surgery, or a combo platter can bring remission or a cure and a return to normal life.
The words dementia and Alzheimer’s hold no such hope, as of this writing. When mental function decays or begins its descent, few options remain but to adjust and trust, and to cope and cry when we have to.
Heartbreaking.
“As Mom started to lose her mental awareness of the here-and-now, she became so sure of what she thought she saw and heard,” my friend Karen said. “She lived in a suite in the lower level of our home. Late one night I noticed her door wide open, the TV blaring, and all the lights on. When I went downstairs to investigate, she said, ‘Oh boy, do I have something to tell you!’
“She said a movie-production company had come into the house and moved out all my furniture and then all her furniture and filmed a movie. She was so surprised I had not heard all the noise they’d made. I tried to assure her that there was no way they would come into our home without permission, nor would they do it while I slept upstairs. I showed her how the furniture was all in place and no lights were on in any other part of the house except for her apartment. She was so sure, arguing vehemently that she’d been in the middle of a movie a few minutes earlier. I argued more. Finally, she sat in her big rocker, folded her arms and said, ‘Well! We will just have to agree to disagree.’
“I’m not sure what lesson that teaches,” Karen said, “except that now I realize I shouldn’t have argued.”
Elizabeth mourned the loss of her mother’s consistency. Once a sweet-tempered, innocent woman with a wide heart, her temperament changed at dementia’s hands. “A nurse from the assisted-living center called one night to tell me that my mother had been hitting people. My mother. I was asked to come to the center to see if I could calm her down.
“When I arrived,” Elizabeth told me, “my mother was sitting at a table, quietly eating a granola bar. I sat beside her and asked if she was okay. She nodded and smiled. I then asked her whether she had hit anyone. She looked astonished and said, ‘Of course not!’
“Without missing a beat, she leaned toward me and whispered, ‘But I kicked a few.’
“ ‘Mom, you can’t do that.’ She would have been mortified if she’d been aware of what she was doing and saying.
“ ‘I will if they need it,’ she said, and she quietly went back to eating her granola bar.”
Listening to that story as outsiders, we can catch the bits of humor in the incident. We cling to those moments during a season when humor provides much-needed respite from so much heartbreak.
“My father always had so many interests—antiques, machinery, beautiful things, politics, TV, reading, my children,” Vickie said. “I loved buying gifts for my dad because I knew what he would enjoy. He would go on and on if he really liked the gift. Then he got very sick and had no interests. Nothing could get his attention. In my Christmas card to family and friends that year, I wrote that all interests had left him . . . and then he left us for a better life.”
Fragile minds.
One of God’s greatest mercies is His compassion for the fact that we are frail, fragile, vulnerable. He knows we are like dust, the Bible tells us. So He pours all the more loving-kindness and compassion on us, even when—or especially when—our minds are fragile.
I had not seen my aunt for a couple of years and had no idea how tight a grip dementia had taken. Always a strong woman before, she appeared frail and uncertain of everything—her footsteps, where to train her eyes to look at the people in the room, the proper protocol for welcoming guests. . . .
I took the paper cup she offered me, not at all certain I should have let her get me something to drink. Where had she gotten the water? It may have been curious of me to wonder, but it wasn’t unreasonable. The cup she handed me with a wide smile had a half-moon of red lipstick on its rim. Had Aunt Gladys taken a sip of it herself? No. She wasn’t wearing lipstick. From what long-forgotten party had the paper cup been saved? And what was I supposed to do now?
Aunt Gladys had insisted on serving me something to drink. I’d thought a glass of water a safe choice, considering the contorted paths her mind often took those days. I didn’t want to offend or agitate her. Was it time to pray, “Lord, cover me” and take a sip?
Dr. Gauri Khatkhate, geriatric psychiatrist with Chicago’s Loyola University Stritch School of Medicine and the Edward Hines Jr. VA Hospital advises that when dementia affects a family, our strength lies in arming ourselves with understanding. “Recognize that your loved one now exists in a confusing and frightening world,” says Khatkhate.
“Your mom or dad may lack a good way of expressing physical or emotional discomfort,” Khatkhate observes. “Instead, they may seem to lash out in anger—shouting, insults, cursing, or physical aggression. Those are not genuine thoughts or feelings; they are the symptoms of a devastating disease. Recognizing and understanding that fact may help lessen the emotional impact of the behavior.”
But we might wonder if God had children of Alzheimer’s patients in mind when He wrote through the psalmist, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” (Psalm 147:3 NIV).
I miss my mom’s cooking
Gone, now that the letters
On the recipe card
Make no sense to her
Anymore.
I miss my father’s laughter
And the corny jokes
He no longer tells
Because he can’t remember
The punchline
Or the first line either.
I miss the joy on my parents’ faces
When I come home for the holidays.
They still smile,
But I’m not sure
They know who I am
Or how much they mean
To me.