• Sun, 02/20/2011 - 00:51
• 10 Comments

The sun was out this morning after a night of rain, though gray clouds puffed across the sky. I had breakfast with my old boss and afterwards stopped off to visit my elderly mother at the care home she now lives at.

Her dementia has progressed some, but thankfully she still knows my name and asked about family and how my job is going and even how my book is coming along. She does not remember I divorced, though, even though it's been six months since I told her. We talked for almost half an hour and all the while I relished in a sense of gratitude for her still-lucid state. For now, she is still present and (for the most part) my mother of old.

She recently was moved to a new part of the home due to her balance failing her and some special care she requires. She now has a roommate, Lilly, that she has not talked to yet (or doesn't remember if she has). During my visit, I heard the soft sounds of the woman crying. My mother raised her brows as if to ask either, "What can you do?" or "Who is that?" Which, I couldn't tell. Her short-term memory is largely gone and I'm not certain she knows Lilly is there. I felt bad for the woman and couldn't imagine just leaving without acknowledging her. So I took a few minutes before I left to speak with her.

I introduced myself and Lilly gathered herself, shook my hand and gave me her full name and said, "I'm German." Indeed she had a thick accent. The next thing she said was, "I don't know why I'm here", and proceeded to cry.

I spent the next five or so minutes with her, mostly listening. She spoke through tears at times, but she also came across clear and with a surety that made me forget her illness. She spoke of how she had raised her grandchildren so her son and his wife could work. Then, by her recounting, when she couldn't keep up with the kids anymore ("I'm 78 years old!"), and after she'd given her house to her son, she was told that "she didn't like kids" and so had to move. She cried, because she loved children but just couldn't keep up them through the day. She showed me her bad leg, which had a scar that ran from her ankle all the way up to her hip. The injury happened during WWII as a young teen and left her with a limp. A photo on a bedside table showed her husband whom had already passed away, presumably many years before, in his forties.

How much of her recollection of her son's treatment of her was real and how much was a product of her mental faculties failing, I don't know. It was sad to hear her reality, though - so real to her that it brought her to tears. How to comfort someone with Alzheimer's or dementia?

I made sure I maintained eye contact, for one. There's a dignity earned when someone meets your gaze. I spoke loud enough for her to hear from her one good ear. I kept my sentences simple and complete in themselves. I spoke about how she was in a safe place, and how that was good. I returned to that a few times, and each time she seemed to relax a little - the distress in her eyes subsided. It really is amazing what the eyes can say that words cannot.

She spoke about her job with Campbell's soup for 47 years and I complimented her on her achievements. She ranged back towards her confusion about being in the care home and she spoke of her hope of going back home to Germany. She mentioned winning the lottery and how her children rebelled against her when she wouldn't give them what they wanted. She talked about her missing hearing aids, and how she'd come from the shower one day and they were missing from her table.

Listening to her, I realized that Lilly was a cast-off and her aged mind was the lifeboat. Time had been removed from her world, which left only the floating shards of memory to look at. To see into her eyes was to know she was present and alert, but in times long past... and perhaps in times that never were.

When I left, I didn't know if my visit had done any good for her. I'm not sure our talk even made it onto the lifeboat. Lilly is nowhere she recognizes, reliving situations that may or may not have occurred. Behind the tears that filled her eyes was a human being that had become disconnected from the stream of "our world" and was on her own. I couldn't help but try to be in that world, long enough to cast calm and comfort there.

I'll visit again and when I do, I'll speak with Lilly, too.