What Remains

Working and volunteering with elders, I’ve seen it again and again –

A world-traveling woman, now confined to a wheelchair by MS, no longer knows where all of her photos have gone. “My daughter might have thrown them away.”

An army general, who commanded large numbers of troops, now mostly sits in his easy chair, cornered by age and lungs ravaged by years of smoking. He tells me, “They won’t let me die.”

A professor and dean of his department at a celebrated university, has a deluded mind and speech smothered by Parkinsons. It’s difficult to hear and follow his lectures anymore.

A mother, who raised three daughters and now has many grand children, can’t recognize them, and asks when her mother will be coming to get her.

A librarian, lover and caretaker of books, now can only touch the pages, sometimes tearing them. Alzheimers has stolen her ability to read and even speak.

Another professor, also a gifted guitarist, now walks mutely through the halls and barely smiles when a guitar is placed in her forgetful hands.

There is one thing that all of these people still can recognize, still respond to. That is love, love in its most elemental forms – attentively making sure that food gets to their mouths; friendly smiles; gentle touching; the sound of old, familiar songs. The activities and accomplishments of the world fall away. The soul stands bare, still, waiting for love.

--Terra Rafael

My Dear Friend, J.

How does one become friends with a woman who has advanced Alzheimer’s? I first met J. when I worked in the Reserve, a locked ward for people with dementia so far gone that they can do very little in the world. J. spends most of her time in her single room, in bed. She still can walk, unlike most in the Reserve, but seems to have no reason to leave the quiet of her room, except when fetched for meals and her weekly shower.

When I became a Hospice volunteer, she became the one I visited for an hour each week. But she didn’t die, so after a year, Hospice had to cut her from the program. Her family hired me then to continue my visits with her since she enjoyed my touch and smile, bringing some more humanity into her little room.

When I first met J., she would whisper on and on about matters usually known only to her. Almost two years later, she now speaks only sporadically. Up until the last month, she would say “Thank You” while I gave her a comfort touch session. And she would say “I love you” sometimes when we sat gazing in each others’ eyes. But now such verbosity has dwindled away.

Some visits we still gaze into each others’ eyes and we share a wordless love, so totally pure and without complications for either of us. This is a special friend that I am so glad to know.

--Terra Rafael

Poem - To My Elderly Friend

Let my touch
comfort you,
like when your mother caressed your cheek & brushed your hair with adoration,
and let it comfort me,
like when I have tended to my own mother.
Let me bathe your tired body with tears of joy,
as I see your soul shine through the tangle of dementia, through your eyes, and into my heart.
In this way,
we glow as we move forward together,
filled with the illumination of unconditional love-
we are Angels to each other,
lighting up the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

--Terra Rafael

Visits to the Land of Dementia #2

Irving

His tight jaw is an echo of the more angular good looks of his youth. Irving now speaks little, smiles seldom and dozes in the land of dementia most of the time.

He has a stubborn resistance to lifting his feet when we push him forward in his wheelchair. He shows us just how strong he must have been in his prime.

Irving will sometimes play kickball with us for awhile. But, like anytime we play with a ball in our circle of elders, he suddenly decides to pick up the ball and hug it on his lap. The other residents complain until I run and get another ball for us to kick. I let Irving keep hold of that ball, satisfying some unknown.

Last week was the Olympics in China. At the Reserve we had our own Olympic games. We played bean bag toss, disc toss, horseshoes, basketball, and kickball. And I made gold medals for everyone – some awarded for kickball skills, others for being a “Champion Music Lover”, or “All Around Champion.” One woman, who tenaciously maintains her possession of her favorite chair in the common room was named “Champion Chair Holder.” And Irving was “Champion Ball Holder.”

As with each medal, I announce, “And the Champion Ball Holder is . . . Irving!” Everyone cheers and claps. I place the ribbon and yellow construction paper medal around his neck. As I do, Irving gets a huge smile on his face, and looks me straight in the eye.

At that moment it is as though he let me see into his inner self. I see him, not as his physically diminished self, but as he had been – a virile young man. And new words to describe Irving came to me – “the strong silent type.”

by Terra

Memoir- Visits to the Land of Dementia - #1

Mary looks to be about 80 years old. She sits demurely in a corner wing-back chair. Her dark brown eyes peer at the other residents of the Memory Unit. She’s wearing her favorite yellow sweat suit.

I see that she’s fumbling with something in her hands and I kneel down beside her, to approach her on her level. She is playing with a green plastic ring, the kind you’d get inside of one of those little plastic globes from a gumball machine. She’s trying to get it on her ring finger—but it only fits her pinky and that’s not the right one.
“This isn’t the one I had. This one is too small.”

I realize that she’s missing her wedding & engagement rings. She must have worn them for over 50 years. Now they’re not on her familiar finger. Being new to the unit, I don’t know why or how long they’ve been gone. And she can’t tell me—she doesn’t remember. How many times do I play with and touch my own wedding & engagement rings, out of habit? It must be yet another empty gap in her life to not feel them on her finger.

I ask her if she was talking about her wedding rings, and show her mine to be sure that she gets the picture. As soon as she sees my rings she starts trying to get them off my finger.

“It’s mine—why do you have it?” she asks.
“No this is one is mine. My husband gave it to me. This one is mine.”
“I don’t care WHO gave it to you. It’s mine, take it off and give it to me.”

Her fierce yet feeble attempts to get my rings tear at my heart more than my fingers. Maybe her family removed the rings so that no one would steal them or they wouldn’t get lost. Or maybe they were already passed down the family, used to engage a new generation in marriage.

“I’ll try to find your ring for you.” I tell her. I disengage, getting her reinterested in the plastic ring for now. I want her to have a ring she can wear, that will feel like her wedding ring—but not mine!

by Terra