I work at an Alzheimers facility. A 100 bed, skilled, long term care Alzheimers facility. On any given day we have between 95-100 residents with some form or diagnosis of dementia. Most of these people, when asked, couldn't tell you their first name. 90% of them, can't tell you the right year . . . . or even guess and get remotely close. They frequently look at spouses, children and grandchildren with a look of bewilderment and ask the question loved ones hate to hear the most . . . "Who are you?" It's painful. It breaks my heart when a family member leaves our building in tears. Twenty minutes just spent with a loved one should be happy. But with our residents, sometimes, it just hurts.
I've been there for almost two years now. And in a place filled with so much pain, I've found hope. I've found hope in the most unusual places. And after milling over numbers, case studies, and every day situations with residents, I've come to one conclusion, and one conclusion only. That at the center of who we are, we as humans want to be loved and feel affection.
We have a several "couples" in our facility. They did not enter the facility this way. Some of them, their admit dates are years apart, some only months. These "couples", even though extremely confused, still manage to gravitate back towards one another every morning. Frequently searching the crowd for that familiar face, or even just bumping into them and feeling that old comfortable familiar feeling. Now there are also individuals who tend to keep their options open and roam from woman to woman or from man to man. But at the end of the day these people are searching for one thing . . . love . . . . and affection.
Alzheimers is an interesting disease. Some people forget specifics, like names, places, how to perform in a given learned trade. Other people forget things that come natural to us, involuntary responses, such as swallowing, walking, and talking. And all of these happen in no particular order. There is a gentleman that is a resident currently, that is no longer able to walk or talk, but I'm positive if I sat him in front of a broken car in the parking lot, he'd still be able to fix it. This disease is strange. It's strange in the way that is robs people of their past. It robs people of knowing whats happening to them. And most interestingly, it robs people of all social cueing and learned responses to protect ourselves.
What I find so particularly interesting is one lady. This woman walks hand in hand with the same gentleman every day. They kiss, they hug, they go for walks, they even get a little frisky out in public areas at times. I know this womans daughter quite well. She frequently tells me how "this would never have been my mom." She tells me how her mother in her past was guarded, felt frequently betrayed, and never trusted men. How her mom was an alcoholic, educational type, who loved book clubs. She was a loner. She was divorced. And spent a lot of her time drinking alone. Her daughter describes her almost as cynical. And I can't help but assume that this woman was very knowledgeable in defense mechanisms.
I mean, we all do it. We all get hurt, and we put up walls. We get into situations where we say "Nope . . . . not again. Not this time." And likely sabotage ourselves before we even start. Our defenses kick in and we retract. Retreat. To where we know is safe. This woman, was the quintessential example of being guarded. And upon progression of this disease . . . . all those walls were gone. And at the core of who she was . . . . she still wanted to be loved.
But what continues to interest me even more, is that this transcends just male-female relationships. There is a resident who screams to be in what seems to be some kind of pain 90% of the day. She is on a significant amount of synthetic morphine, and though she could not verbalize whether she was or was not in pain, she is positively not in any pain. The only 10% of the day when she is not screaming . . . . is when someone holds her hand. When someone, a volunteer, a nurse, a family member, it doesn't matter who, talks to her one on one, holds her hand, she appears calm, relaxed, and at ease. Why is it when someone holds her hands, gives her attention is she suddenly reassured? She can't walk, she can't talk, it's likely she doesn't even comprehend what's going on around her, but it's as if she can sense or feel the empathy pouring out of her caregivers.
I've come to the conclusion that that's all we all really want is life. Is to love and be loved in return. What greater feeling is there to love someone freely. And think of all the muddy mess that gets in the way every day on your journey there. And even on your journey there with one person . . . there are a million other relationships to navigate this with as well. It's not just with your significant other. But parents, best friends, siblings. I think our "learned experience" is valuable. Obviously Pavlov had something going for him. But when is social learnedness harmful? When do our experience begin to turn against us? When is it that we lose sight of what's in front of us because of our worry of what happened behind us?
I continue to ask myself these questions every day in effort to not carry the past around. I think of all these little sayings in order to keep me present. But most of the time . . . . they just remind me of the past. So how do you be authentically present with someone . . . . utilize what good you've learned . . . . and forget the bad? Obviously my residents with Alzheimers have forgotten both the good and the bad and are happy. Maybe I should take the lesson from them. Take what is in front of you. Take that comfortable feeling you get in your heart. And let each day be a new day. And never let an old wall get in your way.
