Oct. 12, 2016 By Kathleen M. Gallagher She is frail and delicate, with paper-thin skin, like a butterfly’s wings; I fear I might tear it each time I hold her When mom received her diagnosis of dementia several years ago, I did my research. I devoured every book and scholarly article on the subject, hoping that a fuller understanding would make me a better daughter: more compassionate, more patient, more accepting of the endless loop of conversation. It did not. It just made me better educated on the progressive deterioration of the human brain. What made me a better daughter was reading a simple article in a recent edition of Family Circle magazine. It had a box of five or so points with the heading “What People with Dementia Wish They Could Explain to You.” All of the tips were helpful, but the first was the most insightful for me: “When you get upset, I get upset.” But the opposite is also true: when I am happy, she is happy. When I smile, she smiles. When I keep my tone upbeat, calm and even-keeled, it makes for a lovely visit. Sometimes the substance of what I am saying to her doesn’t even matter, as long as I am focused on her, looking into her eyes, and saying it with love. It makes sense, of course, in that like begets like, anger elicits anger, hate produces hate. Hate cannot produce love. Only love awakens love. What a powerful lesson mom teaches me, even in her declining years! This is such a profound truth, and one that our world so desperately needs – in our political discourse, in our international relations, in our everyday conversations with colleagues, neighbors, classmates and family members. Insults, condemnations and raised voices will not cultivate empathy, understanding and mercy. They simply cannot. Whenever I start to feel like my momma has left me, I try to shift my focus from the disease to the person. My mom is still here. She has many stories to tell and lessons to share. I have taken a page from the book of a friend, who founded a national non-profit organization called The Best Day of My Life So Far. Using group settings and social media, her organization reduces senior isolation by engaging the seniors in sharing their memories, stories and feelings. Moving mom to a facility was not easy. In truth, it was excruciatingly painful. But today, when my husband and I visit mom, we do crossword puzzles (she is still very sharp), play poker (she usually wins), and listen to music (Glen Miller). I give her a manicure with pretty pink polish. We look at old photos together. Joe tells her goofy jokes. We laugh. We engage. Whatever we do, we are determined to make it the best day of her life, so far. |
||||
|
|||||||||
hand. A widow for more than three decades, her life is much different than it was just a year ago. This was a proud woman who had her hair styled once a week, and slept on a satin pillowcase so it would stay perfectly coiffed. She was active, continuing to bowl on a league even into her 93rd year, albeit with a considerably lighter ball. But now she is here, in this place, aging alongside many others, some living with disability or disease, some confused and disoriented. Neither the pillowcase nor the bowling ball made the trip. 