A Changed Mind

Sometimes, when eating right and exercise still come up short, when no genetic history shows a link, Dementia somehow finds its way into a once sharp-as-a-tack mind, and changes it. It makes itself comfortable; it's here to stay.

I remember an early morning after having spent the night as a caregiver for Miss M, seeing her wake up and immediately begin to scan the room. As she wrung her hands and tangled her oxygen tubing around each one, she called out in panic for her husband, Win. Surely he was within ear's distance just as he'd been for sixty-six years. He wasn't, though, and hadn't been since 2009 when he passed away. They'd called this family lake house their home for several years before. 

Now, nothing at all seemed familiar to her; not her home, her bed, not even her children's pictures on the wall. It was all strange and belonged to someone else, but it certainly wasn't hers. We wouldn't be changing her mind on the matter any time soon, either. 

This same dear one, could narrate with great clarity how she'd balanced with one foot in front of the other along a stacked stone ledge on her way to school each day. She lived on North Oak Street and had come from a great family heritage; one of furniture making that got its start with her visionary grandfather well before her time. Her father would continue the production of classic wood pieces with turned spindle legs and countless other designs. 

He adored Miss M, and she could recall as if it had happened yesterday, how he sat her high on the counter at the country store so that she could show off her new red shoes. She never forgot those shoes. 

On this day, she'd forgotten everything. Another caregiver was there to help with the morning routine, and did her best to help calm our nervous friend off of the emotional ledge. Miss M saw us every day and had for years, but we were as hazy to her as the fog that rested on the lake outside. What seemed logical, what made perfect sense in her mind, is that we were conspiring to keep something from her. That somehow, we had altered her surroundings completely. She was on to us. Everything seemed different and had for a while now. 

She'd been hospitalized before this and had declared that I was the meanest white woman who'd ever lived. I earned this title of envy, by declining to let her remove her own IV's and set out in a hospital gown to walk barefoot in the snow to go home. I'm mean like that. 

I laugh when I think of all the titles that I'd ever hope to achieve in this life, and she so graciously goes and gives me that one. I still wonder if there were others in the running and if I won by a landslide. I sure hope not. 

After much coaxing, subject changing, distraction, offers to pray and read scripture, our friend settled that morning for us. Thankfully so, since in desperation I'd offered to sing one of her favorites. Nothing like trying to carry a tune in your bucket before you've even had a chance to brush your teeth. Have mercy.

I would have yodeled while river dancing if it would've helped to ease her mind. That's how much fear her eye's spoke to us. It was as though she'd been kidnapped and dropped into a foreign land, though she was safe at home. Her tears were a welcome release when they came.                                           

We held her and we cried, too. That's what you do, as dementia caregivers and family members will tell you. Some days the tears just come. Some days, they never leave. That, was one of those days. 

In our weakness, our Lord is surely made strong. 

2 Corinthians 12:9