The questions I tried to answer, and the one that left me speechless
A newer resident of Evelyn’s memory care community came and stood very close to me.
“How do I get out of here?” she asked me and the nurse and an aide, all of us in a circle in the dining room.
“Would you like to go outside for a walk?” the aide asked her.
“No, I’ve been there. I mean out of here.”
“How about some juice?” the nurse offered.
She is not a wobbly little old lady. She is determined and somewhat imposing, especially when efforts to divert her fail.
“Where am I going to stay tonight?” she demanded.
“You’ll stay here, in your room,” I told her.
“Who will stay with me?”
“All of these folks who live here with you, and the nurses and the aides.”
“But where will I be?”
“Here, let me show you your room.”
We walked down the hall, and before we got there she told me the room number, in between repeating the same questions.
“See, here is your room,” I said. “That’s your beautiful comforter on the bed.”
“But will I be alone?” she asked. And then, “When will I get out of here?”
“You’ll sleep all night here,” I said.
“Will I be alone?” I knew this was going nowhere. Why did I think I could help? And then came a new question, the one I can’t forget.
“When do I become myself?”
The question I couldn’t answer
At last I was silent. Benevolent lies are stock-in-trade for Alzheimer’s caregivers: “It’s almost time for supper, and they won’t let us leave before then.” “We can’t go now, but maybe later; let’s watch some TV.”
But she had asked a question I couldn’t answer because I couldn’t tell her what I feared she really wanted to know.
Was she asking when she’d no longer be confused about where she was and why?
Was she asking when her days would be normal, or at least acceptable, to her?
Was she asking when she’d remember what had happened that morning and understand what would happen that evening?
Was she asking when life would feel good again?
I couldn’t think of any benevolent lie to answer such questions. And I couldn’t consider telling her the truth: “When do you become yourself again? Never.”
The questions I never hear
Thankfully, Evelyn has never asked such questions. She concentrates intently on what’s right in front of her with little thought of what came before and no evident concern about what’s next.
She’s generally happy to see me arrive, although sometimes I must stick my face between hers and what she’s reading in her lap to get her to notice I’m there.
And she has never, not one time, expressed one word of regret or upset when I’ve left. Never once has she asked about home or when she could go there.
I’ve told friends I’ll gladly pay the price of her not getting excited when I come to get the blessing of her not being upset when I leave.
My memory of years ago questions
But the questions this resident asked I had heard before—from Evelyn’s mother years ago, especially as she was ending her days in assisted living and just before the nurses and administrators said, “She must move to memory care.”
She would walk with Evelyn around the halls and describe the day’s events— either at the Clermont County Fair where she had spent many happy hours decades earlier or the public school where she’d worked in the cafeteria as a younger woman.
More than once she phoned from her room upset almost to tears because she needed a ride home.
“I knew it would get me some time,” she told Evelyn when she was past 80 years old and starting to fail. “But I didn’t think it would be this soon.”
When she quit noticing, when she quit asking, when she quit worrying about “becoming herself,” it was a blessing. No more angst. No more benevolent lies.
A world without questions
Evelyn seems to have bypassed the frantic confusion of having one foot in the then and another in the unfortunate now. She’s moved to a world with little past and no future, just the present moment. Along with those who love her, she has no notion of becoming herself again.
And I guess that’s good.
Update: Evelyn came home from the hospital last week on Wednesday afternoon. Her demeanor seems close to what it was before then. She’s back on blood thinners to lessen the chance of developing more blood clots. And, to prevent further falls, we’re working with her to use a wheelchair. It’s going pretty well. “We’re not encouraging walking,” the director of nursing explained.
Hopefully, Evelyn will learn to be content with riding through the rest of this journey.