Tag Archives: dementia

Missed Potential in Dementialand

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We spend too much time thinking about what people can’t do rather than focusing on what they can do. And I am no exception. Sometimes I forget to look for the abilities and strengths of people with dementia. How blind can I be?

Speaking of abilities…My friend Jen Eby is amazingly talented. She made me a beautiful quilt for Christmas. It matches the colors we just painted the living and dining room. I am like Linus from the Peanuts gang with this quilt. I carry it from the couch, to the recliner, to bed…If it were acceptable, I would take it to work. And, considering Iowa’s recent weather, I may consider this even if it’s not acceptable.

I was texting with Jen about how much I love this quilt and how I wish I had a hobby like quilting that I could do at night to unwind. We were talking about how I could learn crocheting. (If you know me, you may be laughing at this thought. I’m not offended.) Jen said there were plenty of online resources, including YouTube tutorials, for people who want to learn to crochet. She said it’s not that hard to teach yourself.

Then she reminded me that I was a gerontologist and asked if I knew any older ladies who might like to teach me.

Wow. I was disappointed in myself that it was so obvious and yet I hadn’t thought of it. I walk in and out of nursing homes, memory care units, and adult day services a few times a week. I see many women knitting or crocheting. Some of them have dementia. They may struggle to tell me what season it is or what they had for breakfast, but they continue making blankets, hats, gloves, you name it….But when thinking about how I could learn to crochet, it never occurred to me to use them as a resource.

Why hadn’t it occurred to me? I am always promoting positive views of dementia (or at least trying to). Yet I hadn’t thought about asking one of my friends with dementia to teach me to crochet until Jen suggested it.

As dementia progresses, affected persons may struggle to learn new things because of compromised short-term memory. But sometimes the ability to teach remains long after the ability to learn heads south.

Just like the rest of us, individuals with dementia are unique. As the saying goes, “If you’ve seen one person with dementia, you’ve seen one person with dementia.” And their skills and capabilities are unique.

We talk a lot about what people with dementia can’t do. We discuss their challenges. We know it’s a struggle.

And, yet, they sometimes amaze me.

I once talked to a woman who was in her 50’s and working on her master’s degree when she was diagnosed with younger-onset Alzheimer’s. She was able to finish up her degree. She got it done faster because she knew it might get harder if she procrastinated and her dementia progressed.

I am continually impressed with those who have dementia but remain involved in advocacy work. They lobby for more money to be put toward research, work to reduce stigma, and talk about their experiences to help the rest of us “get it.” I know a lot of people in the earlier stages of dementia who participate in significant amounts of volunteer work in a variety of settings. Of course, some are in the workplace. Sure, they may have limitations, but really don’t we all have our limitations?

I like to think that every person I come in contact with knows something I don’t know. Everyone has something to teach me–whether or they are aware they are teaching me or not. Dementia doesn’t change this. In fact, over the past few years people with dementia have been some of my best teachers. They’ve taught me historical lessons (about things like flagpole sitting, D-Day, and why we use tinsel on Christmas trees) and life lessons (e.g., the stuff that really matters in life).

And to think it never occurred to me that someone with dementia could teach me to crochet.

P.S. I still haven’t learned to crochet. Not that I don’t have anyone to teach me. Just that I decided it seems kinda boring and tedious. As I said, we all have our strengths. I’ve come to the realization that crocheting might not be one of mine.

45 Seconds in Dementialand

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I’ve known Erin Payne-Christiansen since I was in the first grade. She saw me through my awkward middle school years, which lasted until I was about 26. She was with me the first time I got to drive out-of-town after I got my driver’s license. The muffler fell off my Ford Escort on a busy road. We did the logical thing–stopped the car, ran out into traffic, picked up the muffler, and put it in the trunk. Yes, we burnt the crap out of our hands. And I was proud when Erin was named the homecoming queen at our high school. Not only of Erin, but of our high school. We had actually elected someone who was kind and genuine. After high school, she became my college roommate (the first person with whom this only child ever shared a room).

No matter where Erin has lived, it’s always seemed like home to me. Even when I visit her parents’ house 30 years after I first “slept-over,” it feels like home. (On a related note, I can recite her parents’ home phone number more easily than I can my husband’s cell phone number.) Several years ago, Erin returned from living in New Zealand with her husband and moved into a new house. As soon as I stepped into the house, it felt like home–because Erin lived there. She’s just that type of friend.

I went to bed that night in Erin’s basement. It was one of those really dark basements that is perfect for when you want to sleep late.

I didn’t sleep through the night. I woke up. It was pitch black. The world didn’t look any different with my eyes open than it did with my eyes closed. I couldn’t find a clock. I couldn’t locate my cell phone. And I had no idea where the hell I was.

I sat up and looked around. I guess I was looking for clues to try to figure out where I was. Not seeing anything useful (or anything at all, really), I got up and started wondering around. I slammed into something, probably a couch, and kept my arms out to feel for a wall. If I could find a wall, I could likely find a light switch. But I couldn’t. I wandered around a bit more.

Then I stopped and forced myself to think. I kept telling myself there was no reason to panic, but I was in panic mode. And it was moving toward terror mode. There had to be a logical reason I was in this place with no recollection of how I got here. My eyes adjusted a little. I could see shapes. I could see a large TV. A couch. A table.

Finally, I realized I was at Erin’s. I recalled driving down the night before, having dinner, drinking wine before bed. I took a couple of breaths. Eventually I went back to sleep. The whole panicky incident probably lasted fewer than 45 seconds.

45 seconds.

Whenever I see someone with dementia anxiously wandering around looking for clues to make sense of their environment, I think of those 45 seconds.

My senses and recall were able to help me identify where I was and alleviate my panic, but that might not be the case if I had dementia.

Picking Battles in Dementialand

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I don’t mean to criticize dementia caregivers. Caring for someone with dementia can be challenging and draining. But I talk to a lot of caregivers who create problems where I don’t see any.

Here’s an example. A woman approached me after a presentation I gave in the Des Moines area. She was concerned about her mom, who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and recently moved in with her.

Always an avid reader, her mom kept with her life-long habit of reading a chapter each night before bed, except now she reads the same chapter each night. She didn’t remember she had read the first chapter the night before, so she read it again. Her daughter had given her a bookmark and even a short lecture on how to use it, but she was stuck on the first chapter.

I kept waiting for her to get to the problem. Then I realized this WAS the problem. But is that really a problem?

I asked the woman, “So why are you concerned about this?”

The woman responded, “She’s never gonna finish another book.”

I still didn’t see the problem.

I also knew a man with dementia who talked to his IV pole as if it was a guy from work. His wife asked me how to explain to him that it was an IV pole and not a person. I asked if his conversations seemed to create any fear or agitation. She told me that it seemed like his IV pole kept him company and he interacted with him like it was his best friend. Yet she was surprised when I told her not to try to explain his friend was an IV pole. How would you like it if someone to tried to convince you that your best friend was actually an IV pole? Seem ridiculous? It would probably seem just as ridiculous to him.

I had a hospice patient who had dementia about ten years ago. She had a habit of unloading the dishwasher and stacking all the dishes on the counter. Once she finished that, she loaded them right back into the dishwasher. She sometimes did this for a few hours at a time. Her family wanted to know how to stop her. I asked why they should stop her. She seemed purposeful and happy while she loaded and unloaded the dishwasher.

If someone with dementia is happy, safe, and free from pain and anxiety, ask yourself whether their behavior is problematic. It probably isn’t. Now, it may be annoying to you, but that’s totally different. And if it is annoying to you, you need to focus on how you can change something about yourself (your attitude, your environment) so it is less annoying.

Dementia presents plenty of challenges. We may have to find a way to keep people from wandering and getting lost. We may struggle with how to talk to grandpa about giving up his keys. Convincing someone to take medication can be a struggle. Sometimes we even have to stop people from putting inedible items, like marbles, in their mouths. Those are challenges.

Yet I notice that families want to create problems where they are none. And when we do that, sometimes we don’t save enough energy to problem-solve issues that really do need to be solved.

Pop Quizzes in Dementialand

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I’ve just done a program and am leaving a memory care community. I’m just about the put in the “code” to exit the building (which I always mess up) when a woman gets my attention.

“Hey!” she yells. “I’m a grandma!” She’s sitting on a couch with a pink blanket over her lap, and I decide to walk over and chat a few minutes. I’m not in a hurry to get back to campus anyway.

“So you’re a grandma?” I ask.

“Yep,” she says proudly. “My granddaughter was born just a couple of days ago.”

I have no idea whether or not this is true. Her granddaughter could be my age, but it doesn’t matter.

“That’s great. What’s her name?” I ask.

The woman looks at me. Long pause. Then her eyes get sad. Dang. That’s a mistake on my part.

A minute ago this woman was excited to tell me about her granddaughter. Now she’s embarrassed and sad because she doesn’t know her granddaughter’s name. Way to go, Elaine.

Instead of asking her to recall specific info about her granddaughter, I should have said, “Tell me more about your granddaughter.” She might have told me that she was 8 pounds when she was born, that she had blond hair, that she cries a lot. But she would be focusing on what she remembered rather than what she didn’t remember.

I talked to someone recently who had visited her grandpa who had Alzheimer’s at a nursing home. I asked how the visit went.

“Great!” she said. “He remembered what year it was, my name, where he was, and what he had for breakfast.”

All I could think was that it sounded like Grandpa had taken a test. (And, according to his granddaughter, had passed.) But most of us don’t enjoy tests.

But does recalling what year it is make it a “good day” for Grandpa? No, I don’t think so. But we like it when he remembers what year it is because it reaffirms that he’s still Grandpa.

Sometimes we say things like, “You know who I am, right, Grandpa?” This tells Grandpa that he should know who we are. If he doesn’t, he’s given the message that he’s stupid or doing something wrong.

How would you like it if someone walked up to you and made you do an algebra problem? What if they kept saying, “You know how to do this algebra problem, right? I know you do.” What if they stared at you expectantly when you were silent and your mind went completely blank?

But too often we like to make people with dementia play guessing games, which can be frustrated and tiring for them. A few years ago, a women with Alzheimer’s was sitting in her wheelchair at a nursing home. I watched as a younger man came up behind her, put his hands over her eyes, and said, “Guess who?”

I laughed out loud when she responded, “I have Alzheimer’s. My whole life is a ‘guess who’ game. Just tell me who you are, asshole.”

She had a point.

How Michelle Remold Helped Me Understand Reality in Dementialand

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I’m a college professor, and I have favorite students.

Maybe you think this is a horrible thing to say, but it’s unavoidable. I connect with some students more than others. And there are certain students for which I would go to the end of the earth.

On the top of that list is Michelle Remold, who graduated a couple years ago. And maybe I haven’t literally gone to the end of the earth for her, but I did drive to Minnesota on my own dollar to do a community education at the senior center where she currently works. Of course, she did buy me dinner and a margarita after the presentation.

Michelle created a program called Memory Trunks for our Gerontology program. I still do the program that she started. She actually made me a handbook so I could do it after she graduated. This handbook has been sitting on my desk for three years. In all honestly, I haven’t opened it in two years, but I can’t put it in a drawer because I think it’s so awesome she made it for me.

Michelle came to my office after doing Memory Trunks one day and told me a story that has stuck with me. She had been at a nursing home and was visiting with an activity director who said she “didn’t know what to do with” residents with dementia.

First, Michelle was bothered that an activity director had no idea how to work with individuals with dementia, and she should have been. Second, Michelle had an issue with a statement the activity director made about how the residents with dementia had such “active imaginations.”

Something clicked for me. Michelle was right on. We need to stop thinking that people with dementia have “active imaginations” and accept what they hear, see, feel, and touch as their reality.

One of the most important truths I have discovered over the past several years is that what people with dementia experience is as real as what I experience.

I recently talked to a friend who told me her grandma had dementia and thought a couple with a cat lived in the corner of her bedroom. That couple with their cat? They were just as real to her as the laptop I am typing on right now is to me. If you try to talk her out of thinking that couple lives in her bedroom, you’re gonna have the same result you have if you tell me that there’s no laptop in front of me.

I have a short video clip I show in class. A woman with Alzheimer’s thinks there are snakes in her wheelchair. She’s terrified–as I would be if I were surrounded by snakes as I sit here on the couch. The only effective strategy for eliminating her anxiety is to acknowledge this as reality and remove her from the wheelchair with the snakes. Whether or not these snakes are part of your reality is irrelevant.

We need to stop trying to talk people out of their reality. Furthermore, we need to stop thinking that our reality is more important than their reality.

Thanks, Michelle.

Sex in Dementialand (Yes, You Read Correctly)

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As a society, we don’t like talking about dementia. It’s uncomfortable. But I can top that. Today we are going to talk about dementia and sex. Awkward.

Although I am not going to focus on the specific case and will reflect more on the larger issues at hand, a rape case involving an Iowa state lawmaker got me thinking. If you haven’t heard about the case, here is more info from the Des Moines Register:

http://www.desmoinesregister.com/story/news/crime-and-courts/2014/12/13/former-legislator-charged-raping-wife-dementia/20305991/

Here are the Cliff Notes….Henry Rayhons (who has served nine terms in the Iowa House of Representatives) and Donna Young, both in their 70’s, married in 2007. Donna began showing signs of dementia, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and was eventually admitted to a nursing home. Henry visited frequently, and Donna’s daughters (from her first marriage) alleged that Rayhons often wanted to have sex once or even twice a day. Rayhons was presented with a physician-approved document stating that Donna was unable to consent to sex due to her dementia. He allegedly continued and was charged with rape stemming from a May 23, 2014, incident where he had intercourse with his wife. Donna passed away on August 8, 2014, due to complications of Alzheimer’s.

To be clear, I’ve followed this case closely in the press and have talked casually to a few people who are tangentially involved, but I don’t have any insider information and am not stating an opinion about the case.

I decided that I would discuss the issues involved in this case with my Families and Aging class a few months ago. I walked into the classroom with absolutely no idea how to approach the topic and an expectation of total awkwardness. I decided to attempt to make it seem relatable to them. So how do you make sex in Dementialand relatable to college students? Oy vey.

We talked about how the university inundates them with information about sexual consent. (I’m not saying that the university should not inundate them with this information, but the students in my class used this word several times.) They are required to take a quiz about sexual consent before they can register for classes. I haven’t seen the quiz, but I am assuming it doesn’t mention dementia. I am assuming it does mention alcohol consumption. We started there.

I asked my class, “Can someone consent to have sex if they’ve had one drink?” The vast majority nod their heads definitively. (Side note: Someone in my class points out that if you cannot consent to sex after having one drink, we’ve just made 90% of sexual encounters on college campuses sexual assault. It may be a fair point.)

Then I ask my class, “Can someone consent to sex if they have had 12 shots of tequila?” The vast majority say no.

Next I ask them how many drinks someone can have and still consent to sex. I tell them I need a number. Silence. We talk about how this is a gray area.

Then comes my challenge as an instructor–trying to show how this is relevant to sex in Dementialand.

Being diagnosed with dementia does not take away your ability to consent. Many people with dementia have active sex lives. However, I would argue that very few people in the end stages of dementia would be able to consent. Just like my students perceive a blurred line in ability to consent due to alcohol, there may be a blurred line in the ability to consent due to dementia.

I will argue that if a person cannot identify their potential sex partner or misidentifies them, they are not able to consent. I will argue that if they cannot comprehend their potential sex partner’s intentions, they are not able to consent. But this still leaves a murky gray area that makes me uncomfortable. And, from my admittedly limited research, state laws do not do much to minimize that murky gray area.

Although the Henry Rayhons case is an interesting one, there are other circumstances (beyond spousal relations) that warrant consideration. It is common for two individuals with dementia who share living space, such as in an assisted living, to spend time together and start relationships. These individuals may or may not be married to other people. When are they just two consenting adults, and when are they…well…not? How do we decide if and when sexual relationships between two people with dementia are okay? Are they ever okay?

I know I’ve presented quite a few questions here, but no answers.

One final note…As I was looking at online newspaper articles about the Henry Rayhons case, I was appalled at the comments readers had made on the internet regarding the situation. Some just showed an ignorance about dementia, and I can deal with that. However, many were disgusting, insensitive, and even inhumane.

If this had been a case where a man was charged with the rape of a child, I would guarantee that these types of comments would not be tolerated. Why is it so much harder for people to have empathy for those who live in Dementialand?

Shattered iPods in Dementialand

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The other day I was getting on the treadmill when I dropped my iPod. It landed precisely on its screen. And, yep, the screen shattered.

It still works. Except if I want to adjust the volume. I’m still deciding how important that is.

My husband, Bill, calls me the Osama bin Laden of electronics. It’s fair (although he recently left a FitBit out in the snow for a week).

This is the third iPod I’ve dropped and broke in the past couple years. And I put one pair of headphones through the washer and dryer on Thanksgiving. Bill bought me a new pair for Christmas. I washed those a few days after the New Year. Miracle of miracles, those still work.

If I continue my electronic terrorist ways and happen to develop dementia, Bill might be in trouble. Because if I don’t remember breaking electronics, I will likely blame him.

Think about it. If I break my iPod and I don’t remember breaking it a couple of hours later, I will see a busted iPod and assume the only other person in our house broke it. Based on my reality, that’s a logical explanation.

Sometimes people with dementia become paranoid and accusatory. It’s frustrating, of course, but it makes total and complete sense.

A man with dementia can’t find his tools in the garage. He may have moved them a few weeks back, but he doesn’t remember that. So he thinks the neighbor stole them. (I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve heard a story about a guy with dementia who thinks the neighbor guy is taking his tools. Sometimes I have to wonder if there is really is a jerk going around northeast Iowa stealing tools from men with dementia.)

A woman gets a call from her doctor’s office to remind her of her appointment tomorrow. She doesn’t remember making the appointment. So she calls her daughter because her daughter must have made the appointment without asking her first. And she doesn’t think she needs to see a doctor in the first place.

People with dementia work within their own realities. For the record, so do people who don’t have dementia. But when the person with dementia and the caregiver live in different realities, it’s tough.

Caregivers tell me stories like:

“My husband thinks I mess up the TV by hitting all the wrong buttons on the remote. But he does it.”

“Mom leaves the oven on all the time. When she notices it’s on, she calls me and yells at me because she thinks I left the oven on when I was at her house.”

If you are a loved one of someone with dementia, what do you do when you get accused of something you didn’t do?

You step into their reality–which means you apologize. If you have a loved one who has short term memory problems that lead to accusations, you are gonna be saying “I’m sorry” a lot.

And, for most of us, that’s really hard. It’s difficult enough to apologize when you’re wrong. And now you’ve gotta do it when you’re not wrong.

And after you say, “I’m sorry about that,” you focus on modifying the environment. Can you change the set-up of the remote or TV so it’s harder to screw up? Can you unplug the oven or even take it out of the kitchen so Mom doesn’t leave it on?

So practice this line: “I’m sorry about that. Let’s see what we can do to fix it.”

Did you break it, take it, or mess it up? Nope. And it doesn’t matter.

Welcome to Dementialand.

I Don’t Live In Dementialand

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What is it like to live with dementia? I have no idea.

I have a string of analogies I use to explain to families and caregivers what it’s like to live in Dementialand, but the truth is that I don’t know what it’s like.

I know someone who works in adult day services. She works with a woman who has younger-onset Alzheimer’s. I’ll call her Tina.

Tina is prone to what can be best described as meltdowns. In fact, that’s what Tina calls them. Her meltdowns are due to the smallest of things. Someone sat on the end of the couch–where she was planning to sit. The pants she wanted to wear were in the wash. Her nail polish chipped. And, one time, someone used the term “tippy toes,” which she found childish and annoying.

She cries. She gets angry. She can’t calm down or stop shaking. After the meltdown dissipates, she says to my friend, “I’m sorry about my meltdown, but you have no idea what it’s like to have this disease.”

And it’s true. Sometimes when I am doing my best at trying to help someone with dementia and failing miserably, they will remind me that I don’t get it. Sometimes they don’t even have to remind me. Sometimes people will cry and I can’t figure out exactly what’s wrong. I don’t know what they’re going through. I visit Dementialand, but I don’t live there.

As a person without dementia, I don’t get it. And as many people as I talk to and as many research articles as I read, I won’t ever really get it–unless I’m diagnosed, of course. I’ve been through the Virtual Dementia Tour and several other simulations meant to make a person feel like they have dementia. It’s a valuable experience and one I recommend, but I know I’m just visiting.

So here’s the point of my blog today…THANK YOU to those of you who have dementia who try to show me and tell me what it’s like, even though we both know I will never really get it.

They try to show me and tell me in different ways. People with dementia have blogs. They write books and poetry. They allow themselves to be videotaped. They try to verbalize, even though it is hard, what it’s like to live in Dementialand. They allow me to spend time with them, just so I can understand a little bit better.

But the truth remains. I visit Dementialand but I don’t live there.

When Annoying People (Like Me) Visit Dementialand

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A guy yelled at me because I talk too much. Oh, and because I’m loud and annoying. And maybe he had a point.

I was doing a Memory Trunks program. I had a circle of about a dozen people in varying stages of dementia. Although I do my best to get people to talk, I was failing miserably on this particular day. Long silences. Empty stares. I’m used to it, but time was going slowly.

I like to think that it’s okay if people don’t join in the discussion. There is still value in them being there. But, to be honest, it’s a lot more fun when I’m not the only one talking.

A guy with younger-onset Alzheimer’s walked into the room. He stopped for a moment and stared at me. Then he started yelling.

“She’s talking too much!” he screamed. “She’s too loud! It’s annoying. Her voice is annoying. Make her leave!”

It’s not the first time I’ve been told my voice is loud and annoying. And not just by someone with dementia. I lecture to large groups and teach fitness classes in a huge gym. I’ve had students tell me that they sit in the back on my classroom because it feels like I’m shouting at them when they sit in the front. No one has ever complained that they can’t hear me. I guess I’m just loud. Maybe this guy had a point.

And really…I can see how he thought I was dominating the conversation. I even felt like I was talking too much. I was sitting with a large group, and I was the only one talking. If this had been a cocktail party, I’d have been one of those rude guests who went on and on about themselves.

The staff tried to reason with this guy. “She’s our guest,” one of them said to him. He wasn’t in the mood to hear it, and he continued his rant.

“She NEEDS to leave! I hate her!” he yelled. The staff tried again. They tried telling him that I was a very nice person, that everyone was enjoying my visit, even that he should sit down with the group because he’d probably learn something new.

But reasoning is an ineffective strategy when you are working with someone who is no longer capable of reasoning. To be frank, it doesn’t work to explain things to people with dementia. It’s not that they’re not smart. It’s that their brain is dying. You wouldn’t request that someone without legs run a 5k. Let’s stop expecting people with dementia to do things they aren’t capable of doing.

A better strategy is to change the environment. When something is upsetting someone with dementia, you cannot explain to the person with dementia why it shouldn’t upset them. You will waste a lot of energy doing this. And–think about it–when you are really upset, how do you respond to someone who tells you that you shouldn’t be upset? If you are like me, it only makes you more upset.

So you get them out of the upsetting situation. Or you change the situation that is upsetting. But you don’t tell them why they should change their response.

A better response to the guy who was yelling at me would be to get him out of there. Take him to another room, a room where he can’t hear my loud and annoying voice. Or you give him an IPod with headphones to drown me out.

As people develop dementia, they may feel compelled to do things that we don’t feel comfortable with them doing. Things like driving, mowing the grass, using the oven. I hear statements like, “I’ve told Dad time and time again that he CANNOT mow anymore,” and “I keep explaining to her that it’s not safe to use the oven.”

Families are frustrated and scared. I get it. And they’re doing the best they can. I’m not trying to be critical, but I try to gently point out that these strategies aren’t effective. If it worked to tell someone with dementia that they can’t mow the lawn, would you have to tell them “time and time” again? And if she could understand the reasons why she can’t use the oven, she’d probably be functional enough to use the oven in the first place.

So what do you do? You move the mower. You put it in the neighbor’s garage. Maybe you remove the oven and revamp the kitchen to make it a safer place. You change the environment.

What happens when you rely on logical reasoning when working with someone who has dementia? You pick a lot of fights and you get very tired.

As for the guy who thought I was loud and annoying…After his outburst, a staff member took him into an adjacent room and helped him get started on a puzzle. As I was putting on my coat, he came out and gave me a hug. It wasn’t an apology. He wasn’t making peace with me. I’m pretty sure he had no recollection of how he hated me 40 minutes earlier. Sometimes short-term memory issues aren’t all bad.

A Pointless Story from Dementialand

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I’m not Jewish, just for the record. I may or may not have the nose of a beautiful Jewish woman. That’s not the point here. Actually, I have no point today. This really is just a story. Take it for what it’s worth.

I was at an adult day service center for people with dementia. A gentleman said to me, “You have the nose of a beautiful Jewish woman.”

I had a few students with me, and I could tell they were trying not to laugh. I may have laughed, but I remember feeling flattered. Really flattered. I had the nose of not just ANY Jewish woman, but a BEAUTIFUL Jewish woman. I’ll take it.

I came home and told a few people that I had the nose of beautiful Jewish woman. They seemed to find this pretty entertaining. And none of my friends disagreed.

I went back a few weeks later and saw the same gentleman. He came up to introduce himself. It was obvious he didn’t remember meeting me before. I often see people for the second, 10th, or 100th time while they are introducing themselves to me for the first time. As a general rule, I don’t point out that we’ve met before. However, this time I did point it out.

“We’ve met before,” I said. “You told me that I had the nose of a beautiful woman.”

He said with absolute sincerity, “I don’t think that was me. I wouldn’t have said that.” I shrugged it off, obviously not planning to start an argument. But he thought for a minute.

As I walked away, he said, “But it’s funny that someone else said that to you because I was just standing here a minute ago thinking that you had the nose of a beautiful Jewish woman.”

After I left, I sent a text to my mom telling her that a guy with dementia thought I had the nose of beautiful Jewish woman. She can be pretty quickwitted. In about 15 seconds, I got a text back. All it said was, “I’ve been meaning to tell you about Rabbi Schmuley.”

Well-played, Mom. Well-played.