Mindful

Gideon and I have spent an hour most Tuesday mornings since early this year at the James L. West Center just outside of downtown Fort Worth.  This center "is a non-profit, long-term-care residential and Senior Adult Day Program...for individuals with Alzheimer's Disease and related dementias."

We visit the Senior Adult Day Program, which is designed for individuals who still live at home, but whose care-taking family members must work away from home during the day.  We help with the Memories in the Making program.  I pass out paper and watercolor paint and brushes and lay out beautiful photos of flowers and landscapes, all in the hopes of reaching a part of these individuals' minds that might otherwise remain locked away by a disease that indiscriminately and mercilessly devours its hosts' brains and, therefore, memories.  Gideon passes out hugs and generously doles out smiles.

While he never fails to light up the faces of the day care's participants (not all of whom choose to paint, but all of whom are housed in the same open-layout, three room area that he roams through freely), very few remember his name or even him from week to week - in fact, many forget him within ten minutes of seeing him.  It might almost be comical how many times I'm asked in an hour, "Is he yours?", "How old is he?", "What's his name?" - often by the same three or four people - if it weren't the face of an absurdly random, crushing disease.

I've watched over the months, as new participants arrive and undergo the heart-wrenching transition into a totally new environment, in which nothing is familiar or comfortable or expected.  They pace for hours on end, wringing their hands, asking for a phone to call their husband (or wife or daughter or nephew), or wondering exactly when their loved one would be picking them up.  I've watched as one week a gentleman who previously only looked at me with blank eyes when I asked him a question, suddenly came alive and answered questions and struck up conversations of his own.

It's been heartbreaking to talk to Richard, a man not much older than 50 (an obvious victim of early-onset Alzheimer's) not be able to tell his kids' names, or even how many he has.  Every week, he's reading a book, though, but can never answer any of my questions about the book, fumbling for words locked away to describe the type, story, or time of the book, "It's, uh, just, yeah, you know..."  But he, too, eagerly greets Gideon, rocking his chair for him when Gideon clambers up into a neighboring recliner, and easily finding words to defend Gideon when one of the more fretful, nervous members of the group scolds him for playing with baby dolls and stuffed animals the facility keeps on-hand, "Leave him alone.  He's just a little boy and he's having fun.  He's not hurting anything."

I've been saddened to learn that one gentleman, Mr. Don, would not be back, because he'd had to go into more full-time care.  Mr. Don by far always had the most unusual paintings, which mixed cartoonish characters (people and animals) with historical events and modern day pieces of equipment and often had long tales behind them (a photo of a leaved magnolia bloom inspired "Bug of La Mancha" in which a "run-of-the-mill" green bug takes on windmills in the shape of the magnolia leaves with a small sword).  Just weeks before his departure, I'd caught him yawning and had given him a hard time about being sleepy.  I asked, "Don't they give you nap time around here?"  Without pausing, he quipped, "No nap time and no conjugal visits either."

Of course, they do have nap time, as they leisurely doze off and on in the recliners in the room that has the TV, stereo and piano.  The piano is played daily, or at least almost every Tuesday, by Miss Debbie, a participant in the day program, who not only suffers from some form of dementia, but is also blind.  We look forward to the soundtrack she provides to our time there, which can range from Amazing Grace to Johnny Cash to 80s pop music.

Of course, as the holiday season is upon us, Debbie plays Christmas tunes non-stop and last week, just minutes after I'd told someone for the third time that "Yes, he's mine.  His name is Gideon and he'll be three in a couple of weeks," Debbie struck up "Silent Night" on the piano.  Within seconds, a chorus of humming and singing rose up around me, the timeless tune and words of this carol easily and effortlessly pulled from the mangled minds of the broken, but beautiful ladies and gentlemen surrounding us.  (This week, I stifled a giggle as I leaned over sweet Miss Margaret, whose watery eyes stare quite blankly at me when I ask her questions and who must be led gently from one seat to the next, to clean up the art supplies in front of her - she was humming along as Debbie banged out "Jingle Bell Rock".)

It was such a testament to the power of music and the boundaries it can cross and eliminate.  It was also loving, gentle reminder of the dignity present in all human life, no matter how wasted away it may seem.

All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful:
The Lord God made them all.

Each little flower that opens,
Each little bird that sings,
He made their glowing colors,
He made their tiny wings.

The rich man in his castle,
The poor man at his gate,
He made them, high or lowly,
And ordered their estate.

The purple headed mountains,
The river running by,
The sunset and the morning
That brightens up the sky.

The cold wind in the winter,
The pleasant summer sun,
The ripe fruits in the garden,
He made them every one.

The tall trees in the greenwood,
The meadows where we play,
The rushes by the water,
To gather every day.

He gave us eyes to see them,
And lips that we might tell
How great is God Almighty,
Who has made all things well.


Words: Cecil F. Alexander, Hymns for Little Children, 1848. Alexander is thought to have written these lyrics at Markree Castle, near Sligo, Ireland.
Music: Royal Oak, 17th Century English melody; arranged by Martin F. Shaw, 1915(MIDI, score).