July
12, 2021
Greetings
from limbo,
He
walks with a determined stride, head and shoulders leaning just ahead of his
hips, his chin jutted out a little. His
arms don’t move much, they are passengers.
This is not the form of some athletic endeavor.
I
have seen him in all weather, but my memory of him is from winter. He has a hat with a brim, flaps pulled down
over his ears. His face is red from the
cold and the effort, and his eyes are clear and bright. His face is relaxed. He has seen all of six decades and maybe
seven, you would see that on his face too.
When I’ve driven by him, even before I met him, he looked like someone
on his way to somewhere he wants to go.
I
finally met him in his kitchen, more than a year ago. I won’t say his name but he needs one, so
we’ll say ‘Jim’. I was at his house on
business, and when we were introduced, I was immediately impressed with his
energy.
Jim
said: “I’m having a beer. You want one?” There was mischief, and something else in his
eyes.
His
wife didn’t even look up. “You are not
having a beer.” But, it turns out, he
was. I declined, for professional
reasons, but also because I didn’t want to underline the disagreement.
In
the short time I was there, Jim and I had a typical conversation for two people
in our situation: small talk about weather and the house and inconsequential
things. He said he was going to walk to
the grocery store, that he likes to walk everywhere, and I realized I’d seen
him from around town. He was smiling the
whole time, perfectly at ease in his little kitchen.
I
have to admit I felt happy for him. He
seemed peaceful in his life, retired, seeming to be doing well, vigorous enough
to hike a mile to the grocery store, enjoying a beer in the middle of the day.
A
little while later his wife told me Jim has dementia. When she said it, adding some other medical
terminology that was foreign to me and too familiar to her, she had a tired
look, someone who didn’t want to explain this again.
“He
leaves the house and doesn’t tell me, and he walks for miles and miles. I never know where to even begin to find
him.” She reported this without emotion. “He is very strong, very healthy, and so he
just goes and goes. He just doesn’t know
how to get back.”
She offered a little smile, maybe trying to
help me see the humor in that.
The
truth is dark and hard; neither of us felt humor in that moment. She was describing a desperate life, living
with someone she knew less and less, who seemed to have evolved into another
man. Or more accurately, a willful child
with a five o’clock shadow.
As
I started to write this, truthfully more than a month ago, I realized how often
I meet people like Jim and his wife.
Just last week I spoke with a couple and saw the familiar exchange; her
glance at him, and then at me, to see if I noticed he was repeating himself. The man was relaxed, at ease, only slightly
aware that he was with us and then somewhere else.
I
looked at notes I’d made about the people I met who struggle with Alzheimer’s
and other causes of dementia, and I felt helpless to write anything of
value. This hasn’t touched me in the
personal way it cuts into other people’s lives, I am speaking only as a witness. It is a tragic, painful experience, that
punishes the sufferer and the people closest to them. I set all of this aside, realizing it made me
angry with God.
It
is heartbreaking to see people lose their loved one, and still have them present,
a daily reminder of who they were. They
become a living absence, someone to grieve over who still sits across the
breakfast table, a demi-ghost.
I’ve
been in many assisted care facilities, and perhaps this sounds harsh, but I
have often left thinking of them as museums for old people. Room after room of these lifetimes of love
and pain and fun and hopes and work and sacrifice, all stored for people to
learn about. Or ignored.
Except
some parts of the museum have people whose collection is on out on loan,
somewhere. There is only a replica of
the artwork left to remind you and I of what was created for us to love.
Jim
is like a ship without a captain, a powerful ghost ship, just crashing through
the waves, charging relentlessly.
Aimlessly. Well, as far as we
know. It could be there is some compass
he is aware of that none of us can understand.
I haven’t seen
Jim in a long time, which doesn’t mean he isn’t out there. Still, I know that Covid sent a disproportionate
number of people like him to their final days.
Most people who know this statistic say it is a blessing. As bleak as that sounds, I can’t disagree.
There is no
shortage of suffering in creation, some of it our own doing, some of it brought
to us for reasons that will remain a mystery in this life. And with all of that we are given powers to
contend with the suffering: Empathy, resilience, compassion, patience,
kindness, generosity, time.
Sometime soon
you will meet someone who is struggling with dementia of some form, and you may
need to dip into those powers to help people like Jim, and as important, people
like his wife. It is what we are meant for, I believe, even among my wondering
and doubts. It’s strange to write this,
but it’s possible that Jim’s purpose is to ask us to find the strengths we may
not be aware of, or have forgotten.
Hope
this finds you remembering,
David
Copyright
© 2021 David Smith
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