Published in the Baptist Times 12 August 2011
It's interesting how we store mental landmarks. For instance, try asking randomly, 'What happened in 1981?' and see how different people access the date and put it into context.
For most people, one year blends into another and they need time to think what it represents . Some recall newspaper headlines: 'Charles and Diana's wedding,' 'Thatcher's privatisation of industry,' or 'Ronald Reagan became president.'
A musician friend says instantly, 'Ultravox, Spandau Ballet, Classix Nouveaux.'
A mother of three counts back to her children's birth dates. 'Sam was four and I was pregnant with Lucy.'
My husband, a mediaeval historian, finds the date too recent. '1981? 1381 was the Peasants' Revolt ....'
My own history, interrupted by serious illness, makes me calculate, 'Post-losing second job, pre-diagnosis.'
But what if there are no landmarks to access, by any method, anywhere?
A family member's recent diagnosis of Alzheimer's has made me think back to my mother's experience of this illness, to identify ways that eased the distress for her. Although her condition was very much more advanced, there were glimpses, right to the last, that she was the person she had always been. She was still in there somewhere, and would sometimes come out.
I learned not to ask impossible questions to which she had no answers, such as, 'How are you?' or 'Who came to see you this morning?' And her own questions required different responses.
When a cousin came to visit her, she asked me repeatedly, 'Who is this?' Telling her the name, the relationship, and the connection to her brother, all caused her increasing anxiety.
I suggested going in the garden, which usually calmed her. My cousin and I walked arm in arm with her down the corridor, chatting quietly, when suddenly she stopped, looked into her niece's face and said, with a wide smile, 'Oh, it's you! I love you!' The affectionate contact had supplied the clue that words could not.
After that, I stopped telling her the name and status of the person coming towards her, whether family or nursing home staff member. Replying, 'You love this person,' didn't work either; it scared her to think that this stranger was someone she knew but didn't recognise. Saying, 'We love Amanda,' or 'He's fine; we're not frightened of this one,' worked better.
One visitor addressed her in the loud, condescending tones often judged appropriate for people with dementia, addressing her as 'Dear,' a term she had always considered patronising. Seeing her expressionless face nodding politely, my heart sank. She was no longer the person I knew. Then she looked at me sideways and winked, with a wicked smile.
By her final Christmas, she was too confused to leave the security of the nursing home. I visited, gave her presents, but when the time came to go and join the family Christmas, she sobbed, 'Don't go!' It was terrible. How could we celebrate Christmas without her, leaving her to another identical day in her alien home?
I prayed with desperation, 'Lord, shall I stay? Show me what to do,' just as Hayley Westenra was introduced on TV, about to sing 'Silent Night.'
'Oh, listen!' I said. 'We like this!'
'Do we?'
I knelt down by her chair and took her hand. As she listened, the tension and tearfulness ebbed and her face became peaceful. 'Oh, yes,' she said. 'We like this.'
The words and the music, beautifully sung, did something for both of us. We celebrated Christmas in that moment.
When it ended, I said, 'See you soon,' and she smiled and waved, before turning back with interest to watch the next programme - children's cartoons.
The old landmarks may slip but will sometimes come back into view, and new directions may prove too confusing to follow. The landscape of personality may change beyond recognition.
But even when everything else has passed away - memories, information, activities, words and names - the landmark of love, indelibly imprinted, remains.
