Someone has painted the inside walls of the dayroom to look
like the outside of a log cabin- a two dimensional porch, bright green grass and ambivalent flowers depicted close to the floor. Initially I find it garish,
jarring, but with the natural light coming in through several windows in
the room and the mental confusion of the residents, I can see how they might actually be comforted by
the illusion of being outside, in front of a cottage, on a warm summer day.
Even after all this time, I look for the man I knew- the one
with a ready smile, and quick, sure, energetic movements; the one who, just two years
ago, would hug me so tight when I arrived at or left my parents’
home that all the air would be expelled from my lungs; the one who was always
moving and doing, chopping wood, cutting grass, tending the garden, clearing
snow from the driveway. . . .
I see him now, my father- smaller and greyer than he was,
slowly making his way around the room in an oversized mismatched sweat suit and
someone else’s shoes. He will no longer tolerate hearing aids or glasses. I
approach slowly, not wanting to startle, struggling to leave my impossible
hopes behind.
I touch his arm and he looks into my face. Recognition and confusion pass over his features like clouds crossing the sun. I speak quietly, deliberately relaxing my body to fit into the pace of his world. He does not understand my words but responds to my tone and body language. Realizing that I am not asking something of him that he may not be able to understand, he relaxes. I walk with him, following his lead, sitting when he does, stroking his arm, touching his face.
I touch his arm and he looks into my face. Recognition and confusion pass over his features like clouds crossing the sun. I speak quietly, deliberately relaxing my body to fit into the pace of his world. He does not understand my words but responds to my tone and body language. Realizing that I am not asking something of him that he may not be able to understand, he relaxes. I walk with him, following his lead, sitting when he does, stroking his arm, touching his face.
My soothing tone and movements are not just for him. Inside, a part of me is
screaming in protest. This younger self arises each time I visit this place, filled
with grief and rage at the cruelty of the disease (Alzheimer’s) that is shaping
my father’s life. Part of me is having a hard time accepting that there is nothing more to
be done, that this is beyond our control. I softly touch the skin on the back of his hand- fragile, translucent parchment- to say to myself and to my
father- “It’s okay. This is what is. We can be with what is. We can love in the
midst of all of the conditions over which we have no control. Breathe.”
And slowly, as I find a calm centre, I slip across the border
from the world's ideas of “normal” to being with what is. Here, now, a smile,or a moment of connection and tenderness outweighs all other priorities or plans, all the "normal" measurements of accomplishment.
Other residents
come up to me. Some try to talk, others just sit close. One woman moves
continually, incessantly calling out random syllables- “La, la, la, la, ya, ya,
ya, ya . . .” Suddenly she stops in the middle of the room and, looking at the
rest of us with a surprising and momentary gaze of clarity, says emphatically,
“THIS is NOT working!” Soft laughter ripples around the room. One of the staff gently takes her arm to walk with her and says, “No Gladys, it’s not. But
it’s okay.”
And I think about all the groups of people thought of as
being outside “normal,” somehow less a part of the world or daily life: those
who are physically or mentally ill or injured (my chronic illness has often put
me outside “normal;”) the very old or very young (and I think of being home
with babies and feeling disconnected from the hustle and bustle of “normal”
life;) in an affluent society- the poor and homeless; those whose beliefs are
radically different than ones expressed in the media; those whose colour, size,
appearance or sexual identity does not fit the dominant cultures’ mould. . . .
.
And I realize just how much life is happening outside “normal,” and I wonder
how our notion of “normal”- what is seen as ideal- could be expanded, gently
stretched to include the real, to hold all that is alive, breathing, feeling,
sensing.
Or perhaps there really is no “normal” against which we need
to measure ourselves or our lives- a process that too often results in shame
and disappointment.
Because the truth is, there are no conditions that put us
outside love. And that’s a reality I am willing to embrace in every moment.
~Oriah (c) 2012
(Note: for those who do not know- my father has advanced stage Alzheimer's and is a small ward
in a mental health facility for those with dementia who have become too violent
to be safely cared for elsewhere. My father was never a violent man, but in the
latter stages of the disease he has injured several people. Most folks stay there
for a few months so the staff can discern triggers for aggressive behaviour and
residents can return to being cared for closer to their families. Dad has been
here for a year. His violent outbursts follow no discernable pattern and often
appear to have no external trigger. The care is truly wonderful, although I
admit I wondered on my first visit if the staff were all on valium. They were
so relaxed, consistently moving and speaking very slowly. Of course, what
they know is that folks who are not able to understand much in their
environment are hyper-alert to and
potentially triggered by the slightest tension in others. I am deeply grateful
for the tender care they offer my father. They are truly earth angels.)
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