Memory Care Musings

Brains are weird.

In one of my dreams last week, I was with a group of people who were singing a song, and I wanted to sing along with them, but I wasn't familiar with the tune.

Happens, right? Except. 

Since I was dreaming, the only place that song existed was in my head. And, so, I MUST know the tune because I was hearing the words and the melody in the dream. Or maybe, it's a song I knew once, so part of my consciousness knows it, but my current memory has forgotten it? 

Sadly, I'll never know. As usually happens with dream recollections, the tune and the words have evaporated along with the context of the rest of the dream.

The more time I spend visiting Bob in his locked dementia ward, the more I am in awe of the complexity of our mind-body connections.

I have, for so long, taken so much for granted. My body, except for that cancer thing, usually just works. I give it food and water, exercise and sleep, and in return, it chugs along without too much complaint. My mind goes along its merry way, thinking and writing, worrying and planning, largely unaware of all the work the body does to keep it functioning. 

There is one man, there in the memory unit, whose blank face haunts my dreams; whose mind-body connection is almost completely severed. In Bob's time at Brookdale, I have had just one meal in their dining room with him, and at that meal, this man shared our table. The aide walked him on in, told him to sit, and he sat. They put a plate of mush in front of him, put a spoon in his hand, told him to eat, and he mechanically, neatly, lifted the food to his mouth. I tried to smile and greet him, but when I looked in his eyes, I saw only emptiness. There was no one looking back at me. 

As he was being seated, the aide called him by the title he'd clearly borne for much of his adult life - Doctor.

In my world, to become Doctor, one has to have intelligence, determination, drive. For Doctor X, all of these things have been erased. All that is left is the shell, the body. If, indeed, our spirits live on after us, where has his spirit gone? What is life all about, if this is where our bodies end up? 

I'm still trying to make sense of the rush of feelings that surface every time I think of this incident. Top of the pile is overwhelming sadness for this man, and for those who love him. Right beneath that is the driving need to figure out ways to make sure I will never sit in his chair myself.

My usual prayers and mantras of comfort fail me here. 

All I have is the wordless plea of the tears currently spilling from my eyes.

Amen?