I Was Terrified of Alzheimer’s – One Nurses Journey Back to Compassion – Part 3

I was hungry for help and ready to eat humble pie. Molly began dropping by a few times a week, finding places and spaces to mentor.

Despite my many fumbles, she never shamed or blamed me.

As I relaxed enough to let go of any expectations of structure and authority with these folks, I began to learn.

I was an eager student, and Molly’s mentoring was invaluable.

An absolute game-changer.

GOLDEN CONNECTORS

Meet these folks when and where they are.

 It was okay that I did not share their reality. To many, I was their mother, their sister, their daughter, their wife. The point is that it was true for them, and it never lasted.

 When I practiced this alone, to my surprise, I got a lot more done. Like giving out their medication before midnight.

Learn each person’s name as if they are your family—because they are. If not today, then tomorrow.

 Here is a great hack. Find out something cool about each person. Their names will stick like glue. Example – Betty had once adopted a python snake. When I used to see her, I would think – Betty, please empty your bottomless pockets. I always remembered my Betty.

Talk softly, and use their name often. This helps residents to see me as a friend, not a threat. Use a gentle touch. As the resident’s ability to recognize faces and language declines, this becomes especially important when talking with each person.

When approaching, slow it down, make eye contact, and, again, smile.

Lesson: Make connecting with residents the absolute first priority.

 

MUSIC

Music created stability and contentment in the unit. It danced over the residents’ need to understand or negotiate their world. It pulled up the smiles on weathered faces and tapped the toes of many unsuspecting souls. 

My strongest musical memory is that of Laurel, an accomplished pianist in her day. Shortly after her admission, her family (whom she no longer recognized) brought her piano in and rolled it down to the dining room.

The staff supported Laurel as she hobbled over and onto the piano bench. She could no longer speak. She ran her hands over the keys, stroking them like a beloved pet. Her fingers found the keys. Three classical songs, devastating and beautiful, grabbed hold, and the tears rolled. As suddenly as it started, it stopped. That familiar vacancy was back. We had Laurel for a precious moment.

Lesson: Play, drum, dance, sing, listen to music. Whenever you can. It beats words. It connects.

 

FUN

Seriously. Just like church and state, fun and work should not be in the same room.

Or so I thought.

When Molly brought a giant orange bouncing ball to the dining room (after dinner, of course), I decided to roll with it and trust her infinite wisdom. 

She unapologetically whipped the ball at me (nothing personal), and boom, I was out of my head – laughing, catching it, and throwing it back.

Hands shot up to catch and throw, and giggles erupted. We brought out the balloons, and wow, they brought out the party—instant goofy fun.

I was reminded of little children– lovely, simple, and fully in the moment.

Lesson: Do not overthink it. Live in the moment. Play.             

MOLLY MOVES ON

As the months passed, I began to look forward to my shifts. I felt proud – I had learned everyone’s name.

I knew their families and their friends. I felt my entire being relax.

Molly noticed. “You definitely got this girl,” she chuckled.

The time had come for her to move out of mentor mode.

I still had bad days, like we all do. Challenges.

Sadness at times, particularly when I thought how dreadful it was to watch the mental and physical decline of these marvelous people and feel helpless.

No pills, no medicine could help one bit.

These dark clouds parted when I humbly did what I could – what I had learned.

 

When I walked onto the unit, I made it my practice and priority to connect with each person.

To remember their individual humanity – and to find a way to make them smile. Every day. 

I grew to know and love the regulars who swarmed my medication cart each evening.

Jack needed directions home. I let him know he could stay the night in a guest room and that I’d give him a lift home in the morning. He thanked me for my hospitality, obviously relieved.

 Mary really wanted a beer. I gave it to her with dinner – with her family’s blessing (they brought it in). Mary sipped it like liquid gold.

Sarah repeatedly told me that it was her time of the month, never mind that she was 86 years old. I discretely handed her some pads, and she hobbled off to the bathroom, breathing with relief.

Bertha only wanted to talk about how much she loved and missed her mama. I asked her to go get a photo of her – and she did, beaming.

George, the cup stealer, apparently was a waiter in his younger days. I gave him his own stack of cups and instructed him to set the table. He followed orders and stood a little taller.

The biggest gift for re-directing and re-framing my attention in this way – was that the light in their eyes sparked up a notch or two.

They, I believe, felt seen and understood, even for just a moment.  I just needed to slow down and open my eyes to see who was in front of me.