Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden that we should love our life, whether we are rich or live in a poorhouse. To paraphrase Thoreau, I have tried to live consciously and deeply and suck up all the marrow of my life so that when I come to die, I shall not realize that I have not truly lived. I don’t think that anyone has consciously loved being alive more than I.
My life has been rich in education, art, literature, music, theater, delicious food, travel, the beauty of the sunrise, sunset and nature, and loving relationships with husband, daughter, son-in-law, family, and friends.
I’ve had two experiences since the beginning of November that have given me much to ponder: Most recently, I was so sick before Christmas that I wondered if I might die. I felt as if my mind were shutting down. I couldn’t read, watch TV or write. During the quiet, lonely hours of the nights in the hospital, I thought about how suddenly life can change. Had the call come for my departure, I would not have felt cheated. The love of my dear husband and daughter kept me going.
This experience makes me even more determined to extract the maximum pleasure from each moment and, also, focus more intensely on the people and things that are most truly important to me and jettison the rest.
Last fall I had an e-mail from Jeff Thomas, the fulltime chaplain at Harrison Terrace which is a care facility on the Indianapolis eastside, near 10th and Franklin. He reads my columns in The Weekly View, and he asked if I would speak on a topic of my choice at a gathering of forty or fifty of its residents whose ages range from the fifties to the nineties.
Of course, I was honored to agree. It turned out to be an unforgettable experience that opened a whole new dimension of thought. He said, “All of them suffer from some degree of dementia.” “Eek!” I thought. “What can I possibly talk about?” I do try to write and speak to a high standard, but I knew very little about dementia, other than stories that we have all heard.
I did realize that caregivers try to help preserve for as long as possible the memory of those who suffer from dementia. Thus, I decided to try to trigger memories that we all share in common such as family holiday feasts, autumn bonfires, Halloween, sledding, and visits to beloved Aunts. I told stories about the seasons of my Hoosier past and recited poems such as “Ain’t God Good to Indiana?” and Riley’s “Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.”
Jeff started the meeting with activities designed to get the people to respond to memories, such as the singing of familiar Christmas carols. Later there was a contest in which clues were given about a familiar figure — Jacob’s brother, Esau, in this case. The kindness of the staff was evident as they moved among the people, encouraging them.
While I spoke, I watched the audience. I could tell that some were “with it” when they laughed at the appropriate places or responded to questions. My heart was stricken by one-nice looking man. Looking straight ahead, his face was totally without expression as if carved from stone.
I have concluded that when we lose our past, we lose something that makes us so richly human, that shapes us, that brings us satisfaction and makes our existence meaningful. I think that sufferers from dementia become adrift without an anchor and descend into a darkness of the soul.
My own illness made me more thankful for my wonderful life as did seeing those suffering from dementia — There but for the grace of God, go I! Also, I have gained a greater appreciation for special people like Jeff and caregivers who try to shine a light into the dark. More to come. wclarke@comcast.net