While visiting a friend in the Alzheimer's wing of a nursing home, I spent much of the time observing and trying to make sense of a disease that makes no sense. My friend doesn't talk much these days, and any conversation really doesn't make much sense. But that's okay because we were interacting and keeping him connected with the world around him … which is this corridor of rooms.
He was in a pretty good mood today, smiling and laughing. He shook his head at the man who continued to get out of his wheelchair, setting off the alarm countless times. The bell didn't phase my friend or any of the others who sat or walked. I knew I'd go mad if I had to listen to it for very long.
One woman mumbled that "It's okay if you want to talk about me" and walked away.
Another woman fretted about her babies, hoping they weren't sitting out in the cold and snow. She asked no one in particular if her babies had been fed.
"Isn't it time to go home?" she asked one of the staff.
"No, not yet," the staff member replied gently.
"Well, when?"
"In a little bit."
"Okay." She was satisfied with that answer and settled into a chair to await her ride home.
The staff member knew she wasn't going anywhere. I knew she wouldn't be leaving anytime soon as this is her home now. This is where this Alzheimer's patient needed to be for her own safety and because she needed the constant supervision that her family could no longer provide. But she didn't need to hear the truth because it would only upset her.
Where would "home" be for someone with Alzheimer's? Is it the place where they last resided? Or is it the only home they can remember, the place where they grew up? No one knows, and it doesn't really matter. Let them "build" their home anywhere they want, and assure them when they ask that they'll be going there sometime soon. That's all some of them need to hear.
A comforting lie can be more powerful and calming than the truth. That's definitely worth remembering when it comes to Alzheimer's.
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