The Beauty in Dementia

When I was 22 and working in a nursing home, as a social worker, I didn't realize how much Eliza was teaching me. She had dementia. I spent time with her everyday and everyday she met a new friend (me). Eliza taught me about myself in ways that a book, a classroom, a lecture never could. Some days she was 84, and some days she was 25, looking for her young son. In her decline, I tried to make as many happy moments for her, for her family.

When Eliza had windows of clarity I dialed her sister's phone number and gave the phone to her. She had abilities that many had given up on. Maybe she couldn't remember the number or how to dial it, but when presented with the situation, at the right time, she surprised everyone—except herself. Eliza knew herself. She knew that day she was 29 and waiting for her father to pick her up for church. She knew she was 45 and mourning the death of her son. She knew she was 52 and visiting with her younger sister. It didn't matter what age she was that day, that hour, that moment, she was Eliza and she knew it. The hard part of this horrible disease is the pain it causes loved ones and friends. Most days Eliza was happy. Some days she was sad, some days she even cried. Society must remember that "we" do this—we're human. So is Eliza. To be her friend, caregiver or loved one we must respect that—and not try to change it. When we do, we are helping ourselves, not Eliza. That's the thing, individuals with dementia live in the moment. Isn't that what we all strive to do sometimes? That's what Eliza taught me. She held my hand and walked with me. She told me exactly how she felt, "go comb your hair, its terrible!"

That was almost 25 years ago. And the beginning of a career in senior care where I have had the opportunity to meet and get to know many individuals similar to Eliza, but never exactly the same. Each person is different, each person unique. Dementia is a disease that, although, tragic and horrible, is also beautifully powerful.