Sunday, June 7, 2020
Thursday, June 4, 2020
The Gift
She was one of my wife’s best and oldest friends, her roommate in college, her maid of honor. Brenda was a spark plug. She lived her life fully and with passion. And she died too young.
Back in the 70’s, Connie and Brenda loved to listen to soul music and dance the night away at the Bounty Tavern and the Stable Inn. Ahh, the good times. Brenda married Doug, a merchant marine. They bore a son and a daughter and lived their lives together in Brenda’s hometown. For 26 years Brenda worked as a middle school teacher. It was her calling, her passion and she was widely recognized for the excellence she brought to her students. She was a vibrant and powerful presence in the lives of all who knew her.
Six years ago, her behavior began to change; memory and speech issues, irrational comments, aggressive behavior towards family and friends. The doctors finally diagnosed Picks disease, a frontotemporal lobe degeneration that affects emotion, behavior, personality, and language. It is a rare disorder and mimics, in many repects, the more common Alzheimer’s disease. And, like Alzheimer’s, there is no cure. A tragedy. A heartbreak.
As the disease progressed, Doug could no longer safely care for her at home and she was admitted to a long term care facility. She would wander the halls and mumble incoherently, incessantly. Eventually she became less mobile, less verbal and Doug brought her home and set up the living room with medical equipment and at-home nursing care. She was confined to a hospital bed and lapsed into a silent, semicomatose state. The end was near.
Two months before she passed, before we headed South for the winter, we were invited to stop by for a short visit. The strain was clear on Doug’s face, but he greeted us with hugs and smiles. Such a good husband. Such a good man. He ushered us into the sunny front living room. Brenda showed no recognition of our presence, but seemed to respond to Connie’s loving touches and soft voice.
I had recently read an article on the impact of music on dementia patients and had observed it on our many visits to nursing homes. So, after a while, I asked Doug if I might play some music on my phone. He agreed and I called up some Barry White music, one of her favorite dance tunes when we were all so young and happy and carefree.
“Here’s your music, Brendie,” I spoke moving to her bedside. “Would you like to dance?” Incredibly, there was a glimmer in her eye. She began to bob her head and move her hands to the music. Doug looked on in amazement.
I took her hand and we danced, she in her hospital bed, me twirling around her bedside. She closed her eyes and remembered. A distorted, but beautiful smile came to her face. I leaned in and said “You always were a better dancer than Connie.” And she laughed.
As the song ended, Connie and the nurse had tears in their eyes. Doug stood frozen at the foot of the bed. She had not spoken in many months, but today, through the magic of music, she fixed her gaze on Doug and spoke in halted, but articulate speech.
“Thank… you… very… much.”
A fleeting, loving, lucid moment from the depths of her ravaged brain.
Such a gift.
We miss her.
Back in the 70’s, Connie and Brenda loved to listen to soul music and dance the night away at the Bounty Tavern and the Stable Inn. Ahh, the good times. Brenda married Doug, a merchant marine. They bore a son and a daughter and lived their lives together in Brenda’s hometown. For 26 years Brenda worked as a middle school teacher. It was her calling, her passion and she was widely recognized for the excellence she brought to her students. She was a vibrant and powerful presence in the lives of all who knew her.
Six years ago, her behavior began to change; memory and speech issues, irrational comments, aggressive behavior towards family and friends. The doctors finally diagnosed Picks disease, a frontotemporal lobe degeneration that affects emotion, behavior, personality, and language. It is a rare disorder and mimics, in many repects, the more common Alzheimer’s disease. And, like Alzheimer’s, there is no cure. A tragedy. A heartbreak.
As the disease progressed, Doug could no longer safely care for her at home and she was admitted to a long term care facility. She would wander the halls and mumble incoherently, incessantly. Eventually she became less mobile, less verbal and Doug brought her home and set up the living room with medical equipment and at-home nursing care. She was confined to a hospital bed and lapsed into a silent, semicomatose state. The end was near.
Two months before she passed, before we headed South for the winter, we were invited to stop by for a short visit. The strain was clear on Doug’s face, but he greeted us with hugs and smiles. Such a good husband. Such a good man. He ushered us into the sunny front living room. Brenda showed no recognition of our presence, but seemed to respond to Connie’s loving touches and soft voice.
I had recently read an article on the impact of music on dementia patients and had observed it on our many visits to nursing homes. So, after a while, I asked Doug if I might play some music on my phone. He agreed and I called up some Barry White music, one of her favorite dance tunes when we were all so young and happy and carefree.
“Here’s your music, Brendie,” I spoke moving to her bedside. “Would you like to dance?” Incredibly, there was a glimmer in her eye. She began to bob her head and move her hands to the music. Doug looked on in amazement.
I took her hand and we danced, she in her hospital bed, me twirling around her bedside. She closed her eyes and remembered. A distorted, but beautiful smile came to her face. I leaned in and said “You always were a better dancer than Connie.” And she laughed.
As the song ended, Connie and the nurse had tears in their eyes. Doug stood frozen at the foot of the bed. She had not spoken in many months, but today, through the magic of music, she fixed her gaze on Doug and spoke in halted, but articulate speech.
“Thank… you… very… much.”
A fleeting, loving, lucid moment from the depths of her ravaged brain.
Such a gift.
We miss her.
The Moment
We all go down
Some with a whimper
Some with a rage
Some with a purpose
Some so afraid
For some it is a competition to the very end.
Who dies last,
who dies best,
who is the world’s most interesting man.
We plan and we scheme,
and we scurry about
like fiddler
crabs on a mud flat
in the Georgia heat
Trying to stay
Trying to win
How will I go?
Hard tellin, not knowin, Ski.
It really doesn’t matter, but if I had my druthers,
With dignity
With grace
In comfort
And all my affairs in order.
THAT'S not going to happen.
So get over it.
And cherish the moment,
Cause that’s all you get.
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