Loading...I think one of the most difficult things any one of us can do is to watch as someone we love experiences dementia. The person we once knew sometimes becomes someone we no longer recognize. Their behavior changes, their abilities diminish, they don’t act like they once did and it’s hard to know what to expect from one visit to the next. They might not know what is happening to them, but know that something is happening, and they just don’t like it, either.
Maybe they don’t remember our name, or they struggle to bring up a memory, or they repeat stories and phrases over and over. It is hard to be patient, it is nearly unbearable to watch them struggle, but we know it’s even harder for them. They WANT to remember.
The thing is, our presence, even when it’s uncomfortable, matters. People like Ann may not have known who you were every time you visited, but she certainly could sense that you were important to her and that she was important to you. In those moments, she knew she was safe. She knew she was loved.
I didn’t get to know Ann before she was in the depths of her dementia, but, because of my own experiences with others who have gone through dementia, I recognized the behavior. Ann struggled with the sense that she was losing her ability to be an active member of her community and her family.
It’s hard to be separated from what is familiar. It is sometimes hard to watch someone we love as they struggle to understand who they are, when who they were might not be accessible any longer. It can be incredibly sad. Grief for what has been lost, before it is gone, is a strange emotion to navigate.
But (or maybe it’s “and”) with anyone who becomes a wanderer in their own life’s mind full of memories, there is often a single point of certainty that provides them with a sense of comfort.
I believe that is in knowing that even in the darkness of a room, God is there. Even in the lost words and limited memories, Jesus is there. And when someone feels abandoned or left behind whether they are or not, they can, I hope, sense the presence of the Holy Spirit surrounding them.
We are each given a time limit. We only have so many heartbeats and breaths that keep us living from season to season, from birth to death, and it is in how we choose to spend our time, with whom, and for how long, where we find our purpose under heaven.
It is like the mystery books Ann adored. Our lives are filled with stories and adventures, mundane to extravagant, that lead us through twists and turns, obvious outcomes and surprises, with an ultimate solution to the mystery: the revelation of whodunit.
As people of faith, as people of resurrection, we trust that the mysteries we experience in life will lead us into the arms of our creator, our Shepherd, our place in heaven.
Our bodies may break down and our memories may flee, but God will continue to walk with us until those final moments when our heart stops and our breath leaves us. And then, when our earthly tent is destroyed, we will move into that heavenly dwelling, where sorrow and pain are no more, and our memories no longer fail. Where words, once lost, can come with every Alleluia, praising the one who followed us all the days of our lives.
I pray that you will find comfort in your sorrow and joy in your memories. I pray that you will be able to balance weeping with laughter - and mourning with dancing. For while you have lost Ann, she has gained heaven. She has seen God. Alleluia!
Amen.
