My mom has dementia, and thankfully, at least so far, her deterioration has been gradual. Sometimes I don't even notice that some new word or thing is "missing" for her until it is pointed out to me, situationally.
The other night we were watching the movie
Johnny English
, starring Rowan Atkinson (who mom loves) as Britain's most inept spy. John Malkovich was playing the super-villain, complete with an outrageous French accent. Mom recognized him, but as she usually does these days when we are watching a movie, she asked me what his name was. I usually tell her and she nods, as it sounds familiar to her. But when I said, "John Malkovich," she shook her head. It was a complete blank. It was gone.
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| John Malkovich and Rowan Atkinson in Johnny English |
Now to be fair, it's hardly essential that she recall Malkovich's name, no matter how much of a movie buff she used to be. But I couldn't help but wonder, where did his name go? Where do all of the things that she is gradually forgetting go? Do they just shrivel up and die? Do they evaporate "into the ether," as in one of her favorite expressions. One of her past favorite expressions, that is, as I highly doubt she would know what I meant by "ether" these days. So many words, so many nouns, so many names. All gone.
Au revoir John Malkovich. Your name may be gone, but at least for now, your face still seems familiar.
3 comments:
My mother and her mother (my grandmother) once took a leisurely bus tour of the chateaux on the Loire, and came back full of all the stories of what they had seen and learned. Quite some years later, my grandmother started to develop dementia. My mother, flying over for a visit, brought her a mini-bottle of Chambord liqueur -- Chambord had been one of the chateaux they visited, and she thought it would amuse her mother. She brought the bottle back with her, and, tears in her eyes, told me: my grandmother no longer remembered that trip.
A decade later, my own mother developed dementia, as well. And, one day, I showed her the bottle (which neither one of us had had the heart to open) and asked her: do you remember? That wonderful trip with your mother? All those beautiful chateaux? My mother shook her head, vaguely. Chateaux? No. No memory.
That's when I cried.
I still have the bottle. I still don't have the heart to open it.
It's so heartbreaking, isn't it? Especially as we age, and physical things go south we tell ourselves at least we still have our memories. How unfair.
As we drive around down here my mom frequently gestures towards something out the window - a building, or a store, that has some sort of association for her. But she can't really tell me what it is that she is reacting to.
As much as our current culture is being criticized for over-sharing, maybe it will someday be a blessing in disguise. If we can't remember all the silly things we did or said or thought, someone may be able to access it online and show it to us someday. I did that? Oh my ...
A few months back I saw a YouTube short film featuring a man who had dementia or Alzheimers and was in a nursing home. Someone gave him a Walkman that had music on it from his youth and he lit up and started singing along and was more responsive than he had been in ages. It's an amazing bit of film. I'll try to track it down.
Yes, I saw that. Music and old movies can often reach parts of the mind that just talking cannot ...
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