What Dementia Taught Me On My Spiritual Journey
Losing Your Mind
Who are you without your mind?
You can breathe.
You can smile.
You can connect.
You can recognize laughter,
And laugh along.
You can empathize.
You can intuit.
You can experience without judgment.
Without your mind,
You are your spirit.
Caring for people who have dementia is like doing spiritual research. They’re losing their minds, so they must rely on their body and spirit for survival. Their health indicates the strength of both.
J can no longer communicate using language. She’s incontinent and requires at least two people to change her pull-up after she has a bowel movement. One person holds her hands, looks into her eyes, and opens their heart to her in an attempt to distract her from what’s about to come. The other person does the dirty work, trusting their partner has a strong heart that day so they don’t get hit or kicked. A few of the nursing assistants are able to change her without assistance. Restraints aren’t needed because they found a way to communicate to her, I’m helping you. You are safe.
Showering J is a whole other ball game, a true test of nursing skill. The goal is simply to get her as clean as possible as quickly as possible, without any injuries. You must stay focused on that goal. When she starts screaming bloody murder when you wet her hair, you don’t flinch and you better have the shampoo within arms reach. There’s no time for coaxing.
Most nursing assistants don’t shower her on her shower days, for good reason. It’s dangerous. She’s sitting on a wet shower chair, thrashing about, trying to fly the coop. There’s legitimate risk of her slipping and falling, if you’re not on top of your game. Only the most experienced nursing assistants lead the charge of showering J. They step up to the plate, confident in their abilities, and do their job.
J is losing her mind, but her body and soul are an inspiration to us all. Her favorite words, that when spoken make her light up immediately, are “beautiful” and “I love you”. She’s tiny and alert, with big, kind eyes and thick, soft hair. When you put your arm around her she always reciprocates, patting your waist or rubbing your back, even though she’s usually meeting you for the first time.
She’s the only resident who is mobile without a wheelchair or walker. She wanders the halls freely, happily looking for someone or something to connect to. She’s usually carrying with her a baby doll or a stuffed cat, caressing them tenderly, guided by her motherly instinct. Yesterday she got a hold of a fuzzy, blue baby bird. She excitedly showed it off to anyone who approached her, pointing at his cute little face and laughing, looking up at you to see if you were laughing too.
Most of the time she imitates the emotion that is directed at her, but she can detect emotional authenticity quite well. If you smile at her, she’ll always smile back. But, if your smile isn’t coming from a place of true happiness, she’ll smile and move on, in her search for genuine connection.
On the days when I’m in my highest spirits, J seeks me out, sitting down next to me as I tap my foot to the beat of life. We look at each other, smile, and laugh in sync, communicating in our own way,
What a crazy beautiful world.
