Dignifying Dementia by Elizabeth Tierney

ecumenical people I ever met. What Jim said he didn’t tolerate was “stupidity and Irish politicians!” He used to say, “Never trust the Irish” – followed by that grin.
    So, I helped him to the toilet, to take off his clothes, to dress him, to give him his showers and to prepare his food. He was unable to put shirts on over his head, so I bought shirts that buttoned in the front. He could not always remember how to put his arms in his sleeves. I stopped giving him his hearing aids, because I caught him in time just as he was about to eat them. He was agitated most of the time – so was I.

    I had read that pets could be calming. Certainly we needed something peaceful. Should we have another cat in our lives? When I suggested the idea to Jim, he became upset.
    Jim’s world seemed Orwellian, Kafkaesque, hierarchical and bureaucratic. We couldn’t just get a cat; we had to abide by rules, and that woman in the front room of the apartment seemed to be part of a regulatory staff. ‘Cat acquisition’ apparently required authorization. So, as our neighbor had in Lenox, when Jim didn’t believe he had the right to be in his own apartment, I produced the condo by-laws and sat down with him to discuss the matter formally. I showed him the sentence that said pets were permitted. I didn’t know if he could read the line I showed him, but he acceded to my request.
    As a result, we went to the Humane Society and picked out Cleo. When we brought her home, Jim was not interested in her at all. In fact, he shoved her away when she came near or if she jumped up onto the ottoman near his feet.
    But Cleo turned out to be therapy for me, because she gave me something to smile at and to worry about besides Jim. Unfortunately, Cleo awakened at 4:00 am, sometimes only minutes after Jim had fallen asleep, so I was weary. She became visibly ill one Christmas Eve. Although the vet tried to save her, he couldn’t; she died. She was a sweet, warm friend I could hold, when I could no longer hug my husband.
    Cleo’s death seemed to be another reminder of illness, loss and death: Jim, Mom, Dad, a colleague in Ireland, Liam, and a friend, Fran, even Ellen’s move to Portland, Oregon. Tears came to my eyes when I opened a letter from Ellen with a photograph of my two grandchildren. I steeled my heart. Cleo’s death seemed unfair. In football, I think the term is ‘piling on.’
    A year later without Jim’s input, I decided to get another cat. When I brought her home, she cried for two hours, so I called the Humane Society and said sadly, “Please keep the donation, I’m bringing her back.” An unhappy cat and a demented husband were more than I could handle, so I bought some fish thinking Jim might enjoy their color and movement; he didn’t look at them or couldn’t see them. They lived.
    Choosing an older cat had been a wise decision because an energetic kitten might have added to his hallucinations. Jim had begun seeing small creatures on the floor or in the corners of the rooms. I stepped on the spot he was staring at or said that “whatever” he saw was not there. He talked to people he must have seen sitting in chairs or standing in corners. I was inept at handling them, too.
    By now we were unable to have conversations about the weather, getting a cat, eating a sandwich, taking a walk, getting the mail, putting gas in the car or having toast. His condition was beyond my comprehension and my skills.
    As the days of confusion mounted, I asked myself, would I ever remember the good times? Which part of our lives together was the fantasy? Which the reality?

    Increasingly tired and lost, I learned that the local Alzheimer’s organization had a daycare program, so I met with the director who suggested, “Let Jim believe he is volunteering to help out on the program.” On the day we tried it out, eight other dementia sufferers were