must feel strange to be back," I offered.
Rita and Annette nodded but said nothing as we walked down the long corridor. They seemed lost in thought, as if each door they passed was a portal to a particular memory.
"A lot of people don't want to let go," Rita said, as if out of the blue. We were in the library now, and she seemed a little distracted, looking around a room that was part of her second home for years.
"Why do you think that is?" I asked. I knew from experience that letting go is precisely what family members struggle with the most, but I wanted Rita's take on it.
"Because you want them back in the worst possible way," she said. "You just want your parent back, the one who signed the report cards, the one who made the Thanksgiving dinner. But you can't."
Knowing that, and coming to terms with that knowledge, is really the most difficult part. A relationship between two people is made up, for the most part, of invisible things: memories, shared experiences, hopes, and fears. When one person disappears, the other is left alone, as if holding a string with no kite. Memories can do a lot to sustain you, but the invisible stuff of the relationship is lost, even as unresolved issues remain: arguments never settled, kind words never uttered, things left un-said. They become like a splinter beneath the skin--unseen, but painful nevertheless. Until they're exposed, coping with the loss is impossible.
"So, how do you come to grips with the loss?" I asked.
Annette answered this time. "It takes time. But at first it's about diversion and misdirection."
I hadn't heard that before. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"I guess it's like this," Annette continued. "A few years after my father was diagnosed he called me late one night. I told him it was the middle of the night and he should go back to bed. But he was anxious."
"'There's a strange woman here with me,' he said. 'I want you to come over here and take me home.'"
Annette shook her head at the memory. "For almost an hour I stayed on the phone trying to convince him that the woman in his bed was my mother--his wife. Eventually I was able to convince him..."
"Dr. Dosa, it only got worse from there," Rita said.
"From that point on," Annette continued, "the phone calls started coming more frequently. I don't like to admit this to myself, but early on I think I got a little angry."
She paused and then broke into a smile. "Okay, a lot angry! I mean, how many times can you say that the strange woman is actually your mother? It was heartbreaking and frustrating at the same time. It was many things. But eventually you realize that the best way to cope with the repetitiveness is not through explanation but through distraction. I'd stop trying to convince my father that the strange woman was his wife and simply changed the subject to something else and then everything was okay."
"It was the same with our mother," Rita said. "When she became a resident on the third floor, she still recognized the nursing home as the place where she had come to see Dad before he died. It was one of the reasons she liked Steere House from the beginning: In her heart, she knew it--the layout, the rooms, the cats!"
Annette chimed in, "She really took to Maya. Oscar not so much," she laughed.
"And she still knew a lot of the staff, too, or at least they were familiar enough not to make her anxious. Sometimes we'd be sitting in her room and she would ask about my father." Rita smiled wryly. "We would tell her that our father was answering the telephone and would be back when he was done."
"Eventually you just become good at misdirection," Annette said. "I know I did."
"The little things you do," Rita said with a small laugh. They didn't sound so little to me.
"Did you ever feel guilty about--?"
"About lying?" Rita jumped in.
Annette shook her head emphatically. "We considered it playacting. You have to learn to play a role and distract a person with memory impairment." She smiled, then
Rita and Annette nodded but said nothing as we walked down the long corridor. They seemed lost in thought, as if each door they passed was a portal to a particular memory.
"A lot of people don't want to let go," Rita said, as if out of the blue. We were in the library now, and she seemed a little distracted, looking around a room that was part of her second home for years.
"Why do you think that is?" I asked. I knew from experience that letting go is precisely what family members struggle with the most, but I wanted Rita's take on it.
"Because you want them back in the worst possible way," she said. "You just want your parent back, the one who signed the report cards, the one who made the Thanksgiving dinner. But you can't."
Knowing that, and coming to terms with that knowledge, is really the most difficult part. A relationship between two people is made up, for the most part, of invisible things: memories, shared experiences, hopes, and fears. When one person disappears, the other is left alone, as if holding a string with no kite. Memories can do a lot to sustain you, but the invisible stuff of the relationship is lost, even as unresolved issues remain: arguments never settled, kind words never uttered, things left un-said. They become like a splinter beneath the skin--unseen, but painful nevertheless. Until they're exposed, coping with the loss is impossible.
"So, how do you come to grips with the loss?" I asked.
Annette answered this time. "It takes time. But at first it's about diversion and misdirection."
I hadn't heard that before. "What do you mean?" I asked.
"I guess it's like this," Annette continued. "A few years after my father was diagnosed he called me late one night. I told him it was the middle of the night and he should go back to bed. But he was anxious."
"'There's a strange woman here with me,' he said. 'I want you to come over here and take me home.'"
Annette shook her head at the memory. "For almost an hour I stayed on the phone trying to convince him that the woman in his bed was my mother--his wife. Eventually I was able to convince him..."
"Dr. Dosa, it only got worse from there," Rita said.
"From that point on," Annette continued, "the phone calls started coming more frequently. I don't like to admit this to myself, but early on I think I got a little angry."
She paused and then broke into a smile. "Okay, a lot angry! I mean, how many times can you say that the strange woman is actually your mother? It was heartbreaking and frustrating at the same time. It was many things. But eventually you realize that the best way to cope with the repetitiveness is not through explanation but through distraction. I'd stop trying to convince my father that the strange woman was his wife and simply changed the subject to something else and then everything was okay."
"It was the same with our mother," Rita said. "When she became a resident on the third floor, she still recognized the nursing home as the place where she had come to see Dad before he died. It was one of the reasons she liked Steere House from the beginning: In her heart, she knew it--the layout, the rooms, the cats!"
Annette chimed in, "She really took to Maya. Oscar not so much," she laughed.
"And she still knew a lot of the staff, too, or at least they were familiar enough not to make her anxious. Sometimes we'd be sitting in her room and she would ask about my father." Rita smiled wryly. "We would tell her that our father was answering the telephone and would be back when he was done."
"Eventually you just become good at misdirection," Annette said. "I know I did."
"The little things you do," Rita said with a small laugh. They didn't sound so little to me.
"Did you ever feel guilty about--?"
"About lying?" Rita jumped in.
Annette shook her head emphatically. "We considered it playacting. You have to learn to play a role and distract a person with memory impairment." She smiled, then
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