“Some memories are unforgettable, always remain vivid and comforting! »
–Joseph B. Wirthlin
I love my role as a hospice volunteer mainly because I enjoy meeting patients and hearing their life stories. I heard the story of a Vietnam veteran who won the Congressional Medal of Honor, which he humbly said was “just for driving a Jeep.” (He later admitted that he had saved a general by simply “driving a jeep” through enemy lines.) Another woman was an elderly woman who had been a famous Greek dancer. She had performed all over the world and still had the beautiful costumes and photos to prove it. Even as she lay dying, her eyes lit up as she described her old adventures. I have been a hospice volunteer for twenty years and have heard many stories like this. For me, keeping watch with these dying strangers is an honor, and I am always fascinated and engaged in their final journey. Everyone has a story to tell if you take the time to listen.
However, in dementia patients, there are no shared stories because their memories are trapped in the cobwebs that have grown inside their brains.
In survey after survey, dementia is named as the most feared illness by respondents. Anyone who has seen a loved one suffer or who has been diagnosed and found themselves in a downward spiral with no cure can attest to this fear and terror. As a general rule, I ask that I not be assigned a dementia patient because interacting with them is often frustrating and, frankly, can be depressing. Quite the opposite for my other patients, most of whom do not have this limitation, and we can easily walk down Memory Lane and explore their stories. However, one day I experienced a breakthrough with a dementia patient that will stay with me forever.
I was assigned to a Catholic Alzheimer's patient who lived nearby, and her family just wanted someone to read the Bible to her and maybe “pray the rosary.” I thought I could do it, but here I confess, no pun intended: I am a lapsed Catholic, and although I am a Christian and study the Bible regularly, praying the rosary was not something I I had been doing for over half a century. Even then, it was a fluke. My old friend, “Father Google”, helped me with the process and I printed out the prayers (over 50 Hail Marys, a few Our Fathers and a few other meditations) and their order, listed on a page that I could follow.
I have a beautiful crystal rosary that my favorite uncle, Joe, gave me many years ago that belonged to his late wife. Ironically, this uncle died of Alzheimer's disease in the mid-1980s, my first experience with this dreaded disease. Uncle Joe went from the sweetest, kindest, gentlest man to a frustrated and aggressive man, lashing out at those close to him. His decline was heartbreaking for all who knew and loved him.
When I arrived, my patient was nonverbal and thin and seemed peacefully asleep, almost comatose. I pulled up a chair next to his bed, took out my beads and Google cheat sheet, and whispered why I was there. No answer. I held the rosary above his bed and began the prayers. No answer. As I went through each series or decade of prayers (as they are called), his eyes were opened. I continued the prayers, and suddenly his mouth began to move; there was no sound, just an acknowledgment of the prayers and his silent words. She was a devout Catholic who had probably been saying these prayers since first grade; they were engraved in his memory. At one point, about halfway through, she reached the end of the beads and held on tightly. When I finished, she seemed asleep again. As I stood up to say goodbye, she grabbed my arm and kissed my hand. What a wonderful gift, both the kiss and her joining me in praying the rosary. The lesson for me is that even people with Alzheimer's disease have a story to tell.
Cellular memory theory
It must be considered, however, that many scientists agree that memory can live in the heart as well as in the brain. “Cellular memory theory states that the brain is not the only organ that stores memories or personality traits; this memory can be formed and stored in organs such as the heart. Claire Sylvia received a heart and lung transplant in the 1970s from an eighteen-year-old male donor. None of this information was known to Sylvia, who upon waking up claimed she had a new and intense craving for beer, chicken nuggets, and green peppers, all foods she had not previously enjoyed. the operation. A change in food preferences is probably the most noticed change in heart transplant patients.
It sounds like science fiction, but wherever memories reside, some can be recalled by an old song, a favorite smell, or an ancient prayer. For my patient, the path through her labyrinth consisted of praying the rosary; for another it was playing tunes from Broadway shows from her youth and we both sang along; on the other hand, it was me reading cards with memory questions that took my patient back to when she was married to a country singer who performed at the Grand Ole Opry and smiling at the memory. Many memories are created by heart-related events. It is therefore possible that dementia patients have a repository of memories residing in their hearts. We will never know. It's up to us to give the trigger to bring out the memories and give them a little pleasure in recalling them.
Althea Halchuck is a patient advocate.