Snapshots of Dementia: That’s Just the Way It Is?
It seemed easy enough. Some friends from our time in Charleston were visiting our small town and wanted to stop by for a brief visit. Trying to keep things simple, they planned to eat lunch before they came; we’d use our time together to talk and catch up.
This visit was simple—much too simple when it came to Tom. For the most part, all he did was sit and listen to our conversation. Years ago, the woman and I had been part of the same homeschool group, and we eagerly discussed everything from where our children were living to the health of our mothers, now both widowed and in their 90s.
My friend’s husband contributed here and there, but mine was almost completely silent. The only time he spoke was when I encouraged his agreement about one point or another as I continued my non-stop discussion.
“You notice he’s hardly saying anything,” I mentioned to our friends when Tom stepped out of the room. They nodded. Before long, Tom was back, and we finished our visit much the same as we started it—the three of us doing most of the talking and Tom an almost-silent observer.
Only after they left did I realize what I’d done—or what I hadn’t.
In my eagerness to visit with my friends, I’d left Tom hanging in the breeze of our conversation. I’d acted as though I didn’t know how to interact with someone who is living with dementia. And worse, I’d behaved as though it didn’t matter. “That’s just the way it is,” I’d implied.
Yes, that’s just the way it is—if I’m selfish.
That’s just the way it is—if I’m not intentional.
That’s just the way it is—if I don’t listen to the Holy Spirit about how to bless my husband.
That’s just the way it is—if we don’t treat people LWD with the respect they deserve.
Only a few days later, I invited another friend over for dinner. His wife was out of the country, and I thought he might enjoy some company and home-cooked food. As I prepared the meal, I realized that—both because of his love for Tom and his own prior caregiving experience—our friend would make a great co-laborer. Together, we could give Tom a different experience than I had with our previous guests, but it would require intentionality on both our parts.
When our friend rang the doorbell, I made sure I answered. This is often what happens anyway because Tom tends to stay in his recliner, most often playing on his iPad.
Our friend and I had a quick porch chat before entering the house. I told him about the recent visit and how Tom had largely remained silent.
“This time, I’m going to try not to say too much,” I told him. “And I need you to think of things to ask him about. I’ll jump in sometimes, but I’m going to try to let him do most of the talking.”
“I’m looking forward to it!” our friend said.
We had a plan. Now, it was time to apply it.
Although Tom loves and appreciates this friend, he barely looked up as I brought our friend into the family room. “I need to go finish up supper,” I told them. “Baby, maybe you can give our friend a tour.”
Tom has never given anyone a tour of our home, and I wasn’t sure how it would go. But I soon heard the two of them traveling down the hall, stopping to look at various items. Our friend asked simple questions: “Who collects nativity sets?” “A wedding! Who are all these people?” “Do you still have your trumpet?” He waited patiently for the answers, never interrupting Tom’s halting responses.
I smiled. So far, our plan seemed to be working out just fine.
I had dinner on the table just as the brief tour concluded. Almost right away, our friend began asking Tom questions about his past: “Where were you born?” “What did your dad do?” “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
These were all simple questions that Tom can still answer. But even better than the questions was the fact that they led him into storytelling.
Back in his preaching days, Tom prided himself on telling good stories to illustrate his points. And although he often puts two together or mixes up details, he remembers many of his stories and enjoys retelling them.
“Just take a breath,” our friend prompted Tom a time or two as he struggled to find a word. “I’m in no hurry.”
When the meal, dessert, and conversation ended, Tom was exhausted—and our friend and I were thrilled. The person LWD had talked more than either one of us, and more than that, he had enjoyed our friend’s visit immensely.
Dementia experts agree that with dementia, “use it or use it” often applies. Storytelling helps keep the brain cells not yet destroyed by dementia alive, as expert Teepa Snow explains in this brief video.
Of course, Tom hadn’t changed between the two visits; they happened less than a week apart. Yes, we had different guests, but what really changed was my intentionality.
I didn’t take time to prepare our first guests—or myself—for the visit in any way. But I asked our second guest to partner with me in giving Tom opportunities to communicate. That one intentional act made all the difference.
For everyone.
I’m grateful for friends who want to spend time with us. And I’m even more grateful that I woke up to what this phase of LWD means. We can still have visitors. We can still have conversations. But for all of us to enjoy the time spent together, it takes a little more time, effort, and intentionality than in the past.
Why settle for “that’s just the way it is,” when by working together, we can have so much more?
If you or someone you love is living with dementia, have you had experiences similar to ours? Have you watched the person LWD pull away from conversation or become more silent in social situations? How have you dealt with this issue? Feel free to share your experiences in the comment section below or on social media. Our story matters—and so does yours.
