Snapshots of Dementia: You Didn’t Know Him
You didn’t know him when he prepared a set of Scripture verses for us to memorize together. You know him now, when he may not remember what you told him two minutes ago.
You didn’t know him when his anointed trumpet playing moved people to worship—and even to tears. You know him now, when he rarely picks up his horn.
You didn’t know him when he gave me a “book of the month club” that he kept up for several years. You know him now, when he doesn’t give any gifts without assistance.
You didn’t know him when he labored over his sermons to make sure they were both biblical and practical. You know him now, when he has trouble paying attention in church or Sunday school.
You didn’t know him when he loved to travel and meet new people. You know him now, when he prefers his home and recliner to anywhere else.
You didn’t know him when he tried to spend special time with each of our children. You know him now, when I can’t always interest him in talking to them on the phone.
You didn’t know him when he had such a sharp sense of humor that people said he should be a comedian. You know him now, when he repeats the same jokes and stories multiple times.
You didn’t know him when he managed all our family finances. You know him now, when the government won’t allow him to receive his own Social Security checks.
You didn’t know him when he planned elaborate dates and celebrated events such as our 3,000-day anniversary (which he figured out pre-internet). You know him now, when he rarely thinks of one day as different than another.
You didn’t know him when he could lead a choir with musical expertise and spiritual passion. You know him now, when he often struggles to follow the music as he sings.
You didn’t know him when he loved to drive. You know him now, when he has no license and hasn’t driven for more than three years.
You didn’t know him when he insisted all the senior adults go first at our church potlucks. You know him now, when he scoops up handfuls of macaroni and cheese at the church fellowship because he can’t find the serving spoon.
You didn’t know him when he was fully himself. You know him now, when the thief we call dementia has stolen so much.
The person my husband is today is not the person he was, and yes, that makes me sad. But the person he is today is still someone who cares about God and others. Someone who still encourages people and loves to make them smile. And even if those things weren’t true, he would still be someone worthy of love. Someone worthy of respect.
Someone who matters—because life matters. And even though his life looks much different now than it did when we married almost thirty-nine years ago, or five years ago, or even last year, it is one of profound meaning and inestimable value.
I believe life matters, but not only at its beginning. If we truly believe in life, we believe that an individual’s value is in no way diminished by that individual’s physical or intellectual abilities, capacity, purpose, or potential.
All the items I listed above helped make Tom who he is and was, but they do not define him. He is valuable as a person yesterday, today, and forever because he is created in the image of God (Gen. 1:27, James 3:9). And even though I could write my list next year with far different realities on the “you know him now” side, his life will hold no less value.
Tom (like all those living with dementia) is a person of immeasurable value because God created and cares for him. And no matter to what extent dementia goes in its attempt to kill, steal, and destroy, that’s something it can never take away.
When we dedicated our children as babies, Tom would hold each one and sing a Sandi Patty song that still holds special meaning for us. It includes these words:
“You are a Masterpiece, a new creation He has formed . . . and I’m so glad that God has given you to me. Little lamb of God, you are a Masterpiece.”
You didn’t know him when he sang that song, but you know him now. And I’m so glad that God has given him to me. No matter what our future holds, he’ll always be a Masterpiece.
I know some of you who are reading this did know Tom before dementia took so much away, and I’m grateful. I wrote this partly out of grief for those who have met him in the past few years and only see glimpses of who he was—and perhaps more out of grief for our family and the Tom we miss today.
If you have a friend or loved one living with dementia, know that although who they are now may not compare to who they were, they have not diminished and will never diminish in value. In heaven’s eyes, as in mine, each one is a Masterpiece.
Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments below or on social media. Our story matters—and so does yours.
