Snapshots of Dementia: Resist the Urge to Explain

Snapshots of Dementia: Resist the Urge to Explain
Saturday, January 7, 2023 by Marti

My fellow writers will know what I mean by RUE. Our writing bogs down when we explain rather than letting a story happen. As we grow in our work, we learn to Resist the Urge to Explain.

As with many parts of my life, I’m finding connections for that rule with dementia too. More and more, I resist the urge to explain. And as with many parts of my life, it’s not always easy.

When Tom and I were newlyweds, his extroverted personality and penchant for embellishment often resulted in him telling a story (sometimes in a sermon) that, for me, pushed the boundaries. I came to understand that he was telling the truth as he saw it, which often looked very different than it did to me.

Now that he is living with dementia, the difference between our viewpoints has grown even more profound. His physical sight is changing—he can look right at something and miss it—but so is his perspective, the way he interprets the world around him.

At an earlier point in our dementia journey, he had trouble remembering recent events but not those from the past. He could tell stories from his college days or the early years of our marriage almost perfectly. In fact, he sounded more “himself” when sharing these old stories than at almost any other time.

Now, he still tells stories he’s told many times, but they sound different. He often puts pieces of one into another or mixes up the details. It bothers me to hear these stories—many of which are my stories, too—with people, situations, and circumstances shifted around, left out, or otherwise changed. I find myself listening to his story with one ear and telling myself the true story with the other.

But ultimately, those details don’t matter. I'm learning to resist the urge to explain.

I still try to let Tom do the things he can do. But this tendency to see an alternate reality can make that challenging. We faced this problem a few months ago when I realized he had been calling the wrong barbershop. We would arrive for his appointment and find the shop closed or the owner with no record of his call.

It took about three rounds of this before I realized what was happening, and he still made one more appointment at the wrong shop. I only caught it when I heard a male voice responding to his call (the barbershop he prefers has only one barber, a woman).

Once again, his reality looked different than mine. As much as I want him to carry out the tasks he can, he just can’t make appointments anymore. But I still let him go in for his haircut on his own, carrying cash I give him right before he enters the shop. And I resist the urge to explain.

Yesterday, when he spilled his coffee all over my newly mopped floor, I told him, “We need to go pick up your travel mug.”

The missing mug has a top with a mouth that seals shut. He left it in a nearby church where we'd rehearsed for our Christmas musical. Although I’d emailed to ask about it, I’d never taken time to retrieve it. In its absence, he was using one with a more open lid (hence the spills).

“I’ll call them,” he volunteered.

“Sure, that would be great, baby.”

I should have given more thought to the barbershop fiasco. But instead, I looked up the number and read it to him, one numeral at a time. He mixed up his explanation a bit, but he got his message across to the secretary and ended up talking to the minister of music too. Everything was set; we would go pick up the mug the next day.

This morning, I reminded him of our plan. In just a minute or two, I heard him on the phone. He had redialed the church and was going over the whole situation once again.

This time, I didn’t resist the urge to explain—to him. I interrupted what seemed like an unnecessary phone call, telling him, “Baby, it’s all taken care of.”

My outburst didn’t faze him. He went right on with his request and ended up talking to the music minister again, setting up the same scenario they had already discussed. His obvious delight helped me resist the urge to explain—to him or anyone else.

As I drove to the church, I considered saying a quick word to the assistant or the music minister. Instead, I made the choice to park right next to the door and let Tom go in on his own, returning happily with his travel mug.

If he says or does something offensive, or if I’m concerned that he or someone else is in danger, I will step in. I will explain. But for the most part, I’m learning, albeit slowly, to resist that urge. Truth matters, but so does his dignity.

One of the ways I honor him is by letting him tell stories and share ideas and have relationships—without me going behind and trying to clean up the messes that living with dementia brings. I can mop the floor, but I can also resist the urge to explain. And I can thank God daily for all of those who love him just as he is—and love me too.

Whether or not I resist the urge to explain.

If you or someone you know is living with dementia, have you found yourself wanting to explain a situation that may not need explaining after all? Do you agree with my decision to try to resist the urge to explain? Feel free to share your experiences in the comments below or on social media. Our story matters, and so does yours.

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