August 3, 2016
One of my dementia clients is very, very sad. Alice is 100 years old. She’s not quite five feet tall, and has always been a very active, energetic person. Over the years I’ve been visiting with her, she’s told me repeatedly that she weighed just 2 ½ pounds when she was born, surviving against all odds. She went to work immediately after graduating from high school, and moved from the small town where she was born to the “big city” of Austin as soon as she could. She worked for 26 years at the same bank, holding a variety of jobs, from teller to head of the safe deposit department. Her description of trying to control the gigantic vault door, especially given her diminutive stature, is both vivid and delightfully amusing.
She married the love of her life and best friend, and together they raised a fine son who calls her every night to check in and make sure she’s okay. She and her husband spent wonderful times together camping and fishing at their little cabin on the lake, and later driving all over the country in their motor home. She told me about the time she was forced to surrender a precious bag of homegrown tomatoes from a roadside stand when they crossed a state line that didn’t allow importation of produce. She “learned my lesson and hid my tomatoes after that!” She has fond and happy memories of those times, and dearly misses her husband who passed away several years ago.
Alice’s hobbies included knitting, crocheting, playing cards and reading, among other things. Later in life she joined a women’s tap dancing troupe, and “just loved to dance!” She also loves to walk. Supported by her walker, she parades up and down the hallway of her residence, and if someone is with her, she can go outside to stroll around the garden “and listen to the birds.”
But sadly, in addition to dementia and the hearing loss that’s typical of people her age, Alice has also lost virtually all of her vision. Consequently, most of the activities she has always enjoyed are no longer available to her. And her advanced dementia pretty much rules out learning anything new. (Somewhat ironically, the activity I can offer her – music – is not something that has much appeal for her.)
So Alice is bored. This vibrant, pint-sized powerhouse is horribly, painfully bored, which has put her in a pretty dark state of mind that makes it hard for her even to enjoy conversations that used to delight her. She receives excellent care in a wonderful facility, and while I’m not privy to her medical treatment, I feel sure that she’s being given whatever pharmaceutical intervention is appropriate. But that doesn’t relieve her boredom. Lately her refrain is, “I wish there was something I could do!”
Therein lies the rub. And it’s something I’m seeing more, the deeper I move into the world of dementia- and elder-care. That is, people who have been “doing” all their lives, can no longer “do”. Pretty much all that’s left is to “be” which, if you’ve ever really tried it, isn’t as easy as it sounds. (To read about my own challenges with this, check out my post from a few years back, Do-Be-Do-Be-Do.)
But as I struggle to offer something meaningful to Alice and people like her, I take comfort in the advice of a dear friend who is a professional therapist and also one of the wisest people I’ve ever known: If all she can do is to “be”, then “be” with her. So I “be” with Alice in her boredom, in her loss, in her sadness. Because sometimes “being” is really all anyone can do.
Addendum (Aug. 4, 2016): I just came back from visiting with Alice and she was in the best mood! Happier than she’s been in about six weeks! She was chatty, laughing, and very glad to spend time with me, sharing her favorite memories. I don’t know if some meds kicked in or what, but I am thrilled and had to share the good news!
Addendum (Sept. 12, 2016): Days after the addendum above, Alice slipped back into despair, sobbing almost continuously and saying she wanted to die and “get out of here”. During our weekly visits, all I could do was hold her hand, remind her she was loved, and continue to “be” with her. This morning at midnight her prayers were answered and she passed away. I hope she has gone to join her beloved husband and continue their adventures! I will miss her terribly, but my heart is soaring at her release.
June 8, 2016
This may be disturbing. When I tell you Ted’s story, you might think, ‘Oh, that’s just so sad and tragic, I don’t want to hear about it.’ To which my response is, ‘Get over it.’ Yes, it’s sad and tragic when people lose their memories…or their minds, or their sight, or their mobility. But it’s a reality of life. So let’s talk about how to handle it, and how to help.
Ted is one of my favorite people. He’s bright, funny, and very, very smart. He also happens to have dementia. I’ve mentioned before that my Musical Memories sessions are “musical conversations” and that some people are more interested in the conversation part. Well, that’s Ted. Not that he doesn’t occasionally enjoy bringing his full baritone to a song or two, but mostly he likes the give and take of a good verbal exchange. And he likes to think.
I realized early on that although he rarely seems to know where he is – sometimes we’re on a train, sometimes in a hotel, once we were in some sort of swamp surrounded by boats – he knows how to evaluate, analyze and communicate. It’s what I’m sure made him highly successful in his military and industry careers; it’s something he’s proud of and clearly gives him great pleasure.
Like many dementia patients, Ted can no longer do most of the things he enjoys. He can’t play golf or bowl because he’s unsteady on his feet and can’t see well. He can’t read or watch a movie because he can’t follow and retain the storyline. And believe me, you will not see Ted at bingo or arts and crafts. He’s also a bit of an introvert, so he doesn’t seem to seek out groups of people to socialize. But he likes one-on-one conversations that allow him to stretch and exercise his considerable brainpower, despite the fact that what he’s discussing may not, in fact, be “real”.
So when we get together, I just ask him what’s going on. He’ll immediately start describing what he believes to be his current reality. I never try to convince him that, no, we aren’t on a train. Instead, I simply follow his train of thought, as it were, and let him lead us in an intelligent conversation about how we’ll be able to get off at the right stop and be sure we get back on again when we’re ready to leave. In the “swamp”, Ted had some fascinating insights about what kinds of crops grow best in that environment and why. These aren’t memories; this is real-time thinking. And for Ted, it’s fun.
I should note that I always make sure he isn’t feeling frightened. And if he seems to be spiraling down into a dark or depressed place, I’ll do some redirecting to help break that descent. (This is where a songs or two can come in handy.) One time he was very worried that his military supervisors wouldn’t be able to locate him because all his “paperwork” lists his name as Edward, but he’s been introducing himself as Ted. So I took out a pad of paper and very officiously wrote down his full name and birth date, and assured him I would see that the correct information got to the proper authorities. And then he was fine.
Ted is a thinking man for whom intelligent, thoughtful conversation is a favorite pastime – one of the few that are still available to him.
So here’s my thought: If you know or love someone with dementia, someone who is a thinker and has always enjoyed intelligent conversation, engage them. Let them talk and follow their lead. Converse, but don’t challenge or correct their perceptions of reality. Banter and joke with them. Ask questions, but don’t dig for facts they may not remember, like how old they are or how many children they have. They may not recall the details of their lives, but the person you know is still there, thinking.
And if you are a thinker and enjoy intelligent conversation, you might think about sharing this with your loved ones now. Because you never know.
April 21, 2016
As I was leaving Beverly, one of my favorite dementia patients, I told her I was going to the beach for my birthday, and wouldn’t be coming next week. Seeing her slight frown, I said, “But I’ll bring you a seashell.” So a few days later I found myself at the shore, searching for shells – for Beverly and for other dementia people I visit and sing with every week. Seeing a particular shell, I’d think, Beverly would like those colors, or, Mary might enjoy how this one feels. And I went home with a bag of shells.
The first person I gave a shell to was Barbara, who has become a dear friend and feels almost like a co-conspirator because of her quick wit and delightfully quirky and mischievous personality. (You would probably never suspect she had dementia unless you spent a lot of time with her.) So it didn’t surprise me when, as I gave her the shell and told her I’d picked it up for her at the beach, she looked at me with mock outrage and said, “I can’t believe you went to the beach and didn’t take me with you!” Turns out she is – as I somehow suspected – a beach person like me. As she lovingly stroked and examined the shell, she told me about her childhood in Pennsylvania where months of each year were spent at the beach. And about later, waiting impatiently for her own children to be old enough to take to the beach, because she so wanted to give them that experience.
The next person I happened to see was Jay. He looked thoughtfully at his shell and started reminiscing about taking his family to the beach in California, but then segued into his time on an aircraft carrier as a member of the US Air Force during WWII. He remembered for me the wrenching sound of the misaligned screw propeller on the repurposed freighter that had been turned into a carrier. He said, “That sound about drove us crazy, but those Navy guys didn’t pay it any mind.” After a few minutes reflection on that he said, “Why don’t you sing to me?” That surprised me a little. He doesn’t always remember that I’m “the singing lady”, so I took that to mean he was ready to stop remembering certain things. Or maybe that he just wanted to remember them in a more comforting way. Either way, he held onto his shell as we sang some of his favorite songs together.
Mary, who doesn’t really speak, simply rubbed and stroked the shell I put in her hand as she looked into my eyes and smiled while I sang beach songs. Alice can’t really see anymore, but was so pleased that I had brought her a gift! She squeezed my hand and thanked me as profusely as if I’d given her a diamond tiara. Phyllis, who mostly just nods, looked at her shell closely, turning it over and over in her hand, smiled, and then gestured for me to place it on the windowsill with her other “treasures”.
And finally there was Oliver, who turned 100 years old last September, and whom I’ve been singing with – and writing about – for several years. I told him from the start that I wasn’t sure if he’d like the seashell I’d brought him, since I know he is “a lake man”. He frequently talks about the house he built on Lake Travis. He clearly loves it more than anyplace on earth. (When I asked him once where he’d be if he could be anywhere in the world, he talked about the lake house and said, “There couldn’t be anyplace better.”) He can’t understand why anyone would want to be in saltwater when you can be in lake water, and he laughed when I told him we were having our first fight – lake vs. beach. But he held the shell up to his ear to see if he could hear the ocean. After listening for a moment, he said, “I can’t hear the ocean. But what I hear is, ‘I love you. I love you.’”
Oliver’s going deaf, but there’s nothing wrong with his hearing. Because I didn’t realize it until he said it, but that’s what every one of those seashells is saying.
March 24, 2016
As I mentioned in my last post, I recently lost two of my favorite Musical Memories clients last week. They were both fun and lovely women who allowed me into their lives during what turned out to be their final days on earth, for which I’ll be forever grateful.
If you haven’t already, please read Call Me Eve! to learn about dear Evelyn. But now let me tell you about June. I’ll warn you, though. This one gets a little spooky!
June was a bright and brilliant person with a genuinely charismatic personality. I’m sure that came in handy because, as she told me, she and her husband had been very involved in local, state and national politics. Since it’s important to me to protect the privacy of my clients and their families, I won’t be specific, but I was impressed to learn that her husband had been elected to a high state office and was later subject to a presidential appointment on the national level. And June herself worked in state government in various capacities.
She was also a proud Baylor University graduate, who taught me the Baylor Alma Mater – That Good Old Baylor Line – which is sung to the tune of In the Good Old Summertime, and which we sang at the end of every visit, complete with the “Sic ‘em, Bears!” sign at the end.
Like Eve, June’s favorite songs were traditional hymns. She loved Amazing Grace, Into the Garden and Blessed Assurance, which I sang for her frequently. But one song I didn’t know – and she requested several times – was The Old Rugged Cross. So I was excited the day I had finally learned it and planned to sing it for her. But alas, she was in the hospital that day. For the next few weeks, I looked forward to surprising her with it when she got out. I was heartbroken when I got the call that she had passed away unexpectedly. She would never hear me sing her favorite hymn.
This is where it gets spooky. A couple of days later I was singing to Alice who lived a few rooms down from June. Alice also loves hymns and was happy to sing along with me to The Old Rugged Cross. I try to be very present with my elder friends, but at that moment I have to admit that I couldn’t stop thinking about June.
So imagine how I felt when, as we finished singing the song, Alice stared past me into the empty room and said, “There’s someone behind you.”
Now, Alice tends to have what some people would call “hallucinations”. She “sees” her departed family members often. In fact, I wrote about her family “visits” last year in A Family Reunion. But I wanted to be sure she wasn’t feeling frightened, so I checked with her and she assured me that the person behind me seemed nice. And then she was gone.
As I’ve said before, I don’t know how any of this life, death, and after-life stuff works, so I won’t swear that June was there, listening to The Old Rugged Cross. All I do know is that I will never sing or hear that song without thinking of her, and that makes me happy.
March 16, 2016
This has been a tough week. I just lost two very dear friends. (An unexpected side-effect of this job is that people I grow close to die at a frequent, albeit somewhat predictable, rate.) And within a week’s time, Eve and June passed away, so I offer my reflections.
Eve was a fun, funny, warm, and welcoming woman who suffered from dementia apparently brought on by Parkinson’s disease. (I don’t know too much about her back story which I usually learn from obituaries, because her family chose something extremely brief.) So all I know is from our interactions starting about three months ago when she welcomed me into her room as a total stranger who had come to sing.
We bonded quickly, in part because we like the same songs: 30’s & 40’s pop, as well as a variety of hymns. Eve knew the words to virtually any song I suggested, but the hymns were her favorites which seems to be true for many of my elder friends.
But she was also quick with a joke or funny story. When I asked her permission to address her by her first name of Evelyn, she said, “Call me Evelyn, call me Eve, just don’t call me late for supper!” When I asked where she was born, she promptly replied, “In a taxicab,” and proceeded to tell me the story of her mother’s harrowing cab ride through the streets of Chicago where Eve was unexpectedly born. She also took some delight in relating her encounter with a doctor at some point in her life who – like me – asked her where she’d been born. When she replied with her taxicab answer, she was tickled when the doctor replied, “No kidding? So was I!” I mean, really, what are the odds?
In late February, a few weeks before she died, I stopped in to see Eve as usual and she was unusually delighted. She said, “Today is Easter!” I’ve learned with dementia patients that it’s best to enter their reality, so we spent our time together talking about Easter – how we celebrate, what food we cook and eat, and of course, what songs we sing. And together we sang our favorite Easter hymns. The next few weeks, every time we got together, she would mention, “I saw you on Easter,” to which I would always agree.
Eve was one of those people I sing with for whom death did not seem imminent – at least to me – so when I got the notification that she had died rather suddenly, I was very surprised and saddened. But of course, I was happy for her that she had been released from her limited physical state and had gone on to whatever is next.
And I can assure you that on Easter Sunday 2016, I will be singing to and with my dear departed friend Eve…or Evelyn…but I will not call her late for Easter supper!
I’ll tell you about my other dear departed friend in my next post. But **spoiler alert** if you happen to hear someone singing The Old Rugged Cross, it’s probably June.
May 21, 2015
Let me start by saying that I know that some people are going to read this and feel sad, depressed and/or scared. To those people I’ll just say, I’m sorry you don’t see this the way I do.
Today I met with one of my favorite dementia patients. Alice is a lovely, warm woman who is always happy to have me visit and sing with her. She’s one of my “clients” (though they quickly become so much more than the word implies) who always meets me for the first time. She’s very open in having me sing, but demurely professes not to be able to sing herself. However, in less than one phrase or measure of whatever song I choose, Alice is belting it out with joy and enthusiasm, rarely forgetting a single word. And if asked, she’ll reluctantly admit that she had a lead role in her church choir, and frequently sang with her large family.
Alice loves to talk about her family. She has eight brothers and one sister, and her parents met at the University of Texas or Texas State, depending on the day. Her father is a farmer and something of a math whiz who helps neighbors with their bookkeeping and financial matters because his generous nature was commensurate with his business acumen. He is a quiet, somewhat solitary man, and he has a very warm and loving relationship with Alice’s mother, who plays the piano and has beautiful blue eyes.
Alice talks about them often. But more than anything, she talks about her eight brothers, whom she adores. She was born on the birthday of one of them – Roy – who has a beautiful voice and always calls her his “birthday present”. I put all that in the present tense, because that’s how Alice describes her family. Even though I suspect all or most of them passed away years ago, to her, they are permanently present in her life.
And today she couldn’t wait to tell me that “My brother is here today!” I asked if it was Roy (who I can tell is her favorite) but no, it was Clifford, who according to Alice is 18 years old. Clifford is “so dang smart”, as are all the members of her family, she says. He just finished high school and loves to work on cars. He’s very mechanical, like her father. I remarked on how wonderful it was to get a visit from her brother, and asked her if she’d had a chance to see anyone else. She excitedly told me that she had gone to Lemesa last Sunday to visit two of her brothers who live there. (Keep in mind, Alice is more or less bedridden, and probably hasn’t left her nursing facility in years.) She let me know that her brother Dan and his wife Irene had gone to Lubbock because one of their children was in the hospital, but the baby seems to be doing well, so that’s good. She said that Roy will be here this weekend and her sister Elizabeth – who teaches at “the university up there” and has lost a lot of weight recently; her hair always looks good – will be here soon. She warned me that her brother Buddy may try to flirt with me if I come to the house for breakfast, but not to worry because he doesn’t flirt too much. She wishes that her brothers would tell her more about what’s going on in their lives, but they’re quiet, like her father, and she sometimes has to drag things out of them. She said that it’s hard for her to know what’s going at home these days, since she’s away at school. But she enthusiastically shared all the family news: Her mother went and got her picture made, but no one knows why; Glenn has a girlfriend now; Maurice is busy as always; and lots more.
As I said, I know some people will find all this sad. That an 80-90 year old woman doesn’t have her exact geographic and temporal coordinates straight. But, today Alice was filled with joy, and had a great day with her family. And I was lucky enough to be there for the family reunion!
February 2, 2015
When I talk about my Musical Memories service where I sing to/with dementia patients, I refer to the sessions as “musical conversations”. Lately I’ve been working with a few people who are definitely more interested in the conversation part.
One of the most poignant conversations took place recently at a memory care center while I was making my rounds to visit some of my “regulars”. As I went from room to room, I kept seeing a woman in the hallway who I first assumed was a family member visiting one of the residents. But I noticed she kept stopping to check on the staff as they were going about their tasks, asking what they were doing and whether they needed help. It finally occurred to me that she was, in fact, engaging in the fairly common dementia behavior of “roaming”.
She seemed a bit distressed, so I approached her and asked if she might like to sit with me on the couch while I sang. She very politely told me that I was welcome to do so, but that she simply could not join me. So I said I’d just walk along with her for a while. She seemed very agitated and concerned about what was going on around her and kept talking about how much she’d like to relax but couldn’t. Then I realized what was going on. In her world, there was some big event or party or meeting that was going to happen, and she was completely and entirely responsible for all of it.
I finally convinced her to sit down with me for a minute, and started pointing out what was going on around us, but in terms I thought might fit her reality. “See, that woman over there is vacuuming, so that’s taken care of.” She heaved a small sigh of relief. When she gave a worried look toward other staff members going about their routine work, I said, “Looks like they’ve got all that under control.” When she asked if I thought they would do it right, I said, “Oh, yes, and besides, it will help them build confidence if you let them do it themselves”. She seemed to think that was a fine idea. She kept talking about how she would love to not have to “do it all” and just stop for a bit, but obviously that wasn’t an option. That’s when I said, “I think you and I should just put our feet up and relax for a bit. After all, you’ve already done so much.” This is where she got a sweet, shy little smile and said, “Oh, I haven’t really done that much”. To which I replied, “You’re just being modest. Everyone knows how much you’ve done. And everything’s under control, so now you can just relax.” That seemed to please her very much, and she was able to sit and just visit with me happily for quite a while.
I love this story because it demonstrates something I’m learning about people with dementia. And that is, though their “realities” might be different, the common thread is that they seem to want to know two things: 1) That everything is okay; and 2) That there’s nothing they need to do. I think it’s a matter of feeling safe and believing that things are as they should be and under control, probably because they feel so confused and out of control themselves. And it must be a relief to hear that no one is expecting them to perform or solve problems, probably because their confusion makes that seem like an absolutely impossible demand. So what I try to do – whether it’s through music or through actual conversation – is enter their prevailing reality as best I can, and assure them that they’ve done enough and now it’s time to put their feet up and relax. And even if I’m not singing, I get the feeling that’s music to their ears.
November 12, 2014
It’s been awhile since I’ve written anything about the amazing and delightful dementia patients I sing with and to. Every time I visit, I come away smiling and humbled. So let me tell you about a few of them.
First of all, there is the lovely Alice, who is always alert and very happy to have me come in and sing. Although she tells me that she can’t sing herself, as soon as I start with one of the classic hymns, she is belting it out at the top of her lungs with gusto and enthusiasm. Not necessarily on key, but that is of absolutely no importance when we’re making our “joyful noise” together! She often asks if I know her parents, whom she believes are living there where she is. She loves talking about her father – a farmer – who works so hard, and about how he and her mother met at the University of Texas. She always asks me to tell them hello when I see them, and I always ask her to do the same.
Next there is my wonderful friend Beverly. Beverly is usually a little grouchy when I walk in, but invariably brightens up when I remind her that I’m her “singing friend”. She says she thinks about me a lot in between visits and says she keeps the business card with my photo by her bed so she’ll “be ready” when I come. She doesn’t remember my name or the names of her children, but she remembers the words to all the songs I sing, and either sings along with me or taps out the rhythm with her hands. Before I leave we always sing “our song”, Side By Side. You know… “We’re travelin’ along, singing a song, side by side!”
A couple weeks ago I met two sweet women for the first – and last – time. One was Mimi, who I was told mostly sleeps and rarely speaks. And when I arrived she appeared to be sleeping quite deeply. When that’s the case, I still sing for a while because sometimes people wake up, and if not, I believe they’re still hearing the music in their dreams. I sang several hymns, because I saw a Christian book by Mimi’s bedside, but I also sang some “fun” songs because a photograph of her from years ago showed a bright and laughter-filled woman with a twinkle in her eye. But still, Mimi slept on. Until in the middle of Let Me Call You Sweetheart, when she turned toward me, eyes still closed and said, “You have such a pretty voice.” Wow.
Shortly after I left Mimi, the staff of the facility called me in to sing with Zelma. They told me she’d taken a turn and wasn’t expected to live through the day, but that her daughter who was at her bedside, thought she might enjoy having me sing to her. So I sat with both of them, holding each of their hands and sang all the songs I could think of – hymns, love songs, lullabies, WWII songs, show tunes. When I left, her daughter hugged me and said how much it meant to have me sing to her mom. Truthfully, I suspect it was just nice for her to feel that she/we were doing something when, in fact, there was really nothing to do but wait.
A few days later I learned that both Zelma and Mimi had passed away. And it makes me smile – and humbles me – that I was allowed to meet them and have a tiny part to play in such precious time of their lives.
June 2, 2014
In the last couple of weeks, I have lost two of the elder gentlemen I sing with. One had been my “client” for about a year. I put “client” in quotes because in fact, this man was so much more than that and became so much more to me.
In his day, he was a hotshot engineer at the university and, according to his wife – to whom I also became close – and his obituary, he was a brilliant, articulate man who was extremely well-known and respected by colleagues and loved by his students.
I never knew that man because his dementia was already quite progressed when we met. But the man I knew was warm, charming, funny, and delightfully social. I’ll never forget the kindness and, at times, mischief in his eyes when he smiled. And don’t get me started on his beautiful singing voice! I learned from his family that he and his wife loved to sing together throughout the many years of their marriage and when she was able to join me in singing some of his favorite songs with him, you should have seen him light up!
The other gentleman who passed away just this morning was a world-famous photographer who loved it when I asked him about the amazing photographs of blues musicians that covered the walls of his room. Although he couldn’t always remember the names of his subjects – many of whom were quite famous themselves – he enjoyed telling me about how he would never try to pose them or interfere, but would stay out of the way and just “let them do their thing” while he visually recorded treasured moments of musical history.
And he just loved to sing with me! He would often say, “You know all my songs!” Some of his favorites were Fly Me to the Moon, I Only Have Eyes for You and Sentimental Journey. I loved that he sang with real enthusiasm and passion – including hand gestures and facial expressions – despite the fact that he claimed not to be able to sing. (It’s amazing and sad how many people believe that about themselves, just because they may not be able to carry a tune perfectly.)
Often when I sing with dementia patients, people – including some of my “clients” and their families – tell me how much joy I bring to them. Well, believe me, the feeling is mutual. And when I started on this little adventure, I think I sort of expected the joy. But I guess what I didn’t expect was how attached I would become and how much I would miss these new old friends.
So to both of my very dear, departed musical collaborators, I dedicate one of their favorite songs. You’ll Never Know
January 30, 2014
There. I’ve said it. I read – and enjoy – the obituaries every day. I don’t read every single death notice word for word, but I scan them all. I read about people I know or have heard of, of course, but sometimes the obituary of a stranger grabs my attention. Often it’s the photograph, but sometimes it’s the name, the age, or some other thing that makes me want to hear the life story of someone I’ve never met but who must have meant something to somebody.
Some obituaries are terribly sad and tragic. I recently saw two side-by-side about a mother and her young child who had been killed in a car wreck, leaving behind a grieving husband/father and other children/siblings. Some are inspiring, like the ones about people who fought valiant battles against illness or injury or who had devoted their lives to helping others or spreading joy. Some are heartwarming because they are written with such tenderness, sometimes with a touch of humor. I will never forget one I read years ago about a man who had apparently lived a lifetime with developmental disabilities. The obituary described a gentle, child-like man who saw it as his job to turn out the lights every night in the living room of the group home where he resided “…whether there were people in the room or not.” I really like the ones that talk about people who die peacefully and surrounded by loved ones. It’s so reassuring to be reminded that death can be a gentle experience. And I have a special appreciation for the ones that were clearly written by the deceased themselves. I think that’s because, being a control freak, I have a draft of my own obituary in a file somewhere.
But the ones I enjoy most are those about very old people who, the obituaries inform us, have done surprising and fascinating things. One of my favorites was about a woman who could have been anybody’s grandma but who, in her younger years, had been a trick rider and had been inducted into the Cowgirl Hall of Fame. The sad thing is, I’ll bet that except for her family, the people who probably cared for her in her last days knew little of her adventurous and exciting youth. To most of her caregivers, I imagine she was just a sweet, old woman – not a rock ‘em, sock ‘em cowgirl and Queen of the Rodeo!
In my work singing with elders with dementia, I have come to see that this is often the case. A lot of people who are in the end stages of their lives can no longer tell their own stories. And even in the best facilities and with the most compassionate and attentive caregivers, their stories can be lost. I had the experience myself when I read the obituary of a woman I had been singing to for months. To me, she was a frail, confused soul who, based on the photos of children that filled her room, was somebody’s grandma. But turns out, she had been a Braniff Airways stewardess, which was a pretty exciting – some would say daring – occupation for a woman of her generation. That revelation completely altered my impression of her – and made me understand why she seemed to enjoy hearing me sing “Fly Me to the Moon” so much.
So, for those who have aging parents, spouses or friends being cared for by people who don’t know them very well, here’s my advice: Along with pictures of the grandkids, put out lots of photographs of your loved ones, at various ages and stages of life, doing the things that brought them joy and made them unique. Then everyone will see and connect and interact with them as the people they really were . . . and still are. Because as much as I love a good obituary, sometimes it’s a little too late.