A Vignette…

You can choose how you enter into a memory unit. I choose a smile and a big wave, and to see everyone for what they were.

                  I BELIEVE WHEN dementia has taken away the past, replaced memories with unique worlds that don’t exist outside the body, humanity remains.

                  When I first began going into my wife’s memory unit everyday, sometimes twice a day or even three times, I walked through it with eyes straight ahead. I did not want to see bodies slumped over, listen to conversations that sometimes carried pain, sometimes paranoia, sometimes just, well, whatever was going inside the body that was left.

                  Then, one day, I smiled. I remember approach a woman walking toward me, bent over her walker. She looked at me with something like confusion and fear. I didn’t know what to do, so I smiled and said “hi.” Immediately, a blank face turned up and smiled back at me. 

                  I have kept smiling. Now when I go in, I give a big smile and wave. I stop and talk, shake hands, do fist bumps. Whatever else is going on inside all the people I see, there is a reaction to a smile and it’s almost always a smile in return, a connection in a moment.

                  I have stopped seeing the coma that can be dementia, the wheelchairs, the drooling. I have started to learn about the people the bodies were, and maybe deep in their new worlds may still be. A high-level nurse, a teacher, a dancer, a man who started a business now in its third generation, a talented dancer, an artist, an executive, mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers. 

                  There is a brilliance in the room that even though its glow may be gone, the ghosts of it remain. Those ghosts are what I choose to see, to honor and respect with whatever small acts of kindness I am capable of.

                  These were people who did wonderful things, who loved and were loved. The memories of all that may be gone. For some, there may be darkness and confusion in their new worlds. For others there might be joy. I can’t say. I don’t know.

                  But, I don’t need to know to wave, smile and say hi. So, I do. And then I leave, a little lighter, a bit more at peace with my world. 

                  Rich Heiland, has been a reporter, editor, publisher/general manager at daily papers in Texas, Pennsylvania, Illinois, Ohio and New Hampshire. He was part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team at the Xenia Daily (OH) Daily Gazette, a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year. He has worked as a consultant doing public speaking and training business specializing in customer service, general management, leadership and staff development. He and his wife live in West Chester, PA. He can be reached at [email protected].