Dancing With Dementia

Sometimes Romeo's mind is so clear that I wonder why he lives in a nursing home, riding his days away in a wheelchair. When he's present like this, his face is bright and his entire body is lived by a loving, playful energy. His dementia is still present, but he forges ahead in life, almost grazing over his memory loss so that it's transformed into a mere blip on his radar.

However, more typical of Romeo's days with dementia are simple inabilities that he notices, that he is frustrated by, that weigh on his mind, his body, his spirit. Gone is the bright light and loving, playful energy that lives through him.

Each week seems to mark increased levels of Romeo's accelerating dementia. He often is unable to articulate his thoughts, unable to find words, unable to use simple logic, unable to make simple decisions. Not that he could do any of that previously. The distinction is that his inability to do any of it is even more than before, and noticeably so.

Often Romeo will not, cannot look at me, cannot look me in the eye. He often doesn't "see" me as I speak with him. He looks at me in the opposite direction of where I actually am. Perhaps he thinks he sees me. Regardless of whether he does or not, I correct his perception, gently moving his head in my direction. I tilt his head upward or to the left or to the right, and remind him to lift his gaze to my eyes. It takes a minute until his eyes "find" me, until he sees me. Then he recognizes me and smiles.

Recently, Romeo's physical therapist called to report an incident with him during a therapy session, marking yet another dip in his dance with dementia. As he walked, she supporting him, from the hall through the door of the therapy room, he became confused, anxious, agitated, hesitant to continue his split-second journey through the doorway. He felt it coming down on him, the doorway. And then the roof. His anxiousness increased, accompanied by fear. All a misperception, thanks to dementia. But he didn't know that.

Calming Romeo down took some time and effort, and bless their hearts for staying by him and helping him through it. I am also grateful that he has no memory of this happening, no memory of the room coming down on him. I, on the other hand, even though I wasn't there, find myself there as it's happening, simulating what I imagine Romeo must have felt. It's frightening, and the fear is intense. Still, my heart is torn wide open and I feel the pain. I am shaken. I cry.

I sit and cry and breathe and feel the fear and the pain, mine and Romeo's, moving through my body. I feel the energy of the fear, the pain, I become the fear and pain. I am the fear and the pain. And then the most marvelous thing happens: I suddenly feel beyond the fear and pain. I feel the core of the fear. I feel the core of the pain. I see the essential nature of the fear, and it is love. Likewise, the essential nature of the pain is love. Once again, love. Once again, it comes down to love.

And I realize that the fear and the pain have transformed into -- yes, transformed into love. I sit silently, tired and spent, and breathe as love. I breathe fear as love. I breathe pain as love. And I realize that the nature of everything, whether it be fear or pain or joy or any other emotion, is love. And love, dear souls, is who I am. Love is who you are. Love is who we are.