Letting Dementia Be

As much as possible, I let Romeo's dementia simply be. I don't try to teach him anything; he can't learn. I don't ask him if he remembers X; he usually won't. I don't suggest he try to do a certain task differently; he can't grasp the idea.

Instead, I soothe him, reassure him, tell him that he's fine and that I love him. And I must do it multiple times for it to "take," for him to understand. This is one aspect of dementia.

All in all, I think Romeo has adjusted to life with dementia and living it in the nursing home. He's fine with letting someone do practically everything for him. He can do only a few things himself. He can brush his teeth, he can wash his face and hands, he can feed himself, although he usually leaves a mess on the table.

At times, he can't find his fork (it's in his hand). Sometimes I watch as he, in a dementia fog, tries to figure out how to pick up a spoon. It's heartbreaking to watch him first try to locate the spoon, then move his hand toward it and miss the target. He is concentrating hard. If I spoke to him now, it wouldn't register for a minute or two. It takes that long to get through the fog.

Let it be. Simply let it be. He's fine. He's occupied. He has purpose. I step in only when he gives up, sits back in his chair. His version of giving up, of letting it be, tugs at my heart. He has no anger, shows no sign of frustration. He simply sits back, looks at his mess, looks at me, and smiles. Yes, we let the dementia be. There is so much more to experience. Dementia isn't all there is. There is love.