Feeding Time in Dementiaville - Part 2

Romeo complained today again about not being able to feed himself. He says he can't put food on his fork or spoon and lift it to his mouth.

"Someone has to feed me all the time now," he tells me. He is fine with this. He almost seems to be proud that someone must feed him now.

A few minutes later and I am able to slip away to talk to his nurse about this. In Romeo's private brand of dementia, once he stops performing an action (like tying his shoes), he loses the ability to do it ever again within a matter of weeks.

I visited Romeo at dinnertime last night, and I watched as he fed himself until he was full. Although I'm sure that Romeo can still feed himself and does, I am a ball bouncing back and forth between Romeo in Dementiaville and his nurse sitting at the desk.

"No, no," she says. "He tells us that he can't feed himself, but he can. I tell him that he can do it, and we leave him be. He feeds himself fine. He makes a little bit of a mess, but that's okay."

And I agree. We help him by doing whatever is necessary so he can keep his remaining skill as long as possible. Romeo's ability to feed himself will go away soon enough, even with this prodding.

Feeding Time in Dementiaville - Part 1

Feeding Time in Dementiaville - Part 1

Romeo began our visit with a heartfelt, matter-of-fact confession.

"I couldn't feed myself today," he said. "I couldn't pick up the food with my fork and put it in my mouth."

I looked at him questioningly, tilted my head to the right, and blinked a few times, wide-eyed. Shocked by another downturn of events that mark the progression of his dementia, I must have looked like a deer in the headlights.

"I asked someone to help me."

"You mean someone had to feed you?"

"Yes. I think this is bad news."

A few minutes later, I wandered out of Romeo's room and down the hall to get the "real" story from his nurse.

"I don't know what that was all about," she said. "He was feeding himself, using his fork and spoon normally, like he always does. Then all of a sudden, he said he couldn't feed himself, even though he was doing fine. Someone came over and fed him anyway, because he requested it." She ended with a shrug of her shoulders, obviously stumped.

That wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look was back on my face as I headed back to Romeo's room. I didn't mention it to Romeo -- it's so much better not to because he usually forgets all about it, which is what happened this time.

Meanwhile, Romeo has been feeding himself like usual, without help. I'll say it again: dementia is a funny thing.

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.