Lunch with Betty- Connecting with Alzheimer's
For those who chimed in on last week's story about Betty at Panera: What did I do? Like most of you, I did both “A” and “B” …and chatted with them while we ate lunch. Note: I appreciated the comments about respecting the independence of the elderly. Many who replied “A” brought up an important point: the value of living with dignity.💖Like much in life, the answer isn't clear-cut; it's not A or B and not even A and B. The best solution is a delicate balance of several actions. Here’s the rest of the story…
A little about Betty: she’s a vibrant, well-mannered woman with insatiable curiosity. After struggling to open one of those little bags of chips sealed as if to withstand a nuclear war, she looked at me and shrugged. “You’re no bigger than me, but I’ll bet you know the trick!” I fell in love with her endearing candor and the levity with which she managed an inevitable need for assistance despite independence. I obliged and asked if she wanted me to open the other bag. As if warming up for an athletic competition, she rubbed her hands together and replied enthusiastically, “Oh, heavens, no! I want to try. I watched your technique.” As I had just done, Betty carefully placed the bag on her chest, tucked her elbows at her sides, took a deep breath and pulled sloooooowly. She laughed with delight when the bag burst and few chips took flew past her. "Takes practice," she quipped.
(In a single moment, Betty demonstrated the power and elegance of Brené Brown’s seminal research of vulnerability, authenticity and courage.)
Insisting I share her chips, Betty told me how intimidating it can be to navigate the world’s “boggling” technological advances— from the self-scanners at the grocery store to online banking and, of course, on this day, Panera’s semi-self-serve system.
As we joked about how simple life used to be, the chat opened onto a sobering reality…
Our main topic of conversation: communication- prompted by a table of high school kids where the noise level alternated between extended silences and brief exclamations, delivered more like verbal footnotes to comments they’d just posted on SnapChat. "They don't talk to each other," she said in hushed voice. "How do kids learn communication skills when they spend more time interfacing with their devices than with people?" I stifled a laugh; she talked like a safari guide pointing out the behavior of a rare species.
Perplexed and fascinated by the kids, she told me how, as a teenager, she was invited to a dinner party with a family “much better off” than her own. An experience that exposed her to the art of conversation and helped refine her table manners. “My mother told me, ‘Betty, keep your elbows at your side and your eyes on the hostess. Don’t turn your head and stare. Just pay attention! If she uses the big fork, do the same. And smile when you speak.” I smiled. Despite the generational gaps, we still had much in common. I remember being that kid— a 16 year-old American living alone in France… invited to Sunday lunch with a French family of “a certain stature.” Like Betty, I went with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Like Betty, I made observation my teacher. I took mental notes of the placement of every utensil (seriously, how many does one person need?!) and returned to my closet-sized room with a daunting objective: to master the art of the knife. For days on end, I practiced folding lettuce leaves into accordions until I could thread them onto the fork like tightly wound springs… a feat that separated me from my fellow compatriots who unknowingly committed that unforgivable faux-pas: cutting the leaves. *alas, lol*
As our laughter petered out, Betty’s focus drifted. A nostalgic gaze into space replaced the tender attentiveness for her husband. He had stayed silent throughout our conversation. She dropped her eyes, turned away from him and whispered, “It’s not the same any more. He can’t remember.” Her eyes spoke volumes: a determination to do the best with what they now have, a fondness for what they lived, and a sadness for what is to come.
“I wish I could talk to him, but…” As her voice trailed off, she caught herself, turned to him and asked enthusiastically, “What’s my email, honey? Gmail or Yahoo?” I sat quietly in awe of her presence of mind. Inclusion, not isolation. Normalcy, not disability. She got it. His eyes lit up as he blurted out, "Gmail." "He was an engineer!” she exclaimed. “He loves all that tech stuff.” She thanked him for helping her remember. In what was his first display of emotional engagement since I’d sat down, Betty’s husband beamed from ear to ear and patted her hand.
As is common in people with dementia, Betty’s husband can no longer follow conversations and has trouble recalling words. But his emotions are awakened by familiar triggers of the past. On this day, he seemed to “recognize” her admiration and responded with the pride characteristic of any good man whose happiness is tethered to making his wife smile. She grabbed his hand and laughed, “He’s the smart one. Me, I don’t understand any of it.” He nodded sheepishly. For a moment, he was present with her again. Reconnected.
Nobody knows how much time we’ll be here. The given: everyone has the same number of hours in a day. It's worth asking: Why are we willing to spend massive amounts of time on social media or even "communicating" virtually, yet we balk at the idea of disconnecting from our devices and spending time with those whose support, humor and affection create the footprints of a life well-lived?
Barring getting hit by a bus or contracting a fatal illness, many of us will live to 80 or beyond. If we’re lucky, we’ll retain our mental acuity and enjoy lunch dates with our spouse and chats with young people. With a youthful attitude like Betty's, we’ll continue to find wonder in the little things. And, with connections to others- even strangers- we’ll continue to learn, to be part of the mix and enjoy the newness of a world whose sole constant is change.
pLoThoughts™ challenges you to tune back in... and remind people they matter.