She was my first teacher in Alzheimer's and her name was Hannah.
I'm glad now that I knew nothing about Alzheimer's dementia before I moved into Hannah's house. I didn't know that people said and wrote and broadcast that Alzheimer's was the worst thing in the world. That all Alzheimer's sufferers were crazy, angry wanderers whose illness destroyed their families' lives. That they were the living dead. That they were empty, gone away, not even human.
If I had heard or read any of that before I met Hannah, perhaps I would never have moved in at all. And then my heart would never have been healed of sorrow and wounding.
The first time I met her, I liked her immensely. She was sitting on a battered sofa, apparently absorbed within herself. She seemed quite happy in an inward way, smiling gently as she nodded in a semi-doze. I sat down beside her.
"Hallo, Hannah," I said, holding out my hand. She took it between her own and held it there. Her skin was soft and dry against my own and she looked at me from light blue eyes, not old like the rest of her. She smiled until her whole face lit with pleasure.
"It's so good that you came!" she exclaimed, as if she had been waiting especially for me. and my own heart felt warmed.
I had been told that she had no short-term memory, but I didn't really understood what this meant until I saw its effect in action. Each time I left the room on that first occasion, she would greet me afresh on my return a few minutes later.
"Oh how nice!" she said. "I'm so happy to see you!"
She must have said that at least half a dozen times as I made a pot of tea and brought in cookies. Each time, the same fresh enthusiasm for my latest arrival -- about five minutes after the previous one. I thought it was charming.
I especially enjoyed it when, after I passed her some cookies, she said sincerely, "This is so wonderful. I shall never forget you!"
I smiled when she said that, in a private joke with myself. Oh yes you will, I thought. But I didn't mind. It was her illness that made her so, not her lack of willingness to remember me.
I found her delightful. She had a warm appreciative personality that made it easy to feel affection for her. She had been a handsome woman once. Big-built, with silvery-white hair and a patrician profile that must have taken years to grow into, she smiled readily and seemed very relaxed.
After we had tea and cookies together, I talked with the two other caregivers. They had invited me to become part of the household that took care of Hannah, in Berkeley, California, if I wanted to. Oh yes, I told them, I want to.
Next day I moved in. That was how it started.
I'm glad now that I knew nothing about Alzheimer's dementia before I moved into Hannah's house. I didn't know that people said and wrote and broadcast that Alzheimer's was the worst thing in the world. That all Alzheimer's sufferers were crazy, angry wanderers whose illness destroyed their families' lives. That they were the living dead. That they were empty, gone away, not even human.
If I had heard or read any of that before I met Hannah, perhaps I would never have moved in at all. And then my heart would never have been healed of sorrow and wounding.
The first time I met her, I liked her immensely. She was sitting on a battered sofa, apparently absorbed within herself. She seemed quite happy in an inward way, smiling gently as she nodded in a semi-doze. I sat down beside her.
"Hallo, Hannah," I said, holding out my hand. She took it between her own and held it there. Her skin was soft and dry against my own and she looked at me from light blue eyes, not old like the rest of her. She smiled until her whole face lit with pleasure.
"It's so good that you came!" she exclaimed, as if she had been waiting especially for me. and my own heart felt warmed.
I had been told that she had no short-term memory, but I didn't really understood what this meant until I saw its effect in action. Each time I left the room on that first occasion, she would greet me afresh on my return a few minutes later.
"Oh how nice!" she said. "I'm so happy to see you!"
She must have said that at least half a dozen times as I made a pot of tea and brought in cookies. Each time, the same fresh enthusiasm for my latest arrival -- about five minutes after the previous one. I thought it was charming.
I especially enjoyed it when, after I passed her some cookies, she said sincerely, "This is so wonderful. I shall never forget you!"
I smiled when she said that, in a private joke with myself. Oh yes you will, I thought. But I didn't mind. It was her illness that made her so, not her lack of willingness to remember me.
I found her delightful. She had a warm appreciative personality that made it easy to feel affection for her. She had been a handsome woman once. Big-built, with silvery-white hair and a patrician profile that must have taken years to grow into, she smiled readily and seemed very relaxed.
After we had tea and cookies together, I talked with the two other caregivers. They had invited me to become part of the household that took care of Hannah, in Berkeley, California, if I wanted to. Oh yes, I told them, I want to.
Next day I moved in. That was how it started.
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