by Robert C. Veil, Jr.
I have debated with myself whether to write this article. On the one hand, I don’t want to hurt
anyone’s feelings, especially my loved ones or family. I know that whatever I might say will be
misunderstood, probably not medically correct and definitely imperfect. On the other hand, I’m
observing some things that might be helpful for others to know about, and maybe of value to you
if you are ever in a similar situation.
I used to say I would rather lose my mental health than my physical. I used to think as long
as I felt good physically, and was generally in good bodily condition, I could cope with whatever
mental challenges of life might arise. I don’t say that anymore.
I have had the privilege (yes, I have chosen that word deliberately) in recent months of
helping to care for my father, who is dealing with dementia. I don’t know what technical type or
stage it is. I only know that it is a sad, slow takeover of his mind. Dementia robs a person of their
memories. It takes away their ability to react appropriately in conversation, and in normal
interactions of life. It is a gradual loss of all the precious anchors which comfort us, and provide
security in our thoughts. It can be frightening and confusing, and it can be devastating to loved
ones watching. When your loved one develops dementia, you will miss the conversations you used
to have. You miss them, even when they are still there.
I remember when President Reagan published a beautiful letter announcing to the nation that
he had dementia of the Alzheimer’s type. The man whom I had admired, who had been so vibrant
and alive, and whose mind had housed the most sensitive and important secrets in the world, was
aware that he was entering the “long goodbye.” I thought at the time, “How sad! How challenging
for his wife and family, and for the nation.” Among other things, he wrote, “I now begin the journey
that will lead me into the sunset of my life.”
While speaking to (not really with) a person with dementia, you may see glimpses of
recognition. My dad is still there. I go back to former days, and we talk about his childhood, or
other early experiences. These seem to be etched more deeply in the mind. Fortunately, we have
talked about these many times in the past, so I feel I know them, and it gives a sense of
togetherness, enjoyment to rehearse them again. I don’t dwell on things he can’t remember, like
names of all the people, or what he had for dinner yesterday. And, I’m finding they don’t matter
much anyway. What matters is, he’s still my dad, and I want to spend these precious moments with
him as much as I can.
Dealing with dementia is probably harder for family and friends than it is for the patient,
although I’m not positive about this. Who knows what is really going on in a person’s mind? But I
know it is so terribly sad and difficult to slowly lose the ability to converse and really be with
someone you love—even when they are still there. When you try to tell them about something they
used to be really interested in, and they react with a vacant stare, it is heartbreaking. When they do
not appear to be interested, or just don’t comprehend, you will struggle to hold back the tears.
Many in the church have had to deal with dementia in their loved ones. Thinking back, I can
recall stories of beloved caregivers (especially close family members), who struggled, sometimes
in silence. Usually others have very little comprehension about what they are really going through,
and it’s difficult to know how to help. But we need to be aware, prayerful, and supportive of
families dealing with dementia. We are so thankful for those who are.
How do you help? Well, I’m not sure I know. I think it starts with awareness, prayer, and a
hug. Don’t be afraid to let people know you have been there, and offer your heart-felt best wishes.
Offer assistance, even if there is really very little you can do. Visiting and sitting with the patient
is difficult, but we need to do it, we need to try. Maybe visiting a while with the family present
will help you know the patient better, and how to help. Maybe you could give the family a little
break. And then I think the most important part is the hardest of all: helping the family to remember
all the good things about who that person really was—and is.
