The Memory Seeker

"Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?  Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.  Behold, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands."  Isaiah 49:15-16a

On a hot sultry August day, I walk onto a locked unit in the city to start my new job as the memory care social worker.   With my first day on the job, I find myself somewhat startled by the noise and chaos as I observe a horde of confused patients wandering aimlessly up and down the long halls oblivious of each other.  I nervously sit down at my office desk wondering if I am ready for the challenge.  As the nursing staff escort everyone to the next meal, I take a deep breath to prepare myself for the tasks ahead of me. Then, a lovely woman with silver hair and a wool jacket knocks on my door and takes a seat next to me.  She looks at me with a glowing smile that accents her high cheek bones and says, "Do you like my new coat?  My mama made it for me!"  

In the weeks and months that follow, my perception of the confusion and chaos begin to transform like a kaleidoscope focusing in on the beauty of prism and light to create something magnificent.  These fragments of memories beaming light in the stark halls of this institution bring to life a new dimension of beauty and grace eluding from the souls of these precious lives stuck in time by disease and frailty.  Like Alice through the looking glass, I enter a strangely fascinating world of reminiscent awakenings; and I find myself a sleuth for the past--the memory seeker, piecing together the fragments that design beautiful moments to delight my spirit with unexpected joy and wonder.

"But we have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us."  2 Corinthians 4:7

A Mexican man sits near the nursing station, no words forming his soft lips, and he whistles longing melodies like ancient lullabies.  They say he was a boxer, strong and fierce, that he could throw a 200 pound man across the room in the blink of an eye.  Surely not the unobtrusive man before me, whistling softly into the afternoon.  Sometimes, I think he is winking at me, passing the day by calm and peaceful.

Mr Jones opens the door, and his wife immediately perks up and beams from the couch.  She hasn't spoken for years, but she obviously recognizes her soulmate when he enters the room.  They snuggle up together, completely satisfied, and they relax into an afternoon nap.

The truck driver's wife comes in and decides to put on an impromptu dance party.  The man sits at the piano next to his wife holding a sucker stick like a Marlboro and suddenly we are all transported to a smokey bar somewhere in the city.  Everyone  gathers around the piano, clapping and dancing.  Nurses pass around drinks in clear medicine cups like shot glasses and we all enjoy a little soda for "spirits."  The Italian pulls me out to the dance floor for a  lively polka.  I laugh telling him I don't know how to dance.  He smiles and tells me, "Just swing your hips like this" as he dances and whirls me around until I'm breathless and tired.  He can out dance everyone in the room, and we all explode with happiness.

The mother sits quietly with a tender smile.  She never complains, just smiles and observes.  She shows me pictures of her children and cheerfully reminisces about days past.  We are content sitting together and remembering, and my love for her gentle spirit blossoms like an old friend.

A petite Irish woman smiles and asks me, "Are you related to the O'Malley's?"  You are tall just like my mother."

The daddy likes to recline in his room, his eyes glowing with silent mischief.  When his daughters come, the room is electric with love and passion.  They pull out his harmonica, and he comes to life.  Spirited tunes vibrate the little harmonica as he plays, and they all share fond memories that reflect their daddy's jovial nature.

The country western musician wanders the hall, a tall and lanky fellow with thick waves of chocolate hair.  I bring him to my office to relax and enjoy some Johnny Cash as we share a candy bar.  With a nod, he gets up and walks about his daily pursuits.

The lady in red comes into my office looking for her lipstick.  I keep extra tubes of her favorite color in my desk.  I help her with her lipstick and nails, and we have a few laughs after she thanks me once again for saving her from a makeup crisis.  One day, she sits down with a heavy sigh and says, "Will you do me a favor?  When I die, please make sure they bury me in red.  I just can't bear the idea of wearing yellow at my funeral." 

The homeless man looks around anxiously like a caged animal and tells me he needs to be outside where the air is fresh and tastes like freedom.  I distract him with a Grain Belt Beer that brings back memories of the "good ole days", and we put on a movie about the outdoors and the animals he loves.

A woman calls out from her room, her introverted ways disrupted by an illusion of children invading her space.  She yells at them to get out, and I find myself rebuking and chasing away a room full of invisible children to reassure her that she is safe and can get back to her solitude.

On a Saturday afternoon, I bring my preschooler to work with me, observing the strangeness of her surroundings with sweet innocence.  The war hero peeks around the corner, his massive form beaming for the little red head standing in the doorway.  He throws his arms out in delight as she runs up to him and hugs him like a dear friend. A man, who just moments ago fought off his caregivers with brute strength, melts at the sight of my beautiful daughter, and I know it is a good day.

The raven haired woman stares at her surroundings with a look of sheer terror, and I wonder if she is reliving the moment she watched her daddy murder her mama.  I ache inwardly for the little girl who was robbed of her security.

There is a plump man who sits nearby in his wheelchair, his flawless ivory skin and bald head glistening under the overhead lights.  His eyes piercing blue and brimming with sadness.  The piano player, once inspired by the talent of his beautiful mother who died when he was a boy.  Does he think about her?  Is he reliving his childhood tragedies?  Those beautiful oceans of blue eyes, vast and deep like windows to his soul.

The dying woman lying faintly in bed, her eyes glazed over to reflect eternity.  I sit with her and whisper prayers for the woman who sacrificed for her family and loved her daughters with all her heart.  Touching her gently, I end my prayer, and she momentarily looks up at me with a spark of recognition in her hazel eyes.  I lean over to kiss her gaunt cheek softly and can feel the salt of her transparent skin on my lips, and I step on a sacred moment of holy ground as though angels were among us.

"So we do not lose heart.  Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day."  2 Corinthians 4:16

I am the memory seeker, piecing together fragments fused into a mosaic of sadness, beauty, and joy for these momentary encounters.  My spirit uplifted by courageous souls who live in their memories and breathe life into their precious stories.  A lovely picture to cherish and draw strength upon, and I will never be the same again.



The information in this article was based on my own personal experiences working with individuals who have Alzheimer's and other dementia-related conditions. The stories I have shared took place several years ago; however, I changed the names in order to protect the privacy of each individual.

For more stories and experiences with memory care, you can read my blog:
http://dzehm.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-essence-of-soul-bringing-light-to.html