Misty Water Colored Memories

I had an awesome experience last Saturday. I was blessed with a momentary glimpse into the enduring power of love, despite the tyranny of aging, the silence of incalculable loneliness, and the horrors of Alzheimer’s.

Let me give you some context.

A few years ago, I decided to volunteer at a seniors’ home. I was assigned to head up the cappuccino bar, a Saturday morning event where volunteers served cappuccino to the residents in the main lounge area. Immediately, I noticed how the residents just sat around and stared at the walls while drinking their sweet drinks. After all, how could a simple cup of cappuccino erase the boredom of living within the same four walls with the same people day after day, with no freedom to wander outside like the rest of us?

I asked Jim if he would come in to sing for them. Fast forward, almost three years later and the lounge is now filled on Saturday mornings with songs, laughter, smiles, and memories of days gone by -- lighting the same once-empty eyes of my resident friends. Indeed, it is such a popular, life affirming event that the home has now scheduled its tours for potential new residents and their families while we are tending the bar. You can see how these new people think: "Wow, life might still be fun in here for dad (or mom, or grandma, or grandpa); I can stop feeling anxious and guilty".

Typical of my “jukebox Jim”, he sings songs of love, of loss, of country, of war, of fun, of rocking and of rolling. I am his shill – alternating swooning, pantomiming a good cry, belting out the chorus, marching off to war, pole dancing with the internal light stand, or doing the twist. Together we are a team that reminds them of the days our resident friends spent singing, loving, and living life. And once again they are free to live on the outside.

There is the context.

And here is a couple I want to introduce you to. Let’s call them Mr. and Mrs. Wilkens.

Mrs. Wilkens has Alzheimer’s disease. Over the years, it has steadily and stealthily stolen her memories and her moods. Depending on the day, she is angry, distant, morose, or simply vacant. And yet Mr. Wilkens is always there by her side, making sure to bring her from her solitary room on Saturday mornings to sit in the lounge with him. Despite the unalterable fact that she doesn’t know who he is anymore, he looks upon her with love, and patience, and understanding, and compassion, and yesterday.

He tells me that she used to love music, and singing, and dancing, and joy. Often, I wonder if he hopes that she will find him again – and the love they obviously once shared – in the pulse and pull of the music they once shared. In the misty water of her memory, she will identify with those feelings she once had; the ones that Jim now echoes in the hall.

While I shill with Jim, I make sure that the cappuccino cups are always filled to the brim. Last Saturday, as I went to fill the cups of Mr. and Mrs. Wilkens, I found them both crying. Oh, how I wish I could remember the song we were singing at the time. How I wish I could invite you into that moment. Gently I said to them, “Is this song one of yours?” “Yes”, said Mr. Wilkens, with the tears unabashedly spilling over.

And then the moment happened.

From the unfathomable depths of her stolen consciousness, with tears rolling down her own cheeks, Mrs. Wilkens gently took his hand. And it was truly in that moment I believed that music is the voice of the angels.

Memories, light the corners of our mind.