h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

I was on my way to my room, with no real enthusiasm, after an emergency meeting of the Residents' Council to discuss a change in the menus. It wasn't an emergency except in the sense that Herman wanted our approval quickly so that he could start the new system in January. Afterward, I wandered down to the therapy gym and chatted with the staff, then finally headed back.

Passing the nurses' station, I noticed R hunched in his chair, trying to get the attention of an aide, several of whom were grouped near him. He is there very often, when he's not wheeling aimlessly in the day room. One of the aides, M, looked down at him and he proceeded to sort of speak, which he does in very quiet tones. He has a tremor and rather poor coordination. M soon grew restive; English is not her first language. She broke away, promising to be back in a bit.

I was only a few feet away, and watched as he intently reached out to the side of the nurses' station and rubbed a thumb and forefinger along the bumper board, something he does a lot. In the day room he does it to the edges of the tables. After a little while I made a remark about how M had not come back in a bit [she was not his aide -- she had her own call lights to answer]. He turned, took me in, recognised me, and started talking. So I rolled over and listened politely.

It was a jumble. Sometimes a piece of a sentence would emerge, perfectly formed. Then he would stop dead. There was something about small strokes, which thought he would illustrate with a little finger gesture. There was something about a horizontal line, something about "when they come by," but then he would appear to zone out and repeat, "Eehhh! Eehhh! Eehhh! Eehhh!" while looking intently into the near distance. Thinking he was dealing with a speech breakdown, I waited, then listened attentively when he resumed groping for words and would repeat bits back to him as I captured them. Eventually he rolled his chair forward to a break in the expanse of the station, where a small flat screen monitor sits. The nurse handed him a wrapped straw, and he started drawing it along the counter, like a marker.

I ducked back to my room, grabbed my big laptop and brought it back to where he sat, opened it, and started it playing John Dowland songs on lute as played by the late Paul Odette. He resumed his halting soliloquy, remarking " 'S pretty," of the music, and we sat there, front and center of the nurses' station while activity and loud voices and a PA system roared around us. He noticed the horizontal bar at the bottom of the media player, with the traveling bulb, and he suddenly focused and smiled. Like that, he gestured.

After about 4 songs, I closed the laptop, promised to meet with him the next day and play more music, then rolled home and put my things away. The nurse was right outside my room with her med cart, and I rolled back out to her. "Elmo taught music?" I asked. "Oh, no," she answered, "He was in the military, on a boat so he must have been Navy. I don't know what he was except maybe an officer or a technician..." "Ah," I said, "Somebody told me he was in music." "Well, he really likes the singing," she observed. "This one singer who comes sometimes, R really likes him. He sings along really loud, and claps. He likes the high voices." I nodded and retreated back to my room and waited for my aide to come and decant me into bed. I didn't wonder till much later why she didn't know more about his career background, seeing as R has been here for years.

Later on it suddenly fell into place. R had been telling me about radar! The little strokes were blips. The "eehhh" sounds were pings! And without knowledge of his history, I thought his utterances were nonsense, Alzheimer's potpourri. Was he a navigator? Or a specialist in a dark room staring intently at a screen just the way he was looking when he was making those ping noises? I am curious and will find out.

Staff have warned me that R can be violent, when he's frustrated or resists being handled. He has lashed out and will do so again. Of course you can understand the frustration if he's trying to communicate and he's met with patronising incomprehension from strangers. R is a green-eyed blonde with very special skills. R is an aging Alzheimer's patient slumped in a wheelchair, fiddling with a straw.

I can't wait to hear more about this!

Dementia care is something I am very interested in, thanks for this journal Asteroid lil. I know there's a lot of good things that can help to bring out the past memories of these elderly people. I hope that this person can gain some respite from the daily fog that this disease brings.

Maybe we should start a simple collection of meaningful photos from our past lives now, while we have the intact brain cells, so when we've lost the ability to relate our past, the pictures will speak for us.

Dear Lil, You have a special talent. You write such an interesting acoount and then right at the end you add: "R is a green-eyed blonde with very special skills. R is an aging Alzheimer's patient slumped in a wheelchair, fiddling with a straw."

And you draw tears from me. Very few writers can do that.