Alzheimer’s: Remembering what we’ve forgotten
[Illustration by Muaz Kory/Al Jazeera]
Alzheimer’s: Remembering what we’ve forgotten
What happens when we move away from the shadow of Alzheimer’s to a world we remember, even if for a moment? by Jess Sellers
Though fleeting, something was happening within us. It was as if the single, powerful moment had drawn a protective circle around us, and everything not part of that circle was excluded. We were sealed off from the world. Even the great movement of time had stopped, and the mighty Alzheimer’s disease itself was not allowed in.
And in the circle, what was lost was found.
“CRAPE MYRTLES,” shouted Laura Young, “CRAPE MYRTLE TREES!”
“I see them now,” Bob Lewis cried, pressing his finger against the window. “There, near that building. They’re pink and purplish.”
“There’s a whole row of them,” called out Terry Sims.
“Yes!” sobbed Rose, reaching out and gripping Laura’s shoulders. “Please don’t let me forget the crape myrtles. They are crape myrtle trees.”
Something mysterious, something beyond Alzheimer’s had risen through the fog. Something within each person that was still whole and intact.
Miss Rose half-laughed and half-cried, as forgotten memories stirred her from her depths. Her eyes lit with a tint of girlhood. “I can remember how they smelled. Their blooms are so sweet, almost like lilacs…but softer and lighter. And they felt like crepe paper between your fingers!”
“My neighbour down the street had one in her yard,” Julia Watts recollected, tossing her long gray-white braid.
Bob Lewis and Alice Poole playfully looked at one another, smiling broadly.
“There were two big ones in my backyard at home,” Rose continued. “Behind the garage where daddy parked the car. Me and my older sister Susan played under them when it was hot. Even their bark was beautiful. Remember the colour of the bark?”
“Yes, it was like raw umber, but a little lighter,” Alice said shyly, clasping her hands.
“And the bark was so smooth,” Rose reminisced, wiping her eyes.
Laura spoke up, “And their blooms lasted all summer and were real pretty.”
We nodded in understanding. For the sweet smell of crape myrtle trees had entered into our imaginations, had entered our sacred circle, and fell upon us as a generous soft rain, easing many unnamable sorrows.
The room was wholly quiet.
The only sound to be heard was the rustling crape myrtle tree blossoms stirring our long-forgotten memories, filling the air with an unearthly breeze and sweetness only we could see, only we could smell, only we could feel.
“Crape myrtles trees,” Rose whispered, wiping her eyes again. “Please don’t let me forget them. I can’t forget the crape myrtle trees too. I just can’t.”
The moment at the window lasted only six, or perhaps seven minutes, at most.
Rose’s shoulders abruptly slumped, and the brightness in her eyes faded. She slowly turned and began walking back to her chair, one brave foot in front of the other.
Julia Poole followed. And Laura Young.
One by one, the little gathering of people at the window began the long sojourn back into the unrelenting and unforgiving world of Alzheimer’s, as if climbing a vast, steep mountain. And as the protective circle dissolved around us, we were pulled back into our roles within the human journey. To somehow finish what had been started. To somehow live the lives that were ours alone to live.
After everyone sat, Mr Sims spontaneously sang out an old familiar song, one that we had sung dozens of times. We joined him in our unfettered voices.
Oh when the sun begins to shine
Oh yes I want to be in that number
When the sun begins to shine
We were not singing to escape from an uncomfortable pause. Instead, our half-holy singing grew out of the silence, and helped us bear the world we knew we must return to.
“It’s time for me to go home and get dinner on the table,” Mrs Watts suddenly cried out in a child-like voice.
And just like that, the powerful moment completely vanished. And yet had not vanished. Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. For somewhere deep inside us, the crape myrtle trees still bloomed, undisturbed by the sorrows and hardships of our human life.
And when we can no longer remember what is most important, when the world weighs heavily upon us, when we think we have forgotten how our lover’s arms felt around us, or the name of our favourite tree – when we feel burdened beyond what we think we can bear – we will remember again. Something or someone will take us firmly by the hand and lead us to a window we can see clearly out of. Lead us to a moment that takes us beyond our forgetfulness, beyond our fear, beyond our sadness, if only briefly.
Perhaps the window will be an old, familiar song. Or perhaps it will be the way silence sounds in a crowded room. Or maybe it will be the memory of a crape myrtle tree with pink, blazing blossoms, and a delicate fragrance that wraps itself around us like an old friend, accompanying us on our long human journey.
And somehow, someway, it will be enough.
This essay was originally written by Shelly Niebuhr for Aljazeera under her pen name Jess Sellers. Shelly is one of the original writers of Retreat House.