For people with Alzheimer’s, comfort has much more to do with the mind than the body. If we can keep our loved ones with Alzheimer’s comfortable, we’re giving them a treasure.
My mom might have been sitting in her favorite spot on the couch, wearing her favorite loose black slacks and the multicolored blouse she’d worn four days in a row. Perhaps she had just eaten, or maybe she had a glass of orange juice on the table beside the couch. Almost surely she would be barefoot; shoes, in her opinion, were to be worn only when absolutely necessary. So was she comfortable?
Not necessarily. Her body might have been satisfied, but, as with all of us, the state of her mind determined whether she was truly comfortable. While we can direct our thoughts away from imagined catastrophes and unreasonable fears, our loved ones with Alzheimer’s are at the mercy of whatever ideas or worries Alzheimer’s throws at them. We became accustomed to the signs of Mom’s unease. She shuffled her feet. She looked around as though trying to find the source of a noise she couldn’t identify. She would half-rise from her seat, then sit back down, only to rise again a few seconds later.
If we asked her if she needed something, she might answer through gritted teeth, or not at all. The discomfort caused by the goblins in her mind could inflame her anger, or it could reduce her to a silent form with panic in her eyes.
That kind of discomfort is hard to fight. But Dad and I tried, with encouraging success.
The first step was to identify, if at all possible, the source of her worry. Not always an easy task. Though certain scenarios did appear frequently, it was never something we could predict. It might be an unpaid bill, or neighbors who were angry, or people coming to the door who wouldn’t leave her alone.
In the beginning, we were stymied. Words were usually useless, but we couldn’t protect Mom from an unseen danger. At last, in a flash of understanding that could only have come from heaven, I found a way to convince her she was safe. We couldn’t see the danger, but we could produce a visible solution.
In the case of the unpaid bill, I could write a “check” in front of her, put it in an envelope, and put it out on the mailbox for the postman. When, very quickly thereafter, the envelope disappeared, Mom was sure it was on the way to the electric company. If she thought the neighbors were angry, I’d cut a rose or put cookies on a plate, go outside for a few minutes, and come back inside with a smile and an empty plate and the gracious greetings and thanks from the neighbors. With no dial tone on the phone, I called the police in front of her and let her hear me telling them about the people who wouldn’t leave her alone. When I hung up, I’d smile and tell her how grateful the police were for the information. And guess what! They had already caught the culprits!
The key was doing something visible to Mom to show her we took her seriously. Some people consider actions such as these lying to our loved ones. I believe just the opposite. I believe handling Mom’s fears in this way was more truthful to her reality, and showed more, not less, respect to her. Imagine how it would feel to tell the people you trust most in the world about something that makes you worried or afraid, and have them reply, “No, no, no. Don’t worry about that. It never happened. It’s just your imagination.” Not only are the words of no use, they seem cruel to me.
When someone has Alzheimer’s, it gives them their own reality. They gradually lose their understanding of what we call the real world. They can’t come to our reality, so we must go to theirs in order to calm their fears.
Not long ago, my cousin sent me a picture of her and her mom having lunch at a diner. Aunt Sylvia’s hard days far outnumber her good ones, and the good days aren’t as good as they used to be. But in the selfie my cousin took, just their two smiling faces, I could see in her eyes that Aunt Sylvia’s was comfortable. Her hair wasn’t the groomed style she always had; her face looked thin and worn. Still, she was with the one who takes faithful and loving care of her, and on this day, that was enough for her to feel secure. Even in unfamiliar surroundings, even in a wheelchair—Aunt Sylvia’s smile was relaxed.
Comfort. Not appearance, or the ability to recognize someone, or constant cooperation. Comfort is the treasure we try to give our loved ones.
In the multitude of my anxieties within me, Your comforts delight my soul. (Ps. 94:19 NKJV)
Lord, we ask for your inspiration and enlightenment as we care for our loved ones. Help us, please, to understand what they want and need. We know You can comfort them even when we cannot. Thank you for Your loving care for them.