Because of Alois, I’ve been spending all my evenings with Alzheimer’s patients. I went from horsing around with my (beloved) Tampa Bay crew of nitwits, nutjobs, boozeheads, and troublemakers — y’know, the “regulars” at my old neighborhood pub — to hanging out with senior citizens in the throes of dementia.
Conversationally? It’s six of one, half-a-dozen of the other.
Because, more often than not, we still talk about the same exact stuff: gossip, conspiracies, relationships, sports, good-looking women, politics, family, and (incredibly stupid) jokes. Plus, of course, the glories of our youth.
I guess human nature prevails — even when the mind does not.
My conversations with Alois and friends can get pretty trippy. It’s like an improv version of Mad Libs. I’m never totally sure where reality ends and fantasy begins. Within the same five-minute conversation, someone’s spouse/brother/child/pet might be alive, dead, visiting every day, and never visiting at all.
I try to focus on why they're telling me the story, instead of the story’s veracity. So if the story calls for sympathy, I’m sympathetic; if a story is funny, I laugh.
Most of my behavior is performative. I wish I could be more natural around ‘em, but I’m aware of my audience. I figure, if I can make ‘em smile before I walk away, it’s a win.
But maybe I’m doing it wrong.
As a parent, the scariest part BY FAR is which memories survive — because sometimes, it’s the bad ones. Alois lived a remarkable life: He’s an Army veteran who’s traveled the world, met famous people, and did amazing things. He made our world a warmer, brighter, more loving place. Meanwhile, his father has been dead for 50 years.
And what Alois vividly remembers is his father beating him.
Not in a way that was illegal. Look, I get it: The 1940s and 1950s were a different time — with very different cultural norms. And besides, Alois clearly loves his father; there’s zero blame or finger-pointing. Like he says (over and over again), that’s just how it was back then.
But it’s still so sad. I’m sure Alois’ father never wanted this to be the memory that endures. What parent would?
I wonder what my children will remember about me?
Two days ago, Alois and I were sitting in adjacent rocking chairs one early evening, enjoying the summer sun. Another elderly gentleman joined us — someone I hadn’t met before. He sat in a bench and started chatting.
Some of the patients in Alois’ assisted living community are nonverbal. Many speak haltingly. But not this guy: He spoke quickly and sharply. Mile-a-minute! At first, I wasn’t sure if he was a resident or a visitor.
Turns out he was a resident: “My memory is dogs**t!” he explained.
Very funny guy. Extremely witty. He matter-of-factly told us about his limitations: “I can’t remember anything anymore. All my memories are gone. I don’t remember how I got here! I don’t even remember where I live. The only thing I remember are my two kids’ names.”
A few minutes later, for whatever reason, we began yapping about barbershops and haircuts. Alois mentioned that his wife gave him a trim.
“Your wife is alive?” the other man whispered. His expression was radically different.
With his right hand, he tapped his wedding ring three times. His eyes trembled with rainclouds.
“You don’t know how lucky you are.”
I guess he remembered more than he let on.
Because — thank God — true love endures, too. That’s the flip side of bad memories: In addition to remembering how horrifically his father beat him, Alois also remembers when his older sister stood up for him — and took the beating in his place. It’s a story he tells with a big, happy smile.
He told me she was his hero.
That’s a much better way to be remembered, isn’t it? It’s something worth considering — before the memories of us fade away, too.
