Aging

How to Have Conversations with Someone with Dementia

Repetition as meditation

I miss the memory of my grandma. Or shall I say, the non-memory of her?

It can be frustrating talking to someone who cannot keep track of the conversation you're having with them. It harder for them, but it’s hard for everyone once dementia kicks in. There’s not a lot of flow.

When I used to talk to my grandma, it was hard to figure out what she was grasping and what was floating by her. Sometimes 1924 was clearer than five minutes before. Sometimes, she was as sharp as a tack and I’d almost forget that she was any other way.

What worked the best for our conversations discussing the absolute present. The now. The what was in front of our faces. The dog. The pants. The food.

I have a chaotic mind. It’s like a circus in there. My mom asked me the other day, “God. You have so many ideas. Where do they all come from?”

I joked, “You couldn’t handle all my ideas.”

“No kidding,” she said and laughed.

My mind feels like a hurricane, which rarely settles. I think most people would feel overwhelmed by how frenetic my thoughts are. They’d take one look around my head and say “Jesus. It's nuts in here. How do you keep track of your keys? How do you remember to pick up your kid from school? How do you sleep at night?” I know. Right?

That’s one reason why I miss my grandma. Once she hit her nineties, she couldn’t hold onto a thought for more than ten seconds. God, it was so relaxing. I could see it stressed other people out, but it settled me. I know that sounds strange, but it was grounding.

Every time Grandma repeated the same question, most people would answer with growing impatience. Not me. I loved it. Talking to her was the closest I have ever come to successfully meditating. The repetition was like a heartbeat.

She’d say, “You make these cookies?”

“Nah,” I’d answer. “I bought him.”

About ten seconds later, she’d inspect the cookies again.

“You make these?” She’d ask.

“Nope,” I’d answer.

“You make these?” She’d ask again.

“Yeah,” I’d say. What the hell.

“They’re good,” she’d answer.

“Thanks.”

“Who brought these?” She’d ask.

“Me.”

“You make’m?”

“Yeah,” I’d say, almost convincing myself.

“What’s in’em?”

I’d pick one up, and use my X-ray cookie vision to figure out what was in them. “Cardamom? Maybe some powdered sugar.”

“You made these?”

“I did.”

“Who brought these?”

“I did.”

“What’s in them?”

“Cardamom. Powdered sugar.”

It was beyond relaxing, talking to her. The repetition was like a mantra. Nothing new came up. No quizzes about my life. Just back and forth. Her questions remained the same. My answers varied. Just thinking about those conversations brings me serenity.

I miss the non-memory of grandma, when time slowed down, when everything became less urgent, when there was no need to be interesting or clever.

If I am lucky enough to reach a ripe old age, I hope that I will have someone who will find solace in my inability to be anywhere but in that exact moment.