MEMORY CARE

“I Don’t Know Where I Am!”

A glimpse into the world of Alzheimers.

I just don’t know where I am.

It’s painful and confusing to watch a loved one disappear; disappear into the chaos of dementia in any of its forms. It’s a struggle to understand our own thoughts and feelings, much less those of our loved ones.

I’ve been fortunate, my family seems to avoid a mental decline in old age.

For males, it may be because they don’t live into their 80s. That’s sad, and I don’t know why. I’ve examined their occupations, and it is possible it’s related to toxic environmental factors.

Females in my family with my body type and my nose live to be 95. The nose seems to be important. They have a quick passing, almost chatting as they drift off.

It’s doubtful it’s all genetic. We’ll know more in the future about why some are spared mental decline.

I have been a support person for many with family members diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and other dementias. It’s difficult to see the family’s struggle. Some families seem to understand the emotional needs better than others.

Situation

It was morning, and Hilda sat on the edge of her bed. “I just don’t know where I am,” she said to herself. She looked around the room narrowing her eyes looking for familiar items and repeated, “I don’t know where I am.”

Afraid to get out of the bed. Whose bed is this, she wondered? She sat there, looking. Waiting. But time didn’t mean what it used to, so the wait kept repeating.

“I don’t know where I am.”

“Hilda, good morning,” said a soft voice as her caregiver came into the room.

“I don’t know where I am. Do you know where I am?”

Walking to the closet, and grabbing a robe, the caregiver replied, “You’re right here where you’re supposed to be and I’m here with you.”

“I don’t have to be anywhere?”

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be and I’m here with you.”

After a brief pause, “This is where you live and we’ll be going to breakfast this morning. You’re safe.”

Hilda relaxed, “I didn’t know where I was.”

“You’re here in your room and I’m with you.” Holding up two dresses, “do you want to wear your red dress or your blue dress?”

What Doesn’t Work

It’s easy to pass blame around, especially when we don’t understand what’s going on or are in pain ourselves.

• Blaming caregivers isn’t helpful.
• Blaming your loved one isn’t helpful.
• Blaming yourself isn’t helpful.

What Does Work

The first step to being supportive of others going through anything difficult is to keep ourselves strong: The first person who needs nurturing is ourselves. I must have said a few thousand times to caregivers I supervised and trained:

Only by keeping yourself strong first can you have the strength to help others.

The second step is to foster positive relationships with those involved with our loved ones. Whether they are paid staff, friends, or family, we must nurture them.

Nurturing the caregivers while we struggle may not make sense until we realize that this attention to them will make our life easier and assure better care of our loved ones. This type of nurturing can be simply listening quietly.

Third, slow down and center yourself. Nothing is going to fall apart. It may feel like everything is falling apart. Because, really, it has — it’s changed.

One simple takeaway

As painful and confusing as it is to watch a loved one disappear into the chaos of dementia in any of its forms. Understanding our own thoughts and feelings, much less those of our loved ones, can be overwhelming.

Although the mind has changed, our loved ones still learn. They may not know where they are, but they will have learned who they feel safe with.

Emotionally learning remains. It may not remain in the way you understand or how it used to be. But emotions are there. Good ones and troubling ones.

In the situation above, the caregiver responded with kindness and comforting words.

Katie Michaelson I tend plants and people from my 120-year-old home and small garden. I see strength in the injured spirit and find significance in the insignificant.