I have been blessed with a unique opportunity to sing at the nursing home as a part of my job. I have lost count of how many nursing homes I have visited. One of the most interesting and moving experiences I have had so far is singing in the memory care units. The memory care units I have visited have been in assisted living centers, not nursing homes, and are for residents who are dealing with memory loss due to Alzheimers or dementia. These units are usually locked down so the residents won’t wonder off and get lost. As I am being escorted through the halls, the workers always try to mentally prepare me for what I might expect as they punch in secret codes that take us deep into heart of the building. They don’t realize that that kind of stuff doesn’t bother me. I’ve probably been to more nursing homes than they have, and even preached at the Methodist church. I always keep my eyes closed while I’m singing anyway.
I’m not a licensed music therapist, but I have seen the power of music first hand. When the director of the unit walks up bawling after a concert and says things like, I’ve never seen that man talk before after the man just talked to me for three minutes. Or There is a little old lady back there that doesn’t even know her name. All she does is mumble, but she just sang I Saw The Light along with you. This kind of thing happens often. I cannot tell you what these people are diagnosed with, but I can tell you that there is a moment when the light comes on in their eyes. And it is a moving experience.
I often leave from these brief concerts thinking about those people, locked up in a wing of some multimillion dollar facility. Each person represents a heart wrenching story of children coming to grips with a parent whose mental state has deteriorated to an unrecognizable point. When did the children notice? Did their parent, who once possessed a sharp intellect and a profound pool of wisdom become foggy in their memory and erratic in judgment? Was there a sudden change in personality from a caring and compassionate nurturer to a mean and selfish miser, or was the change gradual? At what point did a brother call a sister and say, I think something is going on with Dad? And I wonder about perhaps the hardest conversation of all, Dad, we’re concerned about you, I think we need to get you some help.
I imagine a lot of that depends on the state of the relationship between children and parents. Disfunction, strained relationships, and estrangement is the sad reality for many families, and would make an already extremely difficult situation nearly impossible to navigate.
I have talked to quite a few people who have had this experience with a parent. They tell me that looking back they could remember odd changes in behavior from years before that now made sense. They talk about the parent leaving long before the body expired. And the sense of relief after their parents’ death, accompanied by a slight sense of guilt for being relieved. They also speak of the relief of knowing that the unkind words spoken to them were the disease and not the parent.
These are all the things I think about when I tune up my guitar in a memory care unit. I look for that light to come on. I try to sing a wide variety of hymns and gospel songs in hopes that one of them will resonate with a lingering memory behind a set of blank eyes. I also am painfully aware that I may not be able to reach someone if they have no memories of any of these spiritual songs. Or maybe the music has already died and there is no recalling them.
I sing anyway. I never know who is listening.
Mostly From Memory 