Irene's Memory

 

These are the hands of a women who walked in Faith through life. She raised 7 children and cared for her husband and her home. In the end her mind was taken by dementia. I had the privilege of knowing her in the final episode of her life. An unexpected feeling sprouted in my heart for knowing her, although she would never know me. 

Irene's Memory

By; Teri Carlson

 

 

She quickly brushed her thinning hair from her face as I entered the room. Seemingly unaware of my presence, I bent over to meet her eyes and introduced myself. Her blank stare told the story of an interrupted life. Irene suffered from advanced dementia. The lucencey of her days were now a memory.

I had just finished my Hospice training and she was my first patient. When I had taken on the idea of volunteering for Hospice, I had hoped to be helping cancer patients transition to the end of life. My mother had incredible Hospice volunteers, and in some small way I wanted to give back. But Hospice has widened their scope of services beyond Cancer care to help any end-of-life patient. And so, I had been given the privilege of helping Irene.

Irene was in a residential living home. By that I mean she lived with 4-5 other people with like circumstance in a home located in a residential neighborhood. Two women lived there around the clock to care for the residents. They provided cooking, cleaning, laundry service and general aid to the patients. Each had their own well-appointed room and shared 2 common baths. Irene's home was beautiful. It had lovely furnishings and a big lawn. Attached to the back of the home was a sunroom that looked out into a courtyard, a quite relaxing feature. Often times, as weather permitted, I would wheel Irene out to the sunroom for our visits.

Although my assignment was not what I had envisioned, I was happy to spend time with Irene, even though she had no idea who I was. If I was lucky, I might catch one of her 7 children there when I went for my visit. I relished those times, not only was I able to carry on a meaningful conversation with someone, but I learned about Irene as a mother, grandmother and wife. It was then I could apply my knowledge when I spoke to her, hoping I could say something that she might remember, if only for a second, she might have a glimpse of her life.

I would leave after our visits and often be reduced to tears. My heart ached not only for Irene but her family as well. I can't imagine looking at my parent, seeing them there in the flesh, but their mind a hollow memory. It's strange, but each time I saw one of her children, they seemed quite content to still have their mother with them physically, even if she didn't remember their names.

As the days turned to months, she gradually began to engage with me. She would raise her head and smile at me. Sometimes she thought I was her longtime neighbor and friend. She would speak to me as though we were sitting in her kitchen sharing a cup of tea after a long day. Often going on filling, me in as to which child she had to have where, and her busy garden club schedule. Sometimes she would even summon anger over one of the children's grades or behaviors. And then there were the tender times when she would ask for John. Where is John she would say, her words brimming with love. Her eyes would adopt a particular twinkle when she spoke of her husband, as if she could look beyond me and see him. He had preceded her in death, but I suspect a part of her died with him.

I felt comfortable in my part and began to look forward to seeing Irene. From time to time, I would bring small gifts for her. A lap blanket, an Easter basket, or flowers. My heart was open and being filled with Irene's goodness, and the messages from her past. Being with her was like opening a treasure vault, overflowing with history and love. The story of a bygone past. And through the fragments of her memory, Irene was the storyteller, allowing me a view into her sacred space. When she spoke, her words were clear and succinct. We traveled to the days when she was most happy, raising her children and loving her husband. And I, I was whoever she needed me to be that day.

One day towards the end, I walked in, and she sat up, looking at me straight in the eye. Her head was tilted, and a smile flowed freely across her face. I greeted her as I sat down. She immediately took my hands, and stroking them with a mother's grace, she told me she loved me. With tears welling in my eyes, I told her that I loved her too. I truly did love her, a feeling I had kept to myself for quite a while. Irene continued, " John, where have you been?" Those words were not meant for me, they were meant for the love of her life. Quickly gathering my thoughts, I said " I've been right here honey, I will never leave you." With that she closed her eyes and leaned back to rest. I sat quietly with her holding her hand, for really what else was there to do. She soon wandered off to meet John in her dreams. Her face was so content, so complete.

That is the image I carry with me of Irene. I'm sure she has longed passed on; she was 97 when our friendship began. I had to take a leave from Hospice because of medical reasons, but the gift that was given to me in Irene was nothing short of a blessing.

God knows what we need far better than our human selves do. What started out as a disappointment, became a life changing experience. I learned we are not the sum of what we are on the surface. In each of us is a story that needs to be told and honored. Some are unable to speak it, and others refuse, but in the end our soul cries out and is eventually heard. We all have value and worth. At times we need to scratch the surface to reveal the beauty beneath, and that beauty could change your life.

How fortunate I was to find Irene beneath the fog that had overcome her spirit. God knew, but then of course, he always does.