And Deloris said, "Thank you."

I still visit Jeanne's old roommate at the nursing home. Deloris still yells and screams. A lot. Maybe it’s best described as an anguished cry. Loud and long. We could hear Deloris coming down the hallway, in her wheelchair, which she propelled with her feet, in a walking motion. And of course, once she entered the room, earplugs were helpful. Anyway, Jeanne and I tolerated the cries. I think it was a relief valve for Deloris. A way for her to vent. To release her frustrations of living with dementia. Some folks found Deloris’ cries disturbing. They wished she’d shut up. But I was nice to Deloris. Always. I told her that she sounded like an opera singer. And Deloris took that as a compliment. “Somebody else told me that the other day,” Deloris said. Actually, it was me. I gave Deloris that pitch often. Maybe I meant it initially in a kidding way. But Deloris took it seriously. I think it made her feel good. But some folks at Birchwood told me that maybe I was encouraging Deloris to continue to make those anguished cries. With the compliment. Maybe that’s so. I don’t really know what’s right or wrong in this instance. On one hand, it’s disturbing behavior. Mostly disturbing to people who have to listen. But then, the anguished cries may be the only practical relief valve for Deloris’ frustrations. A natural way to vent. And that may be doing some good. For Deloris. Sort of like when some dementia patients swear a blue streak. My inclination is to enter Deloris’ reality. And make her feel good about herself. By telling a white lie. That maybe she’s a natural born diva. An opera singer. One night, I asked Deloris if she wanted applause. “Yes,” she said. So I applauded, and yelled “Bravo!” And Deloris said, “Thank you.” --Jim Broede