...to find what's beyond the door.

One can have Alzheimer’s, and still be perceptive. Very much so. I discovered that at Birchwood, the nursing home, with Jeanne and so many of the other patients. They sensed good vibes and bad vibes. Jeanne, for instance, responded best to certain nurses aides. The ones that had a knack. A good vibes knack. The ones that obviously liked their jobs. Liked people. Despite everything. Despite the dementia. The good ones knew how to make Jeanne smile. And laugh. And Jeanne would come out with a “thank you.” And even call an aide “honey.” I saw patients who on the surface seemed far gone. Blank looks. Synova was that way. But when Synova’s husband showed up with their lap dog, I saw a glimmer return. It was heartening. Gratifying. So many little ways to bring bits of joy and recognition. To the likes of Synova. To everyone at Birchwood. Some still have a keen sense of humor. We joked. Tony knew the difference. Knew I was kidding him. He’s a retired farmer. In his 90s. And I called him a gentleman farmer. The kind of farmer that keeps his hands clean and now sits back in a recliner, and allows guys like me to go to the barn to milk the cows and shovel the manure. And when I left the premises with Jeanne, I told Tony we were going out to milk the cows, so everybody at Birchwood has fresh milk. And Tony brightened up. And kidded me. About maybe not knowing the difference between a goat and a cow. Tony’s wife told me he was always the life of the party. And he still is, in so many ways, because he still knows and feels joy and happiness. He hasn’t forgotten how to laugh. And he walks around in a sweatshirt that declares, “I’m not only perfect, I’m Norwegian, too.” And this upbeat interaction with Tony is contagious. Others sitting around join in the fun. It’s stimulating. Tony often wandered down the hall, at the very end, to Jeanne’s room. And there’s a storage closet. Locked. And Tony thought the outdoors was just beyond the door. He was curious. Wanted the door opened. I showed Tony how to pick the lock. With a penny. And he was impressed. And he saw that it was only a storage closet. Mops and buckets and dusting cloths. And one day Tony asked me for a penny. So he could pick the lock. And he did. And it was so much fun. Tony was delighted. He had a sense of accomplishment. And I kidded Tony. “If the cops come looking for you some day,” I told Tony, “this closet will be a good hide-out.” And Tony knew enough to laugh. To be happy. Joyful. To still feel alive. To still be able to learn the art of picking a lock. To satisfy one’s innate curiosity…to find what’s beyond the door. –Jim Broede