You know something, Lynne? It works.

A letter was posted to me on the Alzheimer’s message boards in June 2005. By a woman named Lynne. Here’s what she had to say:

Dear Jim,

I have been reading your posts for some time. However, I find you put emphasis on your "writing" and happy outlook more than solutions and reality. It would be so nice to skip through the tulips with this disease and bury our heads in the sand but unfortunately it is what it is. Each of us handles this differently...you flower it with happy dust and some of us hit it head on like a freight train. Our way may hurt more but we get straight answers...like them or not. My question for you is this...How long has your Jeanne had ALZ?...What if any meds is she on?...Does she know you?...What are her symptoms now? I think many of us have been wondering this for a while now but you tend to only share your tender moments with us rather than more ALZ info that we all need to pass around. If I come on strong...well...guess trying to handle both parents with this (and it) has made me look for real answers and become stronger than I've ever been. Give us some facts...I'm happy to share mine with any of you folks too. Whoa, that was to the point, huh? Thanks Jim.

Well, here’s the reply that I posted:

Lynne:

The fact of the matter is that a happy outlook is a solution and reality. At least for me. And for Jeanne. That’s what I have been saying. But obviously, you don’t buy it. I’m not skipping through tulips or burying my head in the sand. I’ve found an approach that works. That’s a straight answer. Attitude. Eighteen months ago, Jeanne was calling me s--t face and f---head. Names like that. Cussing a blue streak. Totally out of character. She was belligerent. Agitated. She would have a bowel movement, and take the feces in her hands and spread it all over. Or put it in a box on the dryer in the laundry room. Or on a book shelf in a bookstore. She was paranoid. I’ve posted this information here on several occasions, including earlier this year. Well, things have changed. Dramatically. For the better. Jeanne is now her sweet self again. Polite. Courteous. She calls me Jim and honey. She smiles. She sees a sunset and comments, “Oh, what a beautiful sunset.” She greets people. Says hello. When somebody asks how she feels, she has on occasion responded, “Good. Good. Good.” With gusto. I talk to her. One-on-one. Face-to-face. And she understands. She seems to feel safe and secure. And, oh, so loving. What made the difference? Well, the medications haven’t changed. Depakote and aricept and Tylenol. But since Jeanne entered the nursing home environment, I’ve seen to it that she has been subjected to good vibes. And fresh air romps in the wheelchair. And lots of love and affection. Everything upbeat. Tender loving care. Trips back and forth, between the nursing home and our home, which is three miles away, on a lake. Pretty much a stress-free environment. I spend 8 to 10 hours a day with Jeanne. Doing things. Stimulating her mind. I remind her that I love her. Dearly. That I will never abandon her. Jeanne can’t walk. She can’t add 2 plus 2. She can’t feed herself. She’s incontinent. But she’s relearning lost skills. Relearning lots of little things. Social skills. Bit by bit. Regaining confidence. This is real stuff. Some at the nursing home think it’s a miracle. I think it’s a positive approach. Positive thought. It’s believing. It’s a demonstration of the power of love. Oh, yes, sounds corny, doesn’t it? But I’m a romantic. Yes, I’m hitting Alzheimer’s and care-giving head on. Not like a freight train. But gently. With what you call happy dust. I call it tenderness. You know something, Lynne? It works. –Jim Broede