It all started with a prayer. I had been worrying about what I would have to sacrifice in my busy schedule. What being a care partner to my mom was going to take.  I feared my church life, my YMCA life, and my home life would be rearranged, diminished, or removed in order to keep my mom safe, fed, and satisfied. The endless phone calls to solve the problem of the moment, to find the missing item, to review what had already been said were not enough. Making the 30-minute drive multiple times a week in addition to my vigorous schedule was wearing me out. Something was going to have to change. And I feared that it would be my schedule and me (in fact, I knew it would be my schedule and me). I just wasn’t willing to let it all go. Yet. To get my head and heart around those changes required some level of motivation, inspiration and commitment. Some move of God. Faith.

So I went forward in the Sunday service to the altar to pray, where prayer partners were waiting to join our petitions. I chose Melissa, a friend, a woman of faith to trust and hear my concerns. I whispered in her ear that I was conflicted about the growing needs of my mom, that in order to truly be helpful to her, I would have to back off my other activities that I held dear. I asked for divine guidance, a willing heart, and a path to follow. 

As Melissa lifted my struggle to the Lord, a peace began to settle over me. The conflict and chaos that I had been living began to ease and I had a vision that seemed to make everything all right.  In my mind’s eye, I saw myself sitting on the couch in my mother’s den. The dark paneled wall behind me was lit by light streaming in from the window over my left shoulder. All was quiet. I was calm. And I was writing.  

One of the things I was currently doing was writing – just little vignettes about people I knew, spiritual lessons from my dog, everyday life seen through the lens of faith – things like that. Seeing this vision gave me a fresh perspective on what might be a blessing – an alternate plan – perhaps God’s plan, instead of an inconvenience and a diversion from my life.  It began to dawn on me that sacrificing the plans I had and attending to the need right in front of me was the right thing to do. Tearfully, I told Melissa what I had seen in my vision. I felt like the decision was made. So I walked away from the altar feeling empowered to trim down my schedule and turn my heart toward my mom. Trusting that everything would work out. 

That was 2008. Today is June 21^, 2019.  The Longest Day. The day people are doing something to commemorate or honor a person with dementia. The day the book, Dementia-Friendly Worship – A Multifaith Handbook for Chaplains, Clergy, and Faith Communities goes on sale, on amazon.com. The day I am a published author.

Because I chose the path of caring for my mom, the desires of my heart are realized.  

The years we spent together after that day at the altar were full of trials, unbelievable challenges, sorrow, uncertainty, and grief. However, the further we went, the responsibility I felt for my mom began to turn into devotion and love. The stories I now have to cherish and share came from that fork in the road that led us down a path of hope, faith, and trust.  And have ended up in a book. Amazing. 

Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.

Life in a nursing home can become mundane after many hours of sitting still, day in and day out, while parked in a wheelchair in front of or within earshot of television after the basics of dressing and eating are accomplished, often empty-handed, left to one’s imagination.

As I joined my mother on a daily basis to help pass the long afternoons, we often found ourselves in the dayroom of the wing where her room was located, along with other residents who were also passing the time. Although I was a family member – a visitor – I was such a regular presence, that I felt as if I lived there, too. After all, I was subject to the ebb and flow of activity, while attempting to accommodate where my mother should be in order to receive the care she was scheduled for. If I took her away from her area at the wrong time, she might miss being checked for wet pants or something important like that, so we often stayed around and visited with whoever might be present. Usually, our neighbors from the hall were also in limbo until something might come along to create a diversion – like the ice cream cart or an arrival of a new resident that we were all alerted to over the loudspeaker by the announcement, “Let us all welcome the new admit to, say, the East Wing, let us all welcome the new admit to the East Wing.” This revelation was always met among the residents with head shaking and looking at each other incredulously as we all wondered about the new admit. Once again we were reminded that we were viewed as “admits” without a name. Not people or neighbors, or friends but “admits.” I’m sure there was some privacy policy being followed here but eventually, we would get to know the person’s name. Why not just go ahead and say it.  Just once. But it was never to be.

It didn’t take long to realize that the initial loss of identity would remain. However visible you really were didn’t hinder how routinely you were overlooked. Even though this day room was within sight of the nurse’s station and was adjacent to the hall with staff going to and from, we rarely received eye contact from any of the passerby’s.

So, one day, I decided to test my theory that we existed in what has been referred to as “the land of the living dead”.  I viewed my self-imposed status of nursing home resident with Alzheimer’s disease much like joining a leper colony. We had our own community, removed and distinct from where we once lived. We had suffered the grief of our loss of recognition and position in society, but in this safe harbor, where the promise of care and understanding by the marketer on our original tour of the nursing home was assured, would we have to endure being invisible here as well?

William James’ said, “No more fiendish punishment could be devised, were such a thing physically possible, than that one should be turned loose in society and remain absolutely unnoticed by all of the members thereof.”

We were all in a back hall being given the basics of care but were we seen? Did anyone really care who we were or what we wanted or needed?

I had in my big bag of goodies a package of stick-on mustaches. I often brought in an assortment of potential activities in case the time was right for a game of cards, magazines, watercolors, brushes, a pad of paper and a blue-tooth speaker to connect with my smartphone for endless choices of music that we would use for our own entertainment and for anyone else who might be interested.   So on this particular day, I decided to see if anyone would notice if everyone in the dayroom was wearing a mustache. I was tired of feeling overlooked and rejected and I just wanted to see what would happen. After getting permission from my fellow conspirators, we each picked out the preferred style of mustache and stuck them under our noses – and waited. We giggled and amused ourselves with how we looked and I snapped photos (another breach of privacy but since no one was looking…) Yet, as the staff went to and fro, no one looked in to see us.

After a while, we grew tired of our little joke. The excitement waned as we realized no one was taking the bait. Seeing that one mustache had become something to chew on like a piece of candy, I retrieved them. Our experience supported my theory, confirming that we did exist in our own little world, unnoticed and ignored. As much as we were making the most of our interactions among ourselves, society around us was so busy and focused, that they missed out on our mischief that day and so many more. “Fiendish punishment,” indeed.  The regular feeling of isolation and rejection wears on a person, slowly dimming the light of hope and expectations until the lights finally go out.

I recently heard a speaker tell about “the 90-second rule.” Where staff in a residential care facility were required to spend 90 seconds with every resident they encountered, speaking positively and warmly before they went on with their duties. I needed that kind of encouragement as a family member who was responsible for the welfare of my mother whom I had given over to their care. Not only did I want my mother to feel included, recognized, and valued, but as a caregiver, I needed validation and acceptance as well.

To be fair, I always tried to empathize with the staff, especially the CNA’s.  They were the least educated, the least paid, yet held the most influential position for setting the mood and quality of life for each resident.  No one was more intimately involved with the residents. They did the dressing, bathing, providing all acts of hygiene, feeding, and helping. It was no wonder that they didn’t want to look over at a resident they had already tended to.  Maybe they wanted to avoid the endless requests for something or general confusion about what was happening and “where am I” and “when am I going home” questions. Yet, I was keenly aware of their understanding or lack thereof of how to interact with someone with dementia.  Correcting, disregarding, and speaking about them as if they couldn’t hear was upsetting to watch and I often hoped that by demonstration, things would change.  Perhaps they would see that I could brush my mother’s teeth without any resistance from her and thoroughly clean out her mouth of all lingering food. Didn’t they realize that it took some time and effort to warm up to my mother rather than expect her to perform on command?  Maybe they would see the positive reaction to music instead of promoting the noise from the afternoon programs on television that may have been perceived as reality. I often wrestled at night, trying to come up with a new approach that might build a bridge to improved communications and care for my mother.  Several times I brought in baked goods, provided meals of pizza and fixings for two shifts of care, shared citrus fruit from my tree to show my appreciation and for a time, kept a supply of granola bars and candy in my mother’s side table drawer as a treat for the CNA’s unsung efforts. There were some very nice exceptions that I always hoped would appear at the beginning of the next shift, but the steady stream of staff changes made each day unpredictable.

Despite my efforts, sometimes I was treated as a bother, in the way, or just not visible. Just like the residents, I often hungered for someone to smile at me and treat me like they were happy to see me. So my closest allies became the other residents, those who were lining the halls as I passed to enter and exit the long pathway to my mother’s room. In time, I found ways to connect to residents and staff that would make my life better.  But what about the residents? Would life improve for them, too?

The mustache test validated what I already knew. It is possible to be alone in a crowded place. The greatest punishment is to go unnoticed by society yet with a little intentional effort that can be changed.  You don’t have to have all the solutions to someone’s trials to make a difference.  Sometimes all it takes is a smile, a kind heart, and a listening ear.

My time with our neighbors in skilled care over that 4 year period were some of the richest personal interactions I’ve ever experienced. My hope and purpose in writing this are that in all circumstances, especially for the many who are living with Alzheimer’s disease, we take the time to see one another for who we have been and who we really are now, enjoy one another through those encounters, and embrace the present as the gift it is.

Project Director Ginger Wettingfeld, Program Consultant Jason Gerling, and Gemma Campbell of Mercy Medical Pace Program

People scurried in from the hot sun to fill the remaining seats at the GM&O Building this Wednesday morning. A who’s who of care providers gathered to hear what is in store from the Alabama Integrated Care Network. Conducting the ninth and last of the Alabama Medicaid Society’s organized meetings across the state, Jason Gerling presented a thorough explanation of the current system and how the 2015 legislation will be carried out with a target of readiness in 2018.

The ultimate goal is to improve the quality, accessibility, and sustainability of Medicaid Healthcare and Long Term Care. He pointed out that the PACE program we have in Mobile is the only one of it’s kind in Alabama.

Attendees were given the chance to ask questions and share how they benefit from the current funding. A follow-up meeting is scheduled in September and a survey will follow. Comments can be submitted at ICNinfo@medicaid.alabama.gov.

The Alzheimer’s Association estimates there are more than five million Americans

living with Alzheimer’s disease and more than 15 million Alzheimer’s caregivers.

On their behalf, I am counted among 1,200 others across the country that appeal to Congress for action on Alzheimer’s disease.

Four people in my family have died from Alzheimer’s disease. As a result,

advocating for those who currently care for their loved ones and for people living

with the disease is a daily mission.

Alzheimer’s is not only devastating but fatal. Alzheimer’s is the sixth leading cause of

death in the U.S. with no cure or prevention.

We thank U.S. Reprentative Bradley Byrne for meeting with our delegation to

discuss the Alzheimer’s crisis. We are grateful for his support of the Health Outcomes, Planning, and Education Act and for increased funding for research.

Most recently we have asked for his support of the Palliative Care Hospice

Education and Training Act (PCHETA).

It is only through adequate funding and implementing the National

Plan to Address Alzheimer’s Disease that we will meet its goal of preventing and

effectively treating Alzheimer’s by 2025.

To get involved, contact https://byrne.house.gov/contact and ask for support of PCHETA.

Beth Reinert, Ambassador for the AL/FL Panhandle Chapter of the Alzheimer’s Association.

The reminders come at the most unexpected time. Today, it was in the greeting card aisle. Looking for a birthday card for my mother-in-law drew my eye to several cards that were for “Mama”. The perfect card for my own, now deceased, Mama.

I’d never seen a card just for “Mama” before. I would have bought that for her. Along with the liquid soap, lotion, and pudding snacks. Another reminder of how my life has changed since she’s been gone. I didn’t expect to miss her so much. Caring for her brought purpose, a mission to pursue, and love to give. Now, I think fondly of when we would go for a drive together, easy listening music playing, seeing the multicolored leaves on a sunny, fall day – just the two of us, safe and at peace, in the moment. The daily tasks that we accomplished together, navigating life in assisted living, memory care, and ultimately, skilled care instilled a partnership and bond I never anticipated. We met so many new people and made  situational friends because of Alzheimer’s disease. I would not have missed those days for anything. And now that they are gone, I miss the sense of meaning in my life that I felt, at her side.

So much learned, accomplished, endured, and required. It’s like that feeling you have after you have finished a really good book.  You hate to close the book, knowing that it’s over. You may even read everything on the cover, inspect the author’s bio, and hope there is a photo.  But you know it’s finished. So you savor the moment you spent with the characters and the feelings you shared and are thankful for the author’s inspiration.  Reluctantly, you have to move on.  And then, you hope for another really good book to come along.

The following is the talk I gave at my mother’s funeral today, August 13, 2015.  Many thanks to all who attended.

A Holiday, Edward Henry Potthast

You might wonder what is the meaning of a Beach Scene picture in your program and why do I have it up here on an easel. Rather unusual for a funeral. But life experience can teach some unusual lessons when you pay close attention. This painting was involved in a paradigm shift in my imagination that I want to share with you.

This painting hung in my parent’s bedroom for as long as I can remember. It never really meant a lot to me other than the colors dictated the fabric choices and set a beach theme. Not a surprising choice as our family has always enjoyed going to the beach. At age 18, Momma started visiting the seaside when her family moved down here from the north. She and Daddy spent many outings to the gulf when they were courting. Our young family enjoyed the beach as seen in old home videos and photos in our many scrapbooks. Later, we camped in our travel trailer at Gulf Shores and then happily accepted the generous invitations to stay at her sister’s condo in Destin.

So, when Momma moved to assisted living, I chose that picture to come with us to make her room feel like home. It followed us to the next two locations, as our needs increased.

Many of you know how crucial music is when living with Alzheimer’s disease. As Momma’s speech declined, we used music to bring out long-held memories. We often sang old familiar hymns, which became one way I could still hear my mother’s voice. One of those songs is one you probably know that goes like this.

” There’s a land that is fairer than day

And by faith we can see it afar

For the Father waits over the way

To prepare us a dwelling place there.”

 This is in reference to John 14:2 -4 when Jesus Comforts His Disciples by saying

14 “Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God[a]; believe also in me. 2 My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? 3 And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. 4 You know the way to the place where I am going.”

 The song continues:

“In the sweet by and by

We shall meet on that beautiful shore

In the sweet by and by

We shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

As I sang that song to Momma last week, I looked up at that picture hanging over her bed. For the first time, my eyes opened to meaning I hadn’t seen before. The sweet children interacting on that sandy spot represented my family at a favorite place on a windswept shore. This was our promise. It had been with us as a silent reminder of things to come. That we would all gather there, renewed and whole, in a land that is fairer than day. I realized that this promise was with us every step of the last six years, even when things looked hopeless as we watched the ravages of Alzheimer’s disease take hold. But by faith we kept moving, expecting God to guide us and He did – right into His loving arms.

Now, I hold on to that promise and eagerly await our reunion with the family. We all love going to the beach.

I hope we will see you there.

I just had my first experience with trying to find a lost person who has dementia.  My neighbor, who lives two blocks away, had fallen asleep on the couch for thirty minutes.  Just enough time for her husband to unlock the back door and disappear.  He has Lewy Body disease.  She provides his care 24/7.   Although he had been at the Adult Day Center today, she was exhausted and dozed off.  He was wearing the Project Lifesaver ankle bracelet that just had the battery replaced last week. She called the Sheriff’s office to alert them.  While she waited at the end of her driveway, she informed a passing bicyclist of her husband’s disappearance.  The rider of the bike is a friend of ours, so he came on to our house with the news.  While my husband got our bikes to join in the hunt, I wrote a quick alert on my Next Door App to tell my neighbors and surrounding neighborhoods of this man’s disappearance. We rode to her house and introduced ourselves.  I waited with her while my friend and husband rode off in several directions, trying to find the missing man.  It was quickly getting dark.  The Sheriff arrived who had the GPS equipment to find the ankle bracelet.  He rode off with the radar tool out his window to try to find him.

Meanwhile, a neighbor who was out shopping saw the Next Door App alert come up on her phone about the missing man.  She and her husband had recently driven out of the neighborhood and saw a man standing at the dark backend of a driveway on their way out.  Putting the alert together with seeing the man, they returned home, checking to see if he was still where they had seen him.  He was. As good fortune would have it, this alerted neighbor just happened to be a police officer.  He was able to bring our missing man home without incident.  He alerted the other officers involved who were searching the neighborhood.

While I was waiting with the wife, we prayed together that her husband would be found without incident.  He was.  The networking of neighbors, technology, and the hand of God, all are safe tonight.

Are you connected with your neighbors with the Next Door App?  It’s free and an excellent tool to communicate quickly. Check it out. And then invite your neighbors.

On a recent visit to Brooklyn, NY to celebrate with my son and his newly pregnant wife, I remembered seeing Cobble Hill Health Center on my last visit in his neighborhood.  It sits on a quaint street just blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge Park.  I had walked past and wondered what lay within the nicely manicured entrance of the red brick building where several folks in wheelchairs sat outside.

Having seen the movie, “Alive Inside”, I thought that name was the place where Henry “came alive” while listening to music on an iPod for the first time. So I reviewed the movie on Netflix and got the name of the Activity Coordinator featured and gave her a call at work.  She was there and we set up an appointment to meet that afternoon.

Taking my film producer/photographer son along (just in case), we waited in the lobby for Yvonne Flunory.  She has been an Activity Coordinator at Cobble Hill Health Center for sixteen years. She loves her work and makes it a family affair. She proudly explained that her daughter comes as a junior volunteer. Under the leadership of Louise Dueno, the Director of Therapeutic Recreation, along with two other Activity Coordinators, Cheryl McNeill and Renée Adamson, they offer the activities for all 364 residents. Forty beds are in the dementia unit.  They were all gracious enough to wait around after a long day to talk with me and my son for an hour. When sharing the bond of dementia care, there is so much to learn, so much to talk about, yet the subjects extended beyond what I expected.

I wanted to know how the release of the movie “Alive Inside” had affected them.  But first, I met Louise Dueno.  She warmly received us in her office and told us of her family connections of caring for her father who had vascular dementia, what it was like for her as she shared the care with her sister, and how he ultimately died.  Then she described the difficulties she had caring for her uncle and how he became a resident at Cobble Hill Health Center. So her professional life blurs into personal enabling her to  understand what families are dealing with. She related an experience she had just that day that gave her some relief that she had made a good decision about placing him in someone else’s care. She understood why I would take the time from a vacation to stop in and talk to her about caring for a loved one with dementia.

Ms. Dueno told me about the The Alzheimer’s Association, New York City Chapter’s Palliative Care for Advanced Dementia: Training and Implementation, called “Comfort First” being developed in their facility with a grant coordinated by Ann Wyatt from the Alzheimer’s Association.  We talked about the Music and Memory Program that became popular after the release of the movie “Alive Inside” which offers certification that Cobble Hill Health Center has.  That means that upon the initial assessment of a new resident, music preferences are examined either from information from family members, popular music from their era, and other background information. She also mentioned how Wisconsin is implementing this program in 250 long-term care facilities, replacing antipsychotic drugs with music for managing behavioral symptoms. She showed me her collection of iPods being charged in her office, her stash of replaceable sponge headset covers, and her two laptops that they use with their residents. We agreed that the direct listening of ones’ favorite music was more effective than a group activity of listening to music as it shuts out all the other noises and distractions.

While we talked, another woman waited patiently to speak to us.  Turns out, she had some information she wanted to share.  For six years, Ammeka Berken has coördinated and initiated volunteer programs with New York Cares, a not-for-profit program that is a clearing house for volunteers in New York.  Since my son lives near Cobble Hill Health Center, she invited him to their recurring programs at the Center:  Friday they take up to ten residents down to the Brooklyn Bridge Park; Saturday is Swing night which is a dance for the residents; then on Thursday evenings they take residents down to hear the live music at the park.  She took the opportunity to spread her mission by including us.

Passion is what drives those who believe in what they are doing.  Whether it is Dan Cohen with his development of the Music and Memory Program, or initiating the “Comfort First” program in residential facilities, or matching volunteers with life changing opportunities, or implementing activities to residents in long-term care facilities, or caring for a loved one, we move by a force beyond our own strength and abilities. The wish to enrich life for another human drives us to do, to pursue, to create, to learn, and encourage others to do the same. It was a delight to meet these passionate people.

Our encounter built a bridge from Mobile, Alabama to Cobble Hill, NY. May we learn from our connection and strengthen the resolve to improve the care for people with dementia.

I recently read a book that was recommended by dementia blogger, Kate Swaffer, entitled, “Flourish, A Visionary New Understanding of Happiness and Well-Being” by Martin E. P. Seligman. It contains a chart of Active and Constructive Responding compared with other ways of responding that I took into consideration.

 There have been times that I have felt like a ghost, alone and disconnected from the other people that are present at the nursing home where my mother lives. I realized as I left the nursing home today that I had used “Active Listening and Responding” with the various people I had encountered. As a result, right now I feel more alive and present than usual after making my daily visit to the nursing home. Nothing out of the ordinary today, except I had engaging conversations with most everyone I met.

First, the receptionist commented on my outfit that I was wearing. I responded back by telling her where I had bought it. She then told me about her recent vacation and all the shopping she had done at some outlet stores. We continued with a few more details, I mailed my letter at her desk and thanked her for the compliment, signed in and went on my way.

I found Momma in her wheelchair in the empty day room, seemingly asleep. I had brought in some lemon meringue pudding for Momma to try. Although she had her eyes closed and was not responding, as soon as the spoon full of sweet pudding was by her lips, she opened her mouth and invited the sweet softness in. I got some ice water from the nearby kitchen to help wash down the sticky goodness and proceeded to feed her the entire portion.

Her CNA came by and announced she was going to lay Momma down so I told I would bring Momma to the room as soon as she had finished eating. When we arrived there, the CNA was selecting a gown from the chest of drawers. I noticed she looked at several, unfolding and inspecting, then folding and replacing. Finally, she chose one. I asked her if she had found one she liked. She laughed and said she couldn’t find the one she was looking for. I asked her if it was the peach colored one and she laughed with a “yes.” I said it was my favorite one, too. She commented it must be in the laundry. I agreed and hoped it would find it’s way back to the room.

While she got busy with Momma, I went across the hall to check on my Aunt Jamie.

Jamie had her eyes open and watched me approach her bed. I stroked her cheek and drew my face close to hers with a big smile. She smiled back. I told her she was beautiful and that I loved her. I nestled her soft stuffed twiddlecat against her check. She snuggled back. I asked if she would like something good to drink. With a promise of being right back, I left the room in search of an empty cup, spoon, cranberry juice and a packet of thickener. I stirred my concoction upon my quick return. Pressing the controls for the bed, I raised her head up and adjusted her pillow for the best position to receive the drink. I went back to Momma’s room and got a soft hand towel, then placed it under Jamie’s neck and on her chest to catch any drips and spills.

I lowered the rail on the side of the bed and pulled my chair up close by her head while she watched with interest. I turned on my Spotify music of cello and piano, turned on my Flip speaker to set the mood and gazed lovingly into my dear aunt’s eyes. She retuned the gaze and opened her mouth. She enjoyed one spoonful at a time, swallowing without hurry, looking out the window, over at the tv, then back to my smiling face. I studied her eyes, her widows peak, and wondered about the two hairline scars near her nose. We went on like that until she closed her eyes, signaling she’d had enough, so I took the towel into the bathroom and rinsed it with hot water. I returned to wipe all residue from her face and neck, before raising the side rail to it’s original position.

Just then the CNA arriving for the next shift came in. I commented on her hairstyle and she announced she had just had her picture taken with two other CNA’s who had won the annual contest for Favorite CNA for their shift. She was smiling and animated so I asked her what would happen next and she explained that there would be a banquet next week for all the CNA’s and that she would attend a larger gathering at a sister nursing home. I congratulated her on her achievement and joined in the happiness that she was feeling. She moved on and I decided to do so as well.

I took the speaker, my purse and wet towel with me to Momma’s room to see if she was still awake. Her roommate was not in, so I turned down the tv and set up a chair next to Momma’s bed. I placed the speaker into the hand that I fished out from under the covers. I gathered up our favorite bed companions – the stuffed lion pillow, the purple twiddle classic, and her doll baby – and arranged them within reach of her functional hand. In the past, she has enjoyed feeling the vibrations coming from the speaker. I laid my hand upon hers. Eventually, she pulled her hand from under mine. She began to feel my fingers and press on my fingernails with hers. This was incredibly intimate and sweet as it felt like my Mother was interacting with me. She moved her hand onto the leg of her baby doll. So I slipped my hand and the speaker out and offered her some water, which she took a sip of through the straw. I moved to the other side of the bed to see if I could make eye contact. She was staring ahead, without even blinking.  I moved my head in the line of her vision and then I came into view.  She looked at me as I began to sing familiar hymns, starting with “Blessed Assurance”, “Amazing Grace”, “Shall We Gather at the River”, and was working on “In the Garden” when the roommate hurridly entered the room, announcing that she had to pee! Since the toilet is located directly across from Momma’s bed and the door cannot be closed with her wheelchair in there, I moved past her to give her some privacy and to divert the lady who was following close behind.

“Happy birthday to you,” I said to the wandering lady, seeing the balloons attached to her chair. I extended my hand, smiling and she looked at me while taking my hand and smiled back. “I haven’t been able to find a thing,” she declared backing up. Her blue eyes expressive, her purse hanging around her neck, her feet directing her movement. “Let’s see if there is anything down this way”, I suggested and she moved on down the hall in her usual way.

By now, Momma’s attention was on the twiddle classic, drawing the purple muff to her mouth. I adjusted the tv volume back up for the roommate and gathered up my things. I stopped by Jamie’s room to set her tv for the night and tuck her in. She smiled at me, crinkling her eyes in the late afternoon darkness.

As I walked down the hall, I said farewell to the staff at the nurses station.  I saw a lady who had just come from the beauty shop so I commented on how nice her hair looked. She said she had done it herself. I suggested she might be able to give me some helpful tips on how to take care of my own hair. She chuckled and tried to say some things about her son. When she admitted she was somewhat confused, I asked her if her son had long hair. No, it’s curly. I told her my son’s hair was curly too but that I also had a son with very long hair. She asked what I had to say about that. I told her nothing. I’d already said all there was to say about that. She smiled and I went on my way, saying hello to another one of the sweet residents, while approaching a new lady who was seated at the corner that I would be turning. She began to sing “we shall meet on that beautiful shore,” her eyes on mine, uncertain.   I exclaimed, “I was just singing that!” and joined her in the next refrain, then reached out for her hand which she took and we sang some more. Our eyes and spirits locked in our discovery. Feeling uplifted and connected to my new friend, I walked on down to the lobby where I met with more interaction and constructive responding. As I walked out to the car, I wondered, where else could I have such rich experiences all in one place?  “Active and Constructive Responding” is truly effective and makes a big difference. I happily drove home, with a sense of well being, buoyed by the hope that one day we will meet on that beautiful shore.