Make the Hard Calls

I know it’s hard to call (or, pre-Covid, visit) someone who is ill or in turmoil. It’s easier to call someone else and ask about them.

Easier for you.
Not for the someone else.
And it does nothing at all for the person you love.

Service
Calling someone ill or in pain, especially when it’s uncomfortable, is service.
If you miss someone because of distance, time or disease, tell them. They need to hear it.

I don’t know about all diseases, not even a lot of diseases, but I do know about dementia. Dementia’s progression isolates, slowly peeling away who you were and who you were with other people. Dementia, however, is not contagious.

Nothing is contagious via the telephone.
Do the service.
Call your friend, your aunt, your cousin with cancer, dementia, Parkinson’s, depression.

Making Calls
“Remember” is a trigger word for people with dementia.
It can make them feel like a failure, stupid, worthless because they can’t remember.

Mom won’t remember that time when we (fill in the blank). Phrases like “Do you remember…” or “Remember when…” are time bombs that explode after you’ve hung up, fragging her with self-hate and sadness.

She doesn’t remember because…dementia.

Making a call is simple, but not easy.
What will you say, you wonder?
What should you expect?
Here’s what to expect: Nothing.
It’s not about you, it’s not for you. It’s service.
Let me repeat: Do. Not. Expect. Anything.
Your friend, aunt, cousin, buddy is still in there: her humor, silliness, values; but she may be surrounded by a cloud of aphasia and memory loss she has the fight through to get to you.

Tell her your name and how you know each other.
Share your good news: new house, job, baby, sweetheart
Share your bad news: death, sickness, heartbreak
Share concerns, thoughts, silliness, that funny thing your dog did.
She won’t remember any of it, possibly not even at the end of the call. She may ask you your name–again, ask you how you’re connected to her, all those things she wishes she could remember about you, but…
It makes her feel like “a whole person” to be someone you think of and share things with.

“We used to…”
“When I was younger you would…”
“You taught me how to…”
“I miss the times we would…”

Those start sentences that say:
♥I remember YOU.
♥I know who you are and who you were.
♥You matter to me now.
♥You had an impact on my life.

All anyone really wants is to know is that they’re loved, remembered and valued.

We’re at the beginning of a new chapter in the Book of Mom. In this chapter, she doesn’t know where she lives, even when we are home; thinks her bedroom is a copy of her real room elsewhere. She’s frightened, a lot. She pulls up her big girl pull-ups and shuffles through, anyway.

The less contact she has with the outside world, the more things fall away. She won’t know who you are–some days she struggles with knowing who I am. Your name may or may not be familiar. But, your voice. She recognizes the voice of someone who loves her, and who she loves. The sound of the voice flips a switch deep inside that says: You are safe and loved. Even though her niece M. calls just about every week, Mom swears she doesn’t have any contact or relationship with her, never knew her. But M calls, and her voice sparks that something and they actually talk. About politics, family, work…life.

She won’t remember a thing you said. Or that you called. By tomorrow It will all be gone. Maybe even later the same day. But your call makes her happy in the moment.
This moment.
And this one.

Getting calls
Mom loves getting calls.
Some of her days are good, some are not.
She grows more confused / frightened / and bored at the same time.
She lives in a snowglobe, filled with detached, free-floating memories. Impossible to sort and order, she tries desperately to sort and order them, and as soon as she thinks she has it in place, something comes along and shakes the globe and her head is spinning again.

You say you’re uncomfortable making a phone call?
Try shuffling through life in her slippers for a while.

Everyone wants be remembered by the people they love.
The light at the end of her tunnel is people, talking to people.
Be a people.