Stone Soup: The Mystery of Memories

A story of memories lost and found

One of my favorite memories is of a man I will call Dr. Collins. His son came into the Memory Care residence where I worked as the nurse case manager. Sam Collins looked to be in his late twenties. He introduced himself and said that he was looking for a possible place for his father to live. His dad had a diagnosis of early onset Alzheimer’s and had been going to a day care program, but living independently at night, with frequent supervision from his kids.

Now it seemed that safety was a concern and an assisted living situation was recommended by his dad’s physician. The problem was, Dr. Collins didn’t really know he had Alzheimer’s. He believed he was going to work every day, not daycare. His son was agonizing over how to transition his dad into this memory care facility with his dignity intact.

I suggested that he go home and bring his dad back to apply for a job as “resident physician”. This of course was not true, but if it helped this once vibrant physician believe that he still had his mojo, then why not give it a try?

An hour later Dr. Collins was sitting across from me in my office. I introduced myself and started laying out the job description so that it sounded fabulous. I told him that we were searching for someone with his unique expertise who would be willing to live in the residence and observe the other residents daily, then make recommendations for any treatment that he might feel was needed. I used medical lingo that appealed to him and I asked him if he would like to see where his office might be, should he accept the position. He thought that sounded swell!

As we walked through the building I introduced him to every staff member and said “This is Dr. Collins, he’s a candidate for the in-house physician position we have posted”. Each member of the staff stepped in, shook his hand and welcomed him warmly. He beamed.

I walked the doctor and his son to one of our empty resident rooms, a small unadorned bedroom with simple furniture and a small bathroom. I gestured grandly around the room and said “And this would be your office Dr. Collins, what do you think?” He thought it was grand!

Back in the office Sam was holding his breath. We sat back down and I took out some employment forms. I offered Dr. Collins the position and told him that though we could not afford to pay him, his room and board, meals and laundry would all be free.

“I accept!” he said with childlike enthusiasm, and I slid the form across the desk for him to sign. It was a useless, fake form, but it gave him a sense of purpose. As he signed his name my eyes drifted over to Sam who mouthed the words “Thank you” with tears in his eyes.

Dr. Collins moved in the next day and we were in awe as this man’s life unfolded through the photos observed on the walls. Dr. Collins you see was a physician to the stars, and had a lifetime of experiences and adventures with world leaders, celebrities and sports figures from around the world.

“Oh my gosh, there is you with the Dali Lama, and you with Joe Namath. Is that you with Woody Allen?” And so it went, this humble man, willing to now work without pay had lived a life of such interesting adventures and travels, and now had no recollection of any of it. He had no idea who each person was in the photos, but he smiled when he looked at each one, I believe remembering the feeling that each person gave him when they met.

Know this: people with Alzheimer’s are not, by and large, unhappy. Their families are profoundly sad and rightfully so, but don’t feel bad for someone seemingly lost to Alzheimer’s. There is a new found lightness of being that takes up residence, a living in the moment that can be almost childlike. Though recent memory fades, the long term memories of younger years surfaces, which can be a comfortable place for people to rest in.

Dr. Collins adjusted very well to his new home, and walked about the building each day with purpose. From time to time I would go visit him at his “office” to assess his cognitive decline and as his memory continued to fail, he didn’t seem to notice.

On one such visit Dr. Collins excitedly informed me that he had received a medal of honor from the Navy. He carefully removed a purple velvet box from his pocket and opened it slowly. His face was beaming as I leaned in to get a look.

His children, realizing that their dad could no longer remember his lifelong career as a physician, noted that he did still have long term memories of a stint in the navy as a young man. As a way to help him feel pride in his military service they purchased a fake medal of honor. The medal was engraved “For Extraordinary Kindness in the Line of Duty”.

Looking at that medal brought tears to my eyes, that these children who were losing their father in increments, had the maturity and the love to honor him with something that they knew he could hold on to and feel good about. He had been a loving father, and a kind physician and it showed not only in his photos, but in the devotion of his children.

When we lose our short term memories to Alzheimer’s are we lost? I think not. There is a deep well within all of us that stores away every memory of candy corn, a shooting star, the smell of the ocean and the rush of a first kiss. A person may need to retreat deeper to access those memories, leaving others behind, but they are not lost to us. They are walking through childhood meadows, throwing out a stick to the family dog, and giggling with anticipation while waiting for Christmas morning.

Dr. Collins had lived a life many of us would only dream of, yet in the end he wound up having no memory of all those travels and experiences. What remained was his ability to find joy in the new found memories from his past and his childrens incredible ability to accept their father right where he was. Now that’s something I will never forget.