Dock of the Bay

Because my husband responds to music, "official" music therapy has been added by the hospice provider. The young man visits various residents, strumming his guitar and singing the tunes of their era. He has a strong, clear voice, and his playing is very good, too. All the residents enjoy listening to him and singing along, so it benefits everyone, really.

Yesterday, I happened to be present when the musician came to sing and play for my husband. Previous sessions hadn't gone too well, which is surprising, so I was glad to be there to observe and make suggestions. My husband likes to get up suddenly and wander a bit, which made the therapist think he wasn't interested in the music. That's not true, of course, so I just suggested that when that happens, he could just be a troubadour and follow my husband around. It worked perfectly. The little egg-shaped shaker things, though, not so much. My husband secreted his away in his pocket, but I'm just as sneaky as he is and was able to retrieve it without conflict. Whew.

At one point, my husband had decided to sit down on the couch for a bit. I sat next to him, and the therapist began playing "Dock of the Bay." My husband was nodding his head and tapping his foot, making warbling attempts at singing along to this long-time favorite. Then came the last part of the song.

"Here comes the whistling part," I whispered in his ear, smiling.

And guess what happened next? As the therapist began whistling, my husband whistled along, too! He even trilled some of the "notes." This was so wholly unexpected, so delightful. Everyone in the room started clapping and cheering, "Way to go!"

I just cried. I think that's okay.

Music Is Magic

Music has a way of reaching past the Alzheimer's and firing up, albeit briefly, a person's spirit. According to the Mayo Clinic, "Research suggests that listening to or singing songs can provide emotional and behavioral benefits for people with Alzheimer's disease and other types of dementia. Musical memories are often preserved in Alzheimer's disease because key brain areas linked to musical memory are relatively undamaged by the disease." I don't know about all that, necessarily, but someone told me to think of it as being like riding a bike. You never really forget how to ride. It's in your muscle memory.

Enjoying that tune. 

My husband has always loved music. Every genre except rap, that is. Classical, gospel, country, rock, blues, bluegrass, jazz, and soul are all happily and generously represented in his considerable collection. He could "name that tune" in three notes or less and loved seeing and hearing his favorite artists "live" in concert. He frequently watched televised performances or popped in DVD's of bands famous and obscure.

So when I heard there was going to be live entertainment at the facility this afternoon, I made it a point to enthusiastically encourage him to "go to the concert" with me. This was not going to be a typical afternoon visit with naps interspersed with "earbud" music from the iPod I bring with me that's loaded with tunes typical of his eclectic taste.

The singing duo was mildly reminiscent of SNL's Marty & Bobbi Culp, but that didn't matter. Their song selections were standards spanning the decades. The show tunes, classic rock, and jazzy numbers were familiar and pleasing. It took my husband a while, but his eyes brightened and he seemed to genuinely enjoy the music, nodding to the beat, clapping his hands (astounding!), even dancing  (swaying to the music) with me and smiling as he held me in his arms. Dear reader, you can imagine how this made my heart glad!

Groovin'...

This is why I say that music is magic. It's miraculous. It reaches down deep in your soul, pulling out memories and associated feelings that may have been long forgotten. It transports you to far-away places and long-ago times. It elicits a powerful and positive response from people whose emotions may generally manifest in a thousand inappropriate ways and whose treasured memories and pleasing personalities are buried under layers of increasing confusion and disorientation.

It is heartwarming. And heartbreaking.

And look! I captured a smile.

Thor. Or Whatever.

We're driving home from the theater, where we've just seen "Thor." He wasn't very engaged in the film, even though there was plenty of action and lots of computer graphics. And Led Zeppelin tunes. He loves Led Zeppelin and was swaying to the music.

The theater was crowded, of course, so I spent quite a bit of time making sure he didn't disturb others with unwanted comments or attention, as he is wont to do. He kept trying to pick something up from the floor. It was a shadow. All in all, it went pretty well, but I did have to wonder why I'd spent the money. However, none of that is the subject of this post.

So, we're driving home. He looks at me and asks, "Where do you work?"

"Wow!" I think to myself, "An actual question that makes potential conversational sense!"

I respond, "I work at home." I pause and add, "How about you?" I'm hopeful that he'll say something about the company he worked for, or that he doesn't know where he works, or that he doesn't remember, or something...anything...that would indicate understanding and engagement. Silly me. He doesn't answer. I ask again. He points to the hill we're driving past, "There's people up there and walking around and taking you up there and all that stuff." Squirrel.

Okay. But there are no people up there, walking or otherwise. Maybe it's a loose connection from "Thor"? I go along with it, because there's no point in pointing out the obvious. My head is getting accustomed to these letdowns, but my heart feels the punch. Still.

Does this post seem disjointed? Welcome to my world.

The Concert

Six years ago, my husband was released from his job. Five years ago, testing began. And four years ago, he was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's. These are my thoughts and feelings about our experiences, good and not so good. I hope, on the whole, my chronicles will be an encouragement to you. Thank you for reading them. Hang on to your hope! 

I took this photo. Please don't use it without
 my permission. Thank you.

For my husband's birthday, I surprised us both with last-minute tickets to see singer, songwriter, and musician James Taylor. We'd never seen him "live" before, and both of us have enjoyed his music since we were young. You could say it's the "soundtrack of our lives."

The weather was lovely, our seats were surprisingly good (especially considering the reasonable price), and Mr. Taylor's performance was incredible. Wow. What stage presence, voice command, and rapport with the audience. He's a consummate pro, making a large venue feel like a small club. Intimate. Comfortable. We were transported years back in time to when we were just starting out together. Music is amazing that way. It has memories attached to it. Mostly good ones, in this case.

My husband, along with the rest of the audience, was happily singing along to the songs. I was pleased and surprised that he was remembering the lyrics, but I wasn't prepared for the emotions I was feeling. A deep sense of sorrow and melancholy enveloped me. Yes, I was enjoying the concert. Very much so. Yes, I was singing along, too. Yes, I was listening for my favorite song, too. But tears were running down my cheeks. I may have been sobbing, overcome with feelings of loss and longing for that elusive something that might never actually have been there. That thing you can't quite put your finger on but wish you could embrace.

I was happy. And I was sad. Happy because my husband was having a wonderful time. Happy because I'd been able to give him something really special for "his" day. Sad because tomorrow, or even on the way home tonight, he might not really remember having been there without prompting. Sad because we were young once, and we didn't realize we wouldn't always be. We were healthy once, and we took it for granted. Just like all of you.