I walked her down the hallway of the Denver City and County building. It's hard to believe that my daughter is getting married today. As we round the corner to a small group of family and friends, and she looks at her husband to be and lights up in way that is still hard to describe.
The ceremony is short, beautiful, and the vows that are exchanged leaves everyone with huge smiles on their faces.
I would love to put this moment in a bottle for both of them. Love in the purest form like this gets harder to remember as we age. Love ends up being a wonderful utility that helps us all manage through the hurdles we face in live. That is the amazing part of love but that first flash of love, the genesis of the meaningful things in your life gets lost in a well lived life.
When they are introduced as husband and wife, the entire room is full of happy tears and the joy of them both starting their lives together.
The last time, I felt this kind of love is when I looked at my son and daughters face for the first time.
Damn, its a great day.
I check in with the receptionist at the Memory Care Center, this is my first visit to see Jane. There is a circle of people in the large lobby and an enthusiastic instructor who is leading the group through chair exercises.
"Jane is in the back lobby at the big table" the receptionist says and points me in the right direction.
Jane's profile indicated that she has advanced dementia and is nonverbal. She is married, has grown children who live in the area, and outlines her very full and amazing life. She came to the US from Ireland in her 20's, to work at an area university.
Jane is sitting in a chair and looking out the large picture window at the beautiful patio area. Flowers are in bloom and it is a sunny day.
"Hey Jane, my name is Mike, I a hospice volunteer who is going to sit with you if that is OK."
For the next 5 minutes, I tell her about me, where I live and tell her about my kids. Jane does not acknowledge my presence or look in my direction. Her gaze is fixed on the patio
I have learned that hospice visits move at a pace that is unique. My insightful observations about hospice patients and visits often are a result of me stepping in a giant hole or falling on my face. One of my first hospice patients was a man from San Francisco. His profile indicated that he loved and missed the city that he grew up in. I spent a week, studying San Francisco so we could fill up in hour talking about something he loved. I walked in the room and met him for the first time.
"Hey, I heard you are from San Francisco" I said, ready to impress him with my newly acquired knowledge.
"I fucking hate San Francisco" he said and gave me a very long look. The next 58 minutes were my first lesson in learning to be in another person's space and listening to what they wanted and needed to say. When you walk into visit a hospice patient, you enter their world and space. You toss your expectations out the window and learn to listen.
After talking for the 5 minutes of our visit, I sit quietly with Jane for the next 55 minutes looking out the window with her. I have learned the valuable lesson of letting the quiet speak for me. We sit in the comfortable silence, absorbing the beauty of the patio.
"Jane, I have to leave now, I will be back next Saturday at the same time. Thanks for letting me sit with you" I grab my backpack and start to stand up she turns to face me.
"Come on Johnny" she says and rests her hand on top of mine.
"I'm here" I tell her.
Jane has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They look bluer because her hair is completely gray. Her face breaks out in one of the biggest smiles I have ever seen. She pushes her chair back, stands up and I stand up with her. Jane takes my hand in hers and we start walking through the hallways around the day room.
Jane speaks periodically in a very heavy Irish brogue. Her words and phrases are intelligible, and I cannot understand what she is saying. This I understand is part of the advanced dementia. Jane will periodically stop in front of a wall and put my hands on the handrail and motion for me to push. I am very happy to push the guardrail and she smiles that huge smile and resumes our walk.
After 30 minutes of walking, Jane directs me a sofa in a sunroom and motions for me to sit down. A staff RN walks into the day room and introduces herself. Jane looks at her with a scowl, turns to me and in an incredibly loud voice says.
"Oh my GOD, what is she wearing?"
The RN smiles at her and says "Hi Jane."
I am looking at Jane with my mouth open. She smiles at me and resumes talking in the abstract way that I am familiar with and cannot understand.
Most of my visits with Jane go exactly like this like this. After sitting down next to her for a period of time that only she determines, she will look at me and say
"Come on Johnny".
I will stand up and she will take my hand and we will walk while she narrates the walk. I cannot understand most of what she says but for a reason I can still not articulate well, we are both comfortable with each other. She will stop at a very random time, turn towards me and smile broadly at me. It is the kind of smile that tugs at your heart. I am not sure who Johnny is to her, but I know he is loved and seems to bring her very brief moments of happiness.
Jane also has these shooting star moments. Walking contentedly around the hallways she will periodically stop and sit down on a bench and motion for me to sit with her. She turns towards me and for the briefest moment those blue eyes sharpen, and she will ask me a question in a voice that is different that the one I am most familiar with.
"What is it that they be calling you?" she asked me and for a brief moment I realize I may be meeting Jane for the first time.
"Mike, Mike, they call me Mike" I say, excited at the prospect of actually meeting her after spending so many months with her. And as soon as I say it, she is gone. She asked and did not stay to hear the answer. These are her shooting star moments. A walk with Jane is like a walk under a clear starry night. Every so often a shooting start will appear in the night sky and just as quickly disappear again. I have never caught the falling star.
On another visit, just 5 minutes into our walk, she stops to sit on a padded bench in front of a large picture of President JFK with his daughter. Jane will lapse into silences that can last from 1 minute to 10 minutes. I am as comfortable with her silences as she is, I don't prompt her or interrupt her silences. They make perfect sense to me. We sat on the bench for almost 10 minutes. Jane puts her hand on mine, and she looks at me with blue eyes that are focused and sharp again. She says to me in a voice that is very different from the one I know.
"You know I am very sick."
I hold her gaze and tell her "I know."
"I am not feeling well" she says, and then she is gone. She turns her head away from me and is talking to someone in the abstract way that I am familiar with. I never did get to meet Jane. She saw me for very short glimpses. And as much as I tried, I never did get to introduce myself properly. I was content then and now to be "Johnny" to her.
As her illness progressed, we stopped walking, and her silences could be much longer. I have learned to be content to be with her without talking to her.
On one of our last visits, she was not vocal for the entire visit, which was unusual. I touched her hand and told her I would see her next week. She turned her head towards me, smiled that huge smile and said "Johnny."
Jane died in her sleep, 2 days after my last visit with her.
Jane's husband called me 2 weeks later and asked if we could meet briefly, he had information about who Johnny was. We met at a coffee shop, and he said that before Jane moved to the US, she was married to a man named Johnny. Johnny died unexpectedly in an accident approximately 6 months after they were married.
Jane loved Johnny deeply and decided to move to the US to start a new life. Years later she met her husband, and they were married for 40+ years until her death.
"I'm sorry, I should not have asked you about Johnny" I said. I worried that his memory of her, would be affected by the news that she had previously married and not told him.
"Why would you be sorry?" he said as a tear rolled down his cheek.
"Do you realize that she got to spend time during this last 11 months with the first love of her life? he said and now tears are rolling down my cheeks.
I realize now that the purest form of love, that moment I wanted to save for Megan is in a bottle that she already has put away safely. Love in its purest form stayed with Jane well into her age and advanced dementia.
I hope each of you reading this realizes that moment, that bottle of the purest form of love is on your respective shelves. Not everyone will see it or realize it is there, but you will have it to use when you need it the most.
Best Regards - Johnny
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