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? I
quickly poked the correct combination of numbers on
the security key pad, and the sliding glass door to
the special care unit opened smoothly, allowing entry.
Walking the few steps to my office door, I turned the
key in the lock, flicked on the light switch, and
walked absent mindedly to my desk, musing how
unexpected things had turned out.
When I'd first come to the unit, I'd thought the most
I could hope to offer the 18 special-care residents
who called this south Austin, Texas care facility
"home" was emotional support and "warm fuzzies." That,
and alleviate concerns and feelings of isolation and
frustration family members experienced - locked in a
grief beyond description.
They battled denial daily, their eyes a cruel betrayer
each visit. The bodies of loved ones were not crippled
or marred. Hair did not fall from heads. There were no
tubes, no bedridden lifeless forms upon crisp white
sheets. Their enemy lurked unseen, forging an
unnerving battle - its weapon, the frightening
repercussions of a progressive disease that slowly
ravished the brain, layer by layer.
My
job was that of activities director for the
Alzheimer's unit at a convalescent care center during
the early 1980's, a time when Alzheimer's was still
very much a phantom disease. Through lack of research
and understanding, Alzheimer's was still medically
untreatable, the cause a mystery. The handling and
care of victims yet in the experimental stages. There
were no pat rights or wrongs, no solid guidelines. In
other words, "find what works and do it" was the
advice of caregiving professionals.
My
employers expected me to provide increased quality of
life for residents through entertaining activities, to
offer a friendly smile and compassionate ear, and to
simply "be there" for family members. And, I did that.
I formulated my own fifteen minute therapeutic
activities, devised specifically for crippled
attention spans and abilities, and provided a "bridge"
to connect families of victims through monthly support
groups and a newsletter.
But, I felt compelled to offer more. As a Christian,
my first concern for any individual was for their
soul. I wondered how I could go about effectively
witnessing, identifying and meeting the spiritual
needs of Alzheimer's victims well into the second
phase of their disease.
Most residents couldn't even remember the names of
close family members or relationships with their own
spouses. In their vulnerability they were wary and
suspicious of anybody unfamiliar - making anyone who'd
been out of sight for even five minutes a prime
candidate. It seemed hopeless. Yet, I soon discovered
in this situation, as in all others - what might be
impossible for man is always possible with God!
Through God's inspiration, one of the first activities
I implemented was that of "The Senior Sunshine Club."
Colorful club badges were provided for "members," and
club cards with a logo I designed myself were printed.
The cards were kept in pockets of shirts and pants of
residents as a reminder of upcoming meetings.
Feeling around in a pocket and absently pulling out
the card for inspection, a memory might trigger, or a
passing nurse might see the card and offer assistance,
"Oh, I see you belong to the Senior Sunshine Club.
Looks like there's a meeting scheduled at
9:30."
Most Alzheimer's residents could be found sitting with
hands clasped tightly together on laps with dazed
expressions staring into space, or silently watching
the repetitious movements of nursing aides and
orderlies busy at work. Some walked restlessly,
relentlessly, back and forth, up and down the hall - a
masked expression surrounding vacant eyes, minds
locked in a mist of confusion - or so it appeared.
But at 9:30 a.m. each weekday morning all that
changed! Ambulatory residents capable of articulation
became active members in the club. A small semi-circle
of chairs framed the spot where I stood, a large white
board directly behind me. Five days a week eight
chairs filled with the expectant faces of eight people
I came to love in a very special way.
I
started each session by reintroducing myself and each
member present. As I talked about God's love for us
and Christ's sacrifice on the cross, I drew a simple
hill on the white board with three crosses - the
middle larger than the others. Keeping group attention
on the middle cross by pointing my finger and tapping
the board lightly, I shared the simple plan of
salvation.
Prayer followed, a time of initiated group sharing,
then a rundown of the day's planned activities, and
suggestions for "Ray of Light" newsletter content.
Important aspects of this activity included talking
animatedly, using lively expressions and gestures to
keep attention, and frequent smiling eye contact.
After each session I escorted members to the door and
shook hands, graciously thanking each for coming. The
departing handshake, an unhurried clasp of acceptance,
and smiling eye contact were especially important.
Residents who attended the meeting might not remember
what we talked about, but they would remember how they
felt while there: safe, accepted, at ease . . . as
though they belonged! They would return again and
again.
The Senior Sunshine Club became a favorite, revered by
everybody. Several members refused to remove club
badges after meetings. Throughout the day, many could
be found proudly displaying his or her club card to
visitors in the hallway, enthusiastically inviting the
dumbstruck individuals to future meetings.
I
would walk down the hall and hear, "There she is,
our leader!" orated with affection, even
admiration, by one of several who had dubbed me the
respectful title. ? Mr. Calhoon, a dignified, African
American retired high school principle, always
impeccably groomed , and Mr. Slaughter, a gentleman
who had lived the simple life of a farmer and still
wore overalls, were two of the club's biggest
supporters.
The two story facility housed many residents. I took
care of the daily social needs of residents in the
Alzheimer's wing. Another activity director, Karen,
saw to the needs of the other residents. When it came
time to bus alert, ambulatory residents to the
regularly scheduled concerts, Karen always included
Mr. Calhoon and Mr. Slaughter in the group. They loved
music! These monthly outings were usually carried off
without mishap - until after the establishment of the
Sunshine Club, that is. But, Karen didn't seem to mind
at all.
Returning from a concert one day Karen took me aside
to fill me in. During concert intermission Mr. Calhoon
and Mr. Slaughter were instructed to stand against a
nearby wall while Carmen assisted a female resident to
the powder room. But, when she returned, they had
vanished!
Karen was frantic and immediately started searching
through the crowds, fearing for the safety of two
residents who would never be able to articulate who
they were, or where they were from.
Over the collage of babble, Karen heard the familiar
phrase, "our leader." Her radar ears honed in on the
voice that led to our missing friends. She found them
surrounded by an attentive, if somewhat bemused,
audience. ? Both men were displaying club badges and
club cards, extolling the virtues of our group,
inviting every one within earshot to our next meeting.
It was then I realized how important the club had
become to its members. I was deeply touched.
Some residents had been active Christians before
Alzheimer's robbed lives and memories. Some had merely
acknowledged a God. Others had been mockers,
blaspheming what they did not understand. Mr. Cantu, a
cantankerous old Hispanic with a colorful vocabulary I
did not appreciate was one such person.
For three months Mr. Cantu had sat in during meetings
and listened to the club's Christian theme. Some
members frequently offered simple testimony when
gently prompted: "God's nothing to laugh at, is He?"
"He's always been a friend to me!"
But, Mr. Cantu never spoke unless it was to loudly
admonish someone for tripping over his feet, or for
accidentally bumping into his chair. He never made
comments, never asked questions.? Except for one
time.? One day, for about three minutes. That three
minute verbal exchange was to profoundly changed the
course of Mr. Cantu's future forever.
While pointing to the center cross I had just drawn
while again explaining Christ's sacrifice on Calvary, Mr. Cantu began to weep.
"I
guess I need forgiveness from Christ. I've never done
that before," was all he could manage.
What I witnessed next is burned into my mind forever.
? As several group members stood and gathered around
his seat, Mr. Slaughter, who was sitting next to Mr.
Cantu, leaned over and took his hand.
"That's
all right. We all need the love and forgiveness of
Jesus. Ain't nothing to be ashamed about," he said
gently, patting the gnarled hand in his.
Mr. Calhoon spoke up next, taking control of the
situation
"Well
then, let's get our leader over here to pray for him
and take care of business," he said assertively,
motioning for me with a wave of his hand.
As
I humbly knelt before the sobbing form of Mr. Cantu,
the hairs on my arms stood on end. ? I sensed God's
presence in that room so strongly. Taking his
trembling hand in mine, I gratefully offered
thanksgiving to God that Mr. Cantu's heart had been
touched. Then, Mr. Cantu earnestly repeated a simple
prayer of repentance after me. And, there, in the
hushed stillness that descended - swaddling the entire
room in an unearthly peace - Mr. Cantu surrendered his
life to Christ.
When I opened my eyes and looked into his tear stained
face, I saw an inner glow illuminating through dark,
wet eyes. And, it was as though the bells of heaven
itself were tolling as the whole group simultaneously
broke out in applause. Everyone cheered! Everyone
rejoiced!
Mr. Cantu wiped his eyes as a huge smile stretched the
breadth of his face. "Oh, that feels good. I feel
really good inside right now. I feel really happy,"
he said with wonder.
Mr. Slaughter looked down at his feet reflectively
before speaking.
"You
know, when I first came here, it was just a place to
stay. Now, I feel like I have a family. We're just a
big happy family in here. This feels like home!"
Ten minutes later not one group member would recall
what had happened during our meeting that morning, but
it didn't matter. At the time of Mr. Cantu's
confession, he had meant what he said with his whole
heart. God heard, and HE remembered! ? Mr. Cantu was
now a new creation in Christ. Nobody and NOTHING would
ever be able to snatch that away from Mr. Cantu. Not
even Alzheimer's Disease.
My
time spent in the Alzheimer's unit taught me many
things. For one, I learned not to underestimate a
patient's abilities simply because of limitations
documented in medical charts. ? I learned to glean
insight from their personal files to use as a
starting point, not as a measuring stick, as to what I
could or should not expect from them.
I
learned to trust the compassion of my heart and to
heed God-given instincts. ? And, I learned to not
doubt. For, it is God's strength alone that wins each
victory. All we have to do is put our trust and faith
in Him, be a willing vessel, and allow God to truly be
the Lord of all! |
