Visiting a Friend in the Memory Care Unit of an Assisted Living Facility

     The other day I visited a close friend who lives in a facility for people with dementia and other problems. He is in a wheelchair and can't operate it himself, so he goes where people take him. When I got there, he was on the patio, alone, asleep in the sun.

    He does recognize people, though sometimes it takes a minute—me, his family, the many friends who come to visit. He can't follow a conversation, but you can somewhat engage him by sharing a photo book, for instance, or reading short pieces of poetry that maybe trigger good feelings, if not memories. If you put a musical instrument or a ping-pong paddle in his hand, his body will remember—the fingers pluck the strings, the hand makes the paddle hit the ball—moments of engagement. But on his own he doesn't make art or write poems or read—things he used to enjoy—and he never watched television, anyway, so that isn't much of a distraction, either. 

    I wondered how he fills his time, the tedious hours of day after day. 

    But that, I see now, misses the mark.

    He can't articulate his thoughts very well, but he said something extraordinary that day. Looking directly at me, with neither despair nor self-pity, he said, "I don't know what my role is." 

    He had expressed a deep truth. We want to be meaningful in our lives, to have purpose in relation to other people. This man had been a high-school teacher, many years ago; that was a role. He had started a commune and shared in the experiments of life style so important in that era. He was a mentor to young men. He made art and played music with other people. He has sustained many important friendships. He is still a father and a husband, but those roles are meaningless in his day-to-day life situation now, as neither sons nor wife need anything from him. His family and friends come to visit, and they come often, but that doesn't help him understand his role in life. What, now, does he have to offer? 

    Later during my visit he got caught in a loop of statements, as often happens. None of it was clear and direct, but what he said was, "I'm just a guest here." The elaboration was a little garbled, but the gist was, "When you are a guest in someone's house or when you go to church, you respect the way they do things. You go along with their ways." Things like that. 

    Again, I understood. He has no relationship with the other "guests" in the facility, who have the same cognitive difficulties he has. The staff are good. The care is excellent. But his role with them is passive. He gives them purpose, but he doesn't feel his own purpose. 

    "I don't know what my role is”—a simple recognition of his life now and a tremendous effort to come to terms with it.

    I didn't know what to tell him.