Reality?

“Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” ~Albert Einstein, theoretical physicist & most influential scientist of the 20^th Century (1879-1955)

“You’re not my Mary!” Alice yelled loudly. Mary recoiled at her mother’s frustration. “My Mary is only seven years old…not some old lady like you!” Mary’s eyes began to well up. Every visit was like this. She would try desperately to convince her mother (Alice) she was in fact her daughter Mary, but to no avail. Every visit ended with Alice frustrated…yelling and Mary in tears. Mary knew her Mom wouldn’t be around much longer and she also knew she would have to bear the guilt of not having visited her more frequently, but her visits left wounds which were much too deep. Why couldn’t her own Mother just acknowledge who she was?

She left the room quietly dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a tissue her nose as red as a drunk’s on New Year’s Eve. Mary knew the door code by heart (it was Christmas backwards…2512). She buzzed herself out. Traversing the long hallway, she finally reached the lobby. “Mary!” The gentle baritone voice stopped her halfway to the automatic exterior doors. Mary turned to see John coming toward her. John, the facility director, was kind, gentle and always seemed to be smiling. “How are things going with your Mom?” he asked cheerfully. “Just fine,” Mary replied, unable to generate much sincerity. John examined Mary’s face for what seemed like a long time. “Alice is giving you some trouble isn’t she?” he said quietly. The tears came unexpectedly and flowed uncontrollably. “She doesn’t even know who I am,” she wailed. “Her own daughter.” “She thinks I’m still a little girl.” “Why won’t she believe me?” “What am I doing wrong?” John quietly let the outburst run its course. “What should I do?” Mary said finally.

John gently guided Mary to a seating area in they lobby. He gestured for her to sit down and sat down across from her. “Do you have any pictures of your self at the age your mother remembers you?” “Of course…lots of them,” she replied. “What I am going to suggest to you may sound odd at first,” John continued. “But often with dementia patients you have to meet them wherever they are at the time.” “You mean indulge her fantasy?” Mary sounded offended. “You wouldn’t be indulging a fantasy”, John said matter-of-factly. “Your Mother’s memories are quite real to her and actually quite genuine.” Mary sat there staring at John for what seemed like minutes. Finally she popped open her purse and tossed the soiled tissue into it. “I’ll try anything at this point.” Her statement punctuated by the snap of her purse closing. “Good,” replied John as they stood. “If you need any guidance, just ask me,” his smile lighting up his face again.

The next Saturday Mary arrived with a thick album full of photos under velum. She took a deep breath as she buzzed herself into the dementia wing. Alice was sitting quietly in her room, propped up in a wing backed chair, staring out the window. Bathed in sunlight she looked very old and frail. Mary cleared her throat as she came in, to prevent startling her Mother. “What do you want?” Alice said with an edge as she turned from the window. “Just to visit,” Mary said as calmly as she could. “I have some pictures to show you,” she continued. “I don’t want to see any pictures,” snapped Alice turning back to the window. “They are of your daughter” remarked Mary quietly… holding her breath. “My Mary?” Alice responded, brightening immediately. “Yes, your Mary.” Mary could feel a lump forming in her throat but she pressed on. She dragged a chair over and plopped down next to her Mom. Gently laying the album on her Mother’s lap she opened it carefully.

Alice starred at it for a long time, her finger tips barely touching the page. It seemed as if she were afraid the pictures weren’t real. Then, slowly, she began describing the events in each picture, seeming to remember as she went. “I remember this one.” “Here’s my Mary sled riding” Slowly she started to tell the stories surrounding the picture at which she was looking. “This is commerce hill at old Mr. Finley’s farm.”

Mary’s usual ten minute visit stretched to an hour and a quarter. Finally, a nurse’s aid came into the room to put Alice down for her nap. Mary got up to leave. She shrugged on her coat and headed for the door. “Would you come and see me again?” Alice said from her bed. “Sure” replied Mary with a smile and “I’ll bring more pictures.” “That would be nice” Alice said sleepily. “Goodbye Mum” Mary said without thinking. “Goodbye Mary” came the voice from behind her. She stopped and turned, but her mother’s eyes were already fluttering shut. “I love you”, Mary whispered under her breath, the lump in her throat returning.

Mary headed out into the hall hugging the album to her chest the sound of her mother’s voice still hanging in the air. She would be back the next day with another album. She keyed in the door code. “Merry Christmas…backwards” she thought with a lingering smile.

There is a sad misconception that there is one giant reality within which we all reside. If you don’t reside there you are somehow mentally and/or emotionally deficient. Actually, we drag our own personal realities around with us like our own little world. These individual realities are comprised of bits and pieces of memories, fragments of experiences, things discarded and things over which we obsess; our cultural imprint and our beliefs, or what we think we believe. In short, we edit, select and create what we call reality. Our reality is our own personal mythology. In this age of clinical accuracy, high definition and so called reality television programs (those are edited too by the way) it is hard for most of us to accept that our realities are, in many ways, of our own making and far beyond the “real” in “reality”.

My sister and I share a memory of riding with my mother when she went to visit my father in the hospital. He had been injured while working in the steel mills in Pittsburgh. Oddly, neither of us remembers the other one going along. Whose memory is accurate? In point of fact, it doesn’t really matter! The accuracy of our memories is irrelevant. Our realities have become part of our “mythology”.

Much of the strife in our life comes when realities collide. This is not to say there are not people with genuine mental illnesses and real depravities. But most of us “so called” mentally healthy people spend an inordinate amount of time trying to drag each other, kicking and screaming into each others’ reality. It is difficult enough to accept we don’t reside in the same reality with a dementia patient. It is even more difficult to accept it in relatively normal people. As a friend once pointed out: “Tell me someone we know who you would call ‘normal’?”

As stewards of others we are often called upon to meet people within their own realities rather than trying to kidnap them and take them to ours. This is what Mary learned. When she met Alice in here own reality she discovered a new world, a new way to connect with her mother. As the weeks went on she heard stories about herself she never knew. Even more importantly, she was able to experience the depth to which her mother loved her. It didn’t matter that it was in a different time frame…a different reality…it was genuine. Sometimes the door code is backwards.

Dear God, remind me always that I am as much a steward of the realities of others as I am of my own.

“There are no facts, only interpretations.” ~Friedrich Nietzsche, 19^th Century German philosopher and philologist (1844-1900)

© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.

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