The very old and the very young

Reading the New York Times this morning, I encountered an article called "Giving Alzheimer's Patients Their Way, Even Chocolate," which made me think of Shel Silverstein's poem:

The Little Boy and the Old Man

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."

Said the old man, "I do that too."

The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."

"I do that too," laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, "I often cry."

The old man nodded, "So do I."

"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems

Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."

And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.

"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

The Times article talks about a novel approach to the care of Alzheimer's patients, exemplified by the Beatitudes nursing facility in Arizona. If residents are hungry, they get to eat, no matter what time of day or night--and not only that, but they get to eat whatever they feel like, even if it's chocolate. Diapers are discouraged; the facility instead focuses on more frequent trips to the bathroom with caregivers. Residents are encouraged to use objects like baby dolls or fishing tackle boxes that remind them of previous roles and hobbies. And activities are focused more on one-on-one conversations or games, rather than the typical large group Bingo, which few residents were actually able to participate in. The result of this constellation of caregiving practices is lower rates of many of the behavioral difficulties usually associated with Alzheimer's--delusions, sundowning, aggression, and so on.

As I was reading, I thought...well, sure! It sounds a lot like how we take care of babies. The focus on individualized care, the immediate answering of physical needs (breastfeeding on demand, elimination communication), and the use of security objects (loveys). One director at another Arizona facility, Jan Dougherty, is quoted in the article as saying "Comforting food improves behavior and mood because it “sends messages they can still understand: ‘it feels good, therefore I must be in a place where I’m loved,’.”

Perhaps the unconditional love and answering of needs that is so necessary to the youngest members of our family is just as appreciated by the oldest.

My daughter in the arms of her great-grandfather

Ancestors

Sometimes, often when my daughter has fallen asleep in my arms, I can lose myself staring at her rosebud mouth, her long eyes fringed with short, thick lashes, and her pink apple cheeks. One of the reveries I drift away on at these times has to do with a family gathering.  I like to think about a room filled with my baby's great-great-great-grandparents, and what they would all make of each other.

They'd come from the United States, Ireland, China, and Poland, and they would be speaking English, Yiddish, Mandarin, and Shanghainese--and probably other languages as well.  Some would have a lot of money, from owning mines in China or from family that came over on the Mayflower. Others would have very little, earning their livelihoods from peddling, laundering, or farming.  A few women would probably have bound feet, while others would have covered their hair with scarves.  Their hair would be black, brown, red, and blonde.  Some would have rough hands, others smooth.  They would worship their ancestors, or attend church on Sundays, or light Shabbat candles every Friday night.  They would be tall, and they would be short.  They would be beautiful, and they would be plain.

Transported into this room together--a room which I imagine to be dimly lit, perhaps simply by a roaring fire and candlelight--they would peer at each other suspiciously.  They would not have very much to say to each other.  And then my husband and I, standing in front of the fireplace, would hold our baby out to them, and explain how they are all connected, through this small, future child.  Some of them would not be very impressed, since the child is only a girl.  That makes me a little sad, when I think of it.  But I like to imagine that they would still be heartened, to know that more than a hundred years after they have died, a baby would be born that could trace its blood back to them. And knowing that, maybe they would look around the room again, at this odd assortment of strangers with whom they have little in common.  And I wonder if maybe--just maybe--they would see each other differently.