Identity is a big thing – who you are, who you think you are, who others think you are – all make up a piece of you. 

Some of my earliest memories are wrapped up in who my parents were molding me to be.  Many of my middle school memories are consumed with who my friends thought I should be.  Some high school memories are obscured by who my coaches wanted me to be. My young adult (early marriage) memories include how Doug helped me become who I would be.

One of the harder parts of my cancer journey was losing my hair due to chemo treatments.  I don’t know how it is for you exactly, but for me and many people I have collaborated with on the topic of hair loss, the general consensus is that hairstyle helps you identify who you are and who you want others to think you are. For example, I bet seeing a man sporting a man bun brings up different feelings for you than seeing a man with short hair and sideburns or seeing a man with long dreadlocks or a man wearing a toupee.  They all bring up different feelings in me.  I identify with all of those images differently.

Being cancer-bald for a little while did not exactly assist in building my confidence.  In fact, it echoed the fact that I was sick.  I did not like that at all! I definitely did not want that to become my new identity. 

As a child, my mom liked my hair short.  I did not like it short.  I wanted it long like Marsha Brady’s on the Brady Bunch.  As soon as I was “old enough,” I grew it long.  It never looked much like Marsha Brady’s long, straight, and controlled style.  Mine was curly, longish, and wild.   I liked to primp it, clip it, braid it, and spend way too much time on it in front of the mirror.  In a superficial, intimate way, my hair helps me create me.

More than hairstyle, however, there is also identity in our individuality by what we do or how we see ourselves, what we have achieved, or even by what we have failed to achieve.  It is usually expressed in the form of a label.  Like, I am a middle school student, or I am an athlete, a CEO, a painter, a husband, a caregiver, a mom, a Navy officer, a dyslexic dog-loving gang member…  Sometimes, identity is even established by what has been done to us. Like, I am the child of an alcoholic, or I am divorced, or I am the youngest of 8, or I am old.  You get the point.

I am no expert on the subject of identity.  People have Ph.D.’s in this field!  I only have my life experience as I see it through the lens of my individuality and one college psychology class in which I got a C. There is one thing I know for sure about this topic: I have cared deeply about being identified as Doug’s wife and the mother of our kids.  I have worn that label proudly.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it), dementia is not at all concerned about identity.  It flips the importance of clarifying uniqueness on its head.  Doug used to be an impeccable dresser, for instance.  He steam ironed in detail.  He cared about the seam on the sleeve of his pressed shirt.  His identity cared.  Sometimes, he wore wrinkled jeans and a sweatshirt, but his distinctiveness mattered to him when he cleaned up on purpose.  Dementia just doesn’t care that much.  Sadly, without intervention, Doug might now wear a shirt inside out and backward without concern of dishevelment.

Dementia’s disregard for identity also affects relationships.  It is tough watching Doug struggle with the names of our grandkids.  We have 8!  They are each unique and beautiful in their own way.  Doug gets a hollow look in his eyes as he struggles to match names and faces, and he glances over at me with that panicked “bail me out of this, please” look.  I think names have a lot to do with identity, too.  But that’s definitely a topic beyond my scope of knowledge, even with Google at my fingertips. 

Doug knows a lot of people. He knows a lot of people by name.   He has a lot of friends.  He has always cared deeply about friendships and for the people he has called friends and who call him friends.  Doug could tell you where they met, why they became friends, where they have been or traveled together, and the significance of the friendship.

Doug and I have been friends since the first time we met.   That does not mean it was love at first sight (although I admit he caught my eye) or that we have always agreed about everything, but we have always been friends.  He has known me better at times than I have known myself.

Until recently.

Recently, Doug asked me if we were married.  I thought he was kidding and nearly dismissed it with some flippant, sarcastic remark until I looked into his eyes.  His eyes showed honest, empty confusion.  My heart sank.  He also expressed confusion about parenting our children together.  He asked what my holiday traditions were when raising MY children.  Again, I looked at him to see if he was serious. Sadly, he was. When I shared a holiday tradition that WE (he included) enjoyed, he looked at me with that same hollow gaze I am beginning to recognize as the “I’m not quite sure” look. 

When these empty dementia cavities occur, my heart sinks. I know it means further progression into the disease.  It means more to come.  And then, because I really don’t know how to feel about these advancements, I become blankly sad and institutionally practical.  I sweep the floor, clean out the gutters, or knit. The man who has helped me identify me is woefully losing touch with me, with us.

This was never as unmistakable as the recent time dementia interrupted, and identity was utterly abandoned. 

Doug and I sat peacefully at the table, building a 300-piece European streetscape puzzle together.  He started his dialogue with, “I have something I need to tell you…” I thought, “Okay, where could this possibly go? His language is impaired, so I may need patience and help fill in the blanks.” He started telling me a familiar story about his (our) dementia journey. I have heard him tell (and I have told) many times.  He told it like it was the first time I had heard it. No big deal, he has dementia after all. I knew I needed to be patient, which isn’t always easy, and let him tell it again.  

He came to the part where I entered the story.  This is when it got dicey.  He told me about the happenings as if I were an outsider in the account when I was a key player in the plot.  He referred to me in the third person.  He said things like, “then Karen said… Karen was there, and she… I told Karen…”  He told me the story like I was a stranger newly acquainted with his dementia.

A knot formed in the pit of my stomach.  I felt my pulse quicken.    I wanted to interrupt and say something mean like… “What are you talking about? I’m Karen! I was there!” I wanted to run away.  But I also wanted to see where this was going. So, with the knot tightening in my gut, I silently dusted off my courage, and I sat like a statue with a “Chateau” sign puzzle piece between my sweaty thumb and forefinger.  I reminded myself to breathe.  I listened as he struggled with the words, the concepts, and the memories. It was laborious. I could not bring myself to help him.  I was undone. 

Doug finally concluded, “So I just thought you should know that.” I looked at him and wanted to correct him and set him straight with all the who’s who, but instead, I wrapped courage around me tighter and awkwardly uttered, “You were lucky Karen was there.” He said, “Yes, I was.”

I was frozen.  My identity as Doug’s wife, as his friend, and as Karen, just plain ‘ol me, was absent.  I was at the puzzle table in my house with my husband, and at that moment, I was a stranger. I was unknown. Nameless.  Lonely.

I put the “Chateau” puzzle piece down and said, “Thank you for sharing that with me,” as I pushed the chair back and dismissed myself to the kitchen.  Reality felt slippery under my feet.  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly with the realization that, tragically, more of this is to come. 

Dementia is a robber of knowing.  It chips away at existence like a miner’s pickaxe; slowly, methodically, constantly, and entirely.  Being on this journey is often called “The Long Goodbye.”  I am not ready. I don’t feel ready for the progression that is coming.  I am not ready to be forgotten.  I am not ready for…  any of it.  I am definitely not ready for goodbye.

In short order, Doug was back to being Doug, and I was back to being Karen. Things are back to “normal,” as I write this.  I’m recognized, known, depended on, and nervous and sad, and honestly, kind of mad. I count the good days as blessings.  I am praying and asking for these good days to continue.  I’m not asking for much, really.  Just one day at a time until I am braver, more capable, sturdier, more willing, and ready.

Karen

Has this happened to you?

You’re walking through the grocery store, and an “old favorite” song sings over the store’s sound system.  Bam! There you are, instantly catapulted back in time.  You know where you were, who you were with, and what you felt like when you first loved that song.  The experience is so mesmerizing that you start singing the lyrics and rocking to the beat in the center of the frozen food aisle.

I totally get it!  That happens to me more often than I should probably admit.

I took piano lessons from my preschool teacher.  I’m pretty sure I was not in preschool when I took the lessons, but I was young.  Mom signed me up for piano lessons with Mrs. Beck to keep me out of trouble.  Preschool classes were held downstairs in the room with the big chalkboard on the wall.  Piano lessons were upstairs in the formal living room with white carpet and a grand piano.

Mrs. Beck was always old. She had white salon-styled short hair.  Grown kids.  No dog.  She made popcorn balls for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween.  I trick or treated at Mrs. Becks house every year. 

When teaching piano, she sat on the piano bench real close.  Close enough that I could feel her shoulder against mine and smell her old lady breath when she counted out the beats. Mrs. Beck had a passion for teaching music.  It was mostly lost on me.

I took violin lessons long enough to make the violin sing, not squeak, but not long enough to learn vibrato on the strings. As hard as I tried and as much as I practiced (which wasn’t much), I never made it past the third chair. I decided it just wasn’t for me.

Then, I took flute lessons from my friend’s mom.  I was finally committed to an instrument I was going to stick with (until I found the saxophone).  I even learned to play the Piccolo, sort of. I played in the high school marching band. My commitment, though, was shallow.  The practice took too much time and was… hard.  I didn’t love it.  I chose friends instead.

There was also the guitar, the recorder, the drums sort of (as much as possible without an internal feel for the beat), and, of course, singing.  I wanted to be a good singer but…

Then I met Doug.  Music was in him.  He felt it.  He knew it.  He heard it and loved it and sang it. He could really sing.  Choir was his thing.  Doug knew all the best songs.  He had all the latest equipment -the coolest receivers and turntables and tape decks – He had it all. Music rocked in his house. He loved classical and jazz, current pop, old pop, and even Gregorian Chanting.  Christmas music started BEFORE Thanksgiving.  His dad sang like Frank Sinatra, and his sister majored in music in college.

Doug brought the love of music to me and to our kids.

Music transcends time.  It arouses the future and provides a direct link to the past.  It is embedded in the fabric of human culture and identity and elicits untold emotions and memories.

Music plus dementia is fascinating.  There has been lots of research on the topic.  But for me, music plus dementia is a lifeline and a tool. 

Doug and I recently moved.  The move required a 15-hour road trip.  For many reasons, I wanted to make the trip in one day (COVID and dementia at the top of the list).  Doug’s sister Lisa (the one who majored in music in college) came and helped with the drive, with the mood, and with the fun. She made the long one-day drive a reality.

We set out on our journey at 5:30am.  By the time we were 13 hours in, we were tired, and it was dark. The GPS said a little more than two hours were looming before us.  I was in the driver’s seat. Doug was in the front passenger seat, and Lisa sat behind me.

Doug had faired the trip well thus far. You never know how traveling with dementia is going to go.  It could go either way.  Dementia could misbehave and cause anxiety, agitation, and all manner of ick. Or dementia could behave and bless you with tolerance, calm, and patience.  We were lucky so far.  Doug had done better on this trip than I expected he would.  But at this point in the drive, our luck felt like it might be changing.  Doug was getting squirrelly.  He shifted left and then shifted right.  His words were few.  His head bobbed in drowsiness until his neck snapped him back to attention.  He was weary and a bit agitated.   Truth is, we all were.

Lisa and music are almost the same word.

She was the master of ceremonies throughout the trip.  Lisa made sure music sang in the background most of the time.   But at this point in the journey, when we were all ready for it to be over, Lisa and music became front and center.  She magically and intentionally connected time and place with songs. Lisa played songs from childhood and matched them to the house with the blue shag carpet.  She played songs from high school days and matched them with neighborhood shenanigans.  She played songs their dad loved to sing, and she played songs Doug used to blast on his sound system.

Doug instantly came alive.  The mood in the car flipped.  Doug laughed and sang.  He became verbal and talked.  We danced (as much as you can when sitting in a car) and we remembered.  Names that hadn’t been spoken in decades came to life.  Details awoke.  The two-plus remaining hours on the road vanished in no time at all, and dementia never misbehaved.

As we arrived at our destination some 15-plus hours later, Doug said, “That was the best day ever!” 

In our house, there is always a melody playing.   Right now, it’s all about Christmas carols in every genre.  By January, I will be very ready to put the Christmas carols to rest and trade them out for a new song.  But I am sure Doug will still hum the carols and whistle them all the way into July.

In my early life, music lessons weren’t exactly my thing.  But now, music is my everything.  It has become my lifeline and tool that effortlessly creates peace, grace, voice, and remembering.

I am grateful.

Karen

P.S. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas…”