Someone I love has started down the path with dementia.
No one wants to take that road; we would put up our hand and say no thank you, but we’re not always driving the bus. I hear friends and neighbours express the shock of how many of us fall victim to dementia, but we are a sizable collective, we baby-boomers, putting significant strain on our health care system through no fault of our own, merely due to our numbers. Statistics Canada knew the many galloping toward old age, but we were still unprepared.
I carry the gene for Alzheimer’s, the single gene, which is non-conclusive in terms of threat, passed along from my mother. I am quite grateful for her darker than dark eyes, her willingness to laugh, her flare for making butterscotch pie and sloppy joes, but I would have preferred more of her musical talent given a choice. The possibility of such a diagnosis has me wondering about memories and what we choose to pack in our suitcase, what we’d let go of if that were possible. I wish I had seized the moment to ask my mother, before her entire memory was devoured, what she would have written on her own list of memories, those wrapped in tissue paper for safety. It only matters what we recall whether anyone was witness or not.
Years ago on a fresh winter morning, a young owl swooped down to me with her talons poised, attempting to grab the rabbit-coloured pompom from the top of my hat. At the last minute, she aborted her mission and retracted her talons, but not before her wings grazed my face. She flew up to a nearby branch and watched me with disappointment or apology. I stopped in my tracks and watched her. The only witness was Gracie (my dog) and she wasn’t taking notes. I can still hear the whooshing of her wings. I felt no fear or even shock, just pleasant surprise, a moment of connection with another life with whom I shared the gloriously cold snowy morning.
Another time, again on a walk with Gracie, we came upon a doe with her spring fawn. It was a lovely warm autumn day; the deer were on the move. The doe bounded into the forest, but the fawn paused and walked toward me, disregarding her fear. Gracie, who is quite happy to chase deer given the chance, sat beside me on the road and quietly observed this curious fawn approaching us. She came within feet of us, her large ears moving forward and back, looking for any warning, her nose stretching out as if she might know us better by our smell. We looked at one another, and I whispered to her while Gracie sat motionless. We were connected. Sadly, a truck was approaching on the road, and I chased the fawn off for her safety, the precious moment interrupted. I wondered, as Gracie and I continued our walk, what message this youngster had for me that day, if any.
In 2017, I had the great opportunity of being a writer-in-residence in Dawson City in the Yukon at Berton House. One very cold night at about 1:00 a.m., I walked down the hill from Pierre Berton’s childhood dwelling to the school’s playground. I laid back in the crisp snow and gazed up at the sky that was alive with green, violet, pink, orange. It was a fanfare of colour that took my breath away, as did the cold air. It was -45 F but I didn’t mind; I knew this was a chance of a lifetime; one I never wanted to forget.
These are personal experiences and only mean something to me and you will have a collection of your own. I asked my friends, most of whom are of a similar age to me, what were their favourite memories. They could recite special moments that paralleled mine – learning to fly an airplane, winning some contest, being recognized for a contribution they made for the greater good, a memory of kindness, integrity, perseverance, laughter.
I think it is important to tell others, when we have the chance, how something they consider small and insignificant was by contrast a big deal to another, a memory to hold firmly to. Teachers often fall into this category. They have many students pass through their classrooms, but we at most will have less than twenty teachers and not all of them will be memorable. I have shared my appreciation for Mr. Quesnel’s unfailing kindness in homeroom, Mr. Hickling’s infectious love of mathematics, Mr. Malinosky’s inspiring wisdom of literature. Whenever former students gather, they often share stories of those teachers that made them feel seen and heard, teachers who expected more of them than sometimes they were giving, who encouraged without shaming. Do those teachers know? I hope those stories are packed away for safe keeping.
Memories are our warm blanket on a cold stormy day. There isn’t one I’m willing to part with.
wendistewart@live.ca
