Sunrise at Lake Mutanda, Bwindi Impenetrable Forest, Uganda. By Shilpa Gulati.

Composed for the M2 Narrative Medicine Elective following a visit with patients at Ann Arbor’s Turner Senior Resource Center.

As we pass a pair of paintings in the hall – broad strokes of unremarkable landscapes – Anna does a double take. She stops and stares at them, longingly.

“Those look like my own – I’ve painted that same river!”

She turns toward me and gushes, as if to share a secret, even though we just met. “I’ve painted since I was young, and lately my granddaughters started getting into my brushes, so I got them their own. It’s what we do together now! There was this one time, we painted portraits of my neighbor, this delightful young woman and her cocker spaniel…you would love those.”

With the end of her sentence Anna’s eyes wilt into a brief emptiness, and she looks down with embarrassment, the hint of a lost thought. She’s transported someplace else, though her lips remain in their default expression, stretched into an indiscriminate smile, her child’s pose. Seconds later she’s back, and we share a moment of confusion as her eyes search mine, requesting a reminder of our previous direction.

I take her hand and we move down the hallway slowly, because Anna takes small, steady steps. A strip of tape is lobbed over the door jam into the game room so we don’t have to turn the handle; these senior-friendly measures are embedded throughout the center, unannounced but conspicuous.

We take seats in hollow plastic chairs around a plastic faux-wood card table that remind me of kindergarten. I ask her about her earlier life, and our conversation roams from her childhood on a rural Michigan farm, to her own grown up children spread across the states, to her daily medications and morning walks.

As we skip between subjects, Anna’s attention undulates. She likes to make eye contact, but her eyes sometimes glaze and the sincerity in her smile vanishes with, as far as I can tell, no perceptible change in her expression. Her pupils might dilate, or maybe her crow’s feet relieve by a millimeter or two. She’s there and she’s not, in an instant, with no warning.

Anna has a husband, her second, a retired construction foreman who takes good care of her. When she met Al, she didn’t yet know about her Alzheimer’s, but she could sense something was wrong. She laments to me that she will never be fully independent again. She sheepishly admits frustration at the fact that she can no longer navigate her own kitchen. “Al tries to cook, but…oh well you know.”

“I’m happy though, you know? It’s important that I’m happy doing what I like to – or what I can do.” She’s still so cheerful.

The program coordinator knocks and drops her head into the room, slowly drawing the door open to reveal a short man. The prototype of a lumberjack, he appears strong and silent, with a patient aura. “Anna? Al is here to pick you up.”

Her lips collapse into dry folds as she draws a blank frown. “That’s not Al.”

Time stops. The coordinator cringes reflexively, and I’m unsure how to respond, until Anna’s innocent giggles abruptly break the silence.

 “I’m kidding! We were having so much fun, can you just give us a couple minutes more?”

 Anna turns back to me to confide: “He’s an angel. He does so much for me.” She’s light-hearted now, floating.

 “I can see that! It’s wonderful that you have such strong support.”

 “Oh I really am the luckiest. Are you going to visit again next week?”

Colorado Blizzard, by Ania Owczarczyk.

Welcome, by Karen Chow.

About the Cover

Welcome

By Karen Chow

Forbidden City, Beijing, China

July, 2011

World War I Memorial, Melbourne, Australia by David Rogawski

Madonna’s Top Hit: no cucumber

+ sprouts + tomatoes.

Green onion, tortilla, Lime, Cheddar.

A505af4419

Fresh Ginger, 1 1/4turkey, mint, water

Chestnuts, jalapeno

Kiss each other clean

egg. sour cream. tomatoes

chicken broth

Allison 9892454251

Middle one blue container. Fridge.

Thermometer. Tissue.

I get scared that my love will not do

Need 4 more. Need 2 more.

Frozen ras, rosemary, puff pastry,

13.2 oz Brie.

Never going back again Fleetwood mac

It looks like grace.  You were glad it

was an even number, everyone had

another.  I thought you might.

Love lost – temper trap.

Deeper – alaine. Gimme love.

Jefferson Memorial, by David Rogawski

Authors’ Note: Through a writing elective, we visited the Turner Senior Resource Center’s health and wellness program for elderly people. We both met and interviewed one of the patients who had been suffering from memory loss. We then wrote about our experiences separately.

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Reflections on Memory Loss, by Grace Huang:

[one]

“What do you remember about your childhood?”
“I was a tomboy.” She smiles. “I stuck up for my siblings.”
“What else do you remember?”
Her eyes unfocus as she plays absent-mindedly with her water bottle. A short pause. Then: “I don’t know.”

The time I spent with my volunteer was spent with so many of these heavy silences. Her active fingers would trace the outline of her water bottle for a few seconds. Then: “I don’t know”.

Her “I don’t know” was unapologetic, not wistful, not worried. She simply just did not know anything about her childhood except that she was a tomboy and that she stood up for her siblings. Siblings that she can remember the names of but not where they currently reside.

[two]

“Do you ever write things down so that you will remember?”
“Oh yes.”
“What did you write about yesterday?”

“I don’t know.”

I thought it would be a very beautiful exercise to transfer and transcribe a memory before it is lost. Instead, I found my encounter with my volunteer mostly sad. It is strange to realize how much of our encounters and empathies rest on our memories. We relate and share our lives through stories.

Despite all the advice that people give about “living just in the moment”, it’s actually quite impractical and perhaps impossible.

[three]

“Do you still work?”
“I used to be a grant writer for the Ann Arbor Public Schools, but I retired.”
“What do you miss the most about your job?”
“The camaraderie.”
“You probably get some of that here though, right?”
“Yes. I like Silver Club.”
“What do you do during Silver Club?”
“We do activities. We do Silver Club.”

“What has been the hardest part about losing your memory.”
LONG PAUSE
“Getting fired from my job.”
“How did that conversation with your boss go?”

“I don’t know.”

Sometimes I’m not sure what she means by “I don’t know” because she uses it so liberally. Does it mean the same thing as “I don’t remember”?

Perhaps in technical (yet often violated) terms, to say “I don’t know” means that it never reached a level of consciousness or was not able to be interpreted. On the other hand, to say “I don’t remember” means that it has since slipped out. At times, the distinction is not that important, but it is sometimes nice or frustrating or futile to wonder where that lost information goes.

[four]

“I was a tomboy. I stuck up for my siblings.”
“Oh?”
“One time I got a snowball thrown in my mouth.”
“What did you do then?”
I stuck up for my siblings. I was a tomboy.”

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Tomboy, by Dave Seo:

“So what do you remember about your childhood?”

“Well…I was a tomboy.”

I’m a Michigander through and through you know. I was born in Highland Park right around Detroit and then spent most of my childhood in Milford. You’re not from here so you probably have no idea what I’m talking about, but they’re neighborhoods not too far from Ann Arbor. I don’t think I have to tell you, it’s been a bad weekend for Michiganders when it comes to sports.

But anyway, I grew up in Milford as one of seven siblings. People don’t have such big families anymore, but it was great having a new member of the family every year. I’m the second oldest, one of six daughters. My only brother, he had a hell of a time with that.

Maybe it’s because there were so many girls in our house, I had to fight to get some attention. But for as long as I can remember, I was always a tomboy. Always getting into fights and tussles, I loved playing sports, often with other boys. I can’t tell you how many times I had to fight off bullies for my younger sisters, and once for my brother too. It wasn’t long before I developed a reputation in my neighborhood. I was proud of it too.

“Can you tell me about a happy memory?”

“Well…I was in the Air Force.”

I think I always knew that I wanted to get involved in the military. I could deal with boys and compete with the best of them, I knew that for a fact. But there were also a lot of veterans in our neighborhood. I liked the way they carried themselves. I liked the respect they commanded in our towns.

Choosing the Air Force was a no brainer. I was so enamored with the idea of people literally flying. I knew that I wasn’t going to make it as a fighter pilot. But I knew I could use my engineering background to be of some use. They could always use more electrical engineers on those Air Force bases, you know? A lot of equipment to maintain.

My first day as a part of the Air Force was one of the happiest and proudest moments of my life. It was such a sense of accomplishment – like my life mattered to someone else other than me. And I was proud to be serving my country.

“So you got trained as an electrical engineer?”

“Well…Yea, I was always a tomboy.”

Sometimes though, I wonder whether I could have met someone special when I was younger if I hadn’t been such a tomboy. I live with my sister now, I never got married or anything like that. I guess I was so focused on getting somewhere, making something of myself. As a child I never focused on boys so much. I just thought that they were more competition, more people I need to prove myself to.

I used to look at married couples with kids and really think not much of it. They had their lives and what was important to them, and I had my career. But now that I’m at home mostly and with my sister still working, I do get lonely sometimes. Maybe that’s why I think so often back to the memory of enlisting into the Air Force. It was a time when my life had such purpose and direction.

“What else do you remember about growing up?”

“Well…I was a tomboy.”

Great Sand Dunes National Park and White Sands National Monument give rightful glory to Nature’s amazing sand creations.