On The Shelf

I recently read a review about a soon-to-be released book, in the New York Times about a memoir written by Joyce Maynard called “The Best of Us.”.   It seems to be about the pleasant things Ms. Maynard remembers of her husband—mostly a summer adventure at sixty years old seeing the world differently from a motorcycle.   The article finishes with her putting memories on the shelf and going on with life after his passing.

            The article made me think of a friend that did similar at about the same age.  My friend, Frank, learned how to ride a motorcycle at fifty nine years old; and then rode his new Harley to a motorcycle meet in Dakota.  He struck that off his “bucket list.”  Although he enjoyed the experience, he usually left me with the impression that he did not value the adventure as much as the statement of accomplishment.  He was proud that he actually did it.  Frank was sixty-one when he suddenly passed away.  I think we all have “bucket lists,”-- things we need to do before we die—just because.    Sometimes we bury the memory or maybe just forget about it: another entry checked off the bucket list.  I wonder how often “bucket lists” are like “to do” lists at work or at home.  Check it off and move on to the next one… The destination is important, sure, but I now believe it’s important to take the pleasure and meaning from the journey.  Here’s why.

            I am fortunate enough to visit my ninety year old mother in a nursing home every day for a couple of hours.  She was diagnosed with dementia a few years ago.  What that really means she is called Dear, Sweetie, and Honey often by well meaning professionals.   Few people actually speak to her.  They talk over and through her, as though she is not there.  She is listening, but excluded from her own life in many ways.    I wonder how often she feels parts of her have already gone.   

            My mother and I talk sometimes for hours.   Sometimes we both need quiet and our own thoughts.   I’ll put my feet up on a sofa while she slouches in her wheel chair and we listen to Haydn.  She may comment how much Haydn and Mozart had in common, and she wonders how much Mozart copied perhaps unwittingly.   She asks, “What are you listening to these days?”   Her questions triggered the memory of coming home one afternoon in the early seventies to find my mother sitting in my room, listening to sixties rock recordings on my headphones.   She pointed out which artists she felt were monotonous and which she felt had potential.   Today she likes Vaya Con Dios, and she still loves the German folk songs from the forties and fifties.  German folk songs and classical music frequently trigger her memories.

            They say people with dementia live in the past because they are unable to function in the here and now.   I am told that dementia patients get adversarial and grumpy because the brain deteriorates.   Absolute crap.  My mother goes through her memories as we go through photo albums or baby pictures; re-living her adventures and treasuring her experiences.   The first weeks I only politely heard her words, sometimes feeling only sadness.  Then I began to truly listen, and then to question how she would arrive at a certain comment and the meaning.    One sunny calm afternoon she asked about a certain opera singer, and whether he was on my phone’s music list.   He was, and I played a selection for her.   “Why did you choose him?” I asked.

            “He used to call on my parents, he was always a welcome guest,” she answered in German.  We speak German when the conversation is meaningful.  “He was a refined man and very much enjoyed my mother’s conversation.”  She continued after a pause, thoughtfully, “He often gave me tickets so that I could go to the opera, which I did, in Radevornwald or sometimes Wuppertal.” 

            “Why was he in Rade?” I asked.   Radevornwald is a small town in Rhineland. 

            “Berlin was bombed, and it was not safe.”

            “Mom, I wonder if he visited for your family, or is it possible he came to see you?”  There was a penetrating short glance; then a sharp smile that told me I had overstepped-- broken the boundaries of good taste – to remember my upbringing, but I was forgiven; because I am her son after all-- although at sixty I should know better.  I crossed back over the border with another question.  “So what happened to him?”

            “Yes, well.   He had to return to Berlin after the war.  He was famous after all.”

            She sometimes asks me if I feel she is losing her ability to reason, in German “Geist,” which refers to spirit as well as understanding.  I answer, “Science says we can only remember maybe ten thousand things, and you have lived much, and you must choose which memories to keep.   What you had for dinner is no longer as important.”  

            “Perhaps you are right,” she said, “There is no one to talk with here.  The nurses are nice but busy.  Many of the inhabitants have lost their Geist.  So I need my memories of my mother, my father, my childhood, and your father.  I spend time thinking about them.  I often think of the trips your father and I took together.”  She needs the memories of the past to survive the present.  Although people and caregivers are polite and kind, there is little stimulation: no conversation and not much comfort. She can’t even hold a book any longer.  She is not grumpy or adversarial (like some others in the nursing home) because she collected pleasant thoughts and discarded painful memories.  She does not remember the sadness of a lost suitor, but the pleasure of opera.  She did not have a “bucket list” but enjoyed the occasional trips, frequent evenings with family and friends, good books and good music.  She remembers pleasant and quiet nights sewing in solitude.    There is no room for memories of late nights sewing to provide our family with our clothing, or the hardship of establishing a family in a new country. 

            Until recently “bucket lists” played a part in my life.  I took pride in achieving something, like my friend Frank did.   I do things a little differently now.   I take opportunity when it presents itself.   I remember the unplanned side trips in life and the beautiful experiences I gained.  I work to imprint memories of people that surround me and enrich my life.  I discard memories that I find unpleasant or disturbing.   Those don’t even get on the shelf anymore.   Because if I live long enough, like my mother, I will need a shelf full of good memories.