The visit had been a disaster.
Grace had brought her grandchildren to see her mother after she moved to long-term-care. They were excited, and raced in the room calling, “Hi, Grandma! Remember me?”
It was obvious that she didn’t. She looked confused and then covered her ears at their eager voices. “Shut up. Shut up!”
Taken aback, Grace touched her mother’s arm and said, “Calm down, mother. It’s okay.”
The children immediately went silent, and then five-year-old Rosie began to cry. Her mother got up from her chair and left the room, leaving Grace to comfort two distraught children and distract them with ice cream.
Later, she sat pondering. What could she have done differently?
Many things, actually.
“Don’t ask me to remember.”
Sometimes I can, and sometimes I can’t. But if you say things like, “Do you know who I am?” or “Do you remember when…?” you put pressure on me. I feel anxious and uncomfortable. I know I should remember, and I’m ashamed that I can’t. I feel heard when you enter the room identifying yourself. “Hi, Grandma, it’s your granddaughter Cassie, I”m so glad to see you.”
“Keep my environment uncluttered.”
This goes for physical clutter, such as too many nick-knacks, too much furniture or clutter like books and newspapers. It also applies to bright colours on the walls in paint or wallpaper. Noise is another form of clutter. Not that everyone has to whisper, but background noise like the television or music can be distracting, and other loud noises (such as a child’s crying) are jarring. I can’t process many things at once like someone without dementia, so keep things simple for me. If Grace had talked to the children ahead of
time about my disease and helped them to know how to act, I would have felt heard, and been much happier.
“Don’t tell me to calm down.”
Never in the history of humans of any age have the words “calm down” brought the desired effect. By telling me to calm down, you are being patronizing and condescending. Even if that’s not your intention, that’s how I feel. Instead, you could tell me that you can see that I am upset. You could suggest we sit together and talk about it. You could assure me that you are there to support me. When you do those things, I feel heard. I hear that you understand what I’m feeling and want to help. This relieves my anxiety and makes me feel supported.
Being a care partner is a learning process. Chances are, you didn’t sign up for this job, and you will make mistakes as you learn. You aren’t alone. I am here to support you.
Next week:
More ways to help me feel heard.

So much truth there. All of it. The “do you remember me” game is horrible. So much pressure to put on someone who can’t always remember who they themselves are. And yes, saying “Calm down” never helped anyone. Helping someone with dementia is a full-time job. Reminding yourself, “This could one day be me”, makes a world of difference.
Thank you, Colleen! Are you a care partner? Stay tuned for more insights about communicating with people with dementia.