Failure

The Alzheimer's Association of Denver has regular events for mentally distressed souls. The first one I went to did not suit Becky. I write about it in Walking through Twilight. But even systematic pessimists try again...sometimes.
It was "musical theater." I had no idea what that meant. It meant two chirpy ladies getting people to laugh, move, and do silly things. Most everyone joined in and perhaps forgot about their plights. I kept looking at Becky. She enjoyed singing a few songs from musicals at first, but when participation started, she went mostly blank, but partly annoyed. I was annoyed, too--but not blank. I was sad.
We walked left after half an hour. I said several things that made Becky laugh. She did not laugh at the event, neither was she really disgusted--something she used to be quite good at.
Becky had and has (to some extent) a refined and unique taste for life. That hindered her from enjoying many things, but it also allowed for the appreciation of subtle humor and fine expressions of art. Today was more like slap stick. However, one codger, who identified as a jazz musician (of course), showed a ready wit and many smiles. But Becky was dead to that, too. I chuckled a bit, but could not forget the one at my left side.
At least I did not get angry. That is a waste and would make Becky worse. I was sad, but did not cry on the way home. I don't think she was present enough to be disappointed. I asked her if she wanted ice cream on the way home. She first said Yes, and then No.
When we got home, Sunny greeted us (mostly Becky) with unfettered joy, wiggling, snorting, and nuzzling. Sunny. Becky sat down in a chair. I kneeled next to her while Sunny was loving us. I put my head down, saying nothing. Becky said, "At least you tried."
At his "musical theater" (if that is what you should call it), I saw an older women, with beautiful white hair--a handsome and classy woman, who now lacked affect and was affected by nothing that went on. She was well dressed. Her dignity remained.The right side of her mouth curled up a bit. She could speak, but had nothing to say except, "I forgot." She was there with her daughter, I imagine. I never saw her smile.
Those with dementia become alone and lonely in most cases or for most of the time. Their world is receding as they are declining. Yet some of them find simple fellowship with those similarly smitten. Becky cannot.
I will continue to improvise on our sad song, trying, failing, and stumbling along the narrowing and darkening path into darkness.

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