Author: Elaine M. Eshbaugh, PhD

A few years back, I got an email from someone who worked for a website that provides resources for seniors. She asked me to write a short article on holiday gifts for people living with dementia.

She suggested that perhaps I could make a list of items, maybe with links to purchase those items, and describe why those items would make good gifts for those with dementia.

When I received the invite, I was feeling overwhelmed, so I declined citing my busy schedule. I also have a firm rule about not promoting certain products and services. That’s out of my comfort zone. (I’ve been approached many times about mentioning products in my blog…and I just can’t enter that realm.)

However, there was another reason the project didn’t appeal to me…writing an article with specific gift suggestions for those living with dementia implied that those living with dementia want the same gifts.

I frequently remind myself and others that people with dementia don’t share a brain.

Once I told a group of people that individuals living with dementia don’t like to be called “honey” or “sweetie.” A few weeks later, I met a woman with Alzheimer’s who said she knew the nursing home staff loved her because they were always calling her “sweetie.”

My statement had been proven false. Not all people living with dementia dislike being called “sweetie.”

I had done something I try not to do; I had made a blanket statement about people with dementia. While I don’t recommend we make calling those with dementia “sweetie” our protocol, I can’t speak for all people with dementia. I do not know the likes and dislikes of every single person with dementia.

To assume these individuals are alike denies that they are diverse humans who have lived interesting and rich lives. They’ve been impacted by genetic, familial, and societal factors since before birth. They have been impacted by dementia, of course, but dementia doesn’t negate the impact of other factors.

I should also add that a person with dementia doesn’t speak for all people with dementia. If one person with dementia tells me that they don’t enjoy live sports because they are too anxiety-provoking, I shouldn’t assume that all people with dementia avoid sporting events. If one person with dementia tells me that they prefer to not be hugged, I shouldn’t assume that all people with dementia will be upset by a hug.

People with dementia are just as different from each other as people without dementia are from each other.

Different backgrounds. Different religions. Different political views. Different hobbies.

So what do you get someone with dementia for Christmas?

I know someone with dementia who ran a half marathon in the spring. I know another person with dementia who gets up every morning at 5 am to go to work at a local bakery. I recently met a guy with dementia who spends his time traveling around with his wife in an RV. And then there’s a woman with dementia at a local nursing home who is now in hospice.

I know people with dementia who are in their 40’s. I know people with dementia who are centenarians.

People with dementia live at home with their families, alone, in memory care communities, in senior apartments, in nursing homes.

How do I write a top ten list of gifts for a group this diverse?

And how do I suggest gifts for people I’ve never met?

Dementia is an umbrella term. Under this umbrella, we have diagnoses like Alzheimer’s, Lewy-Body dementia, Parkinson’s disease with dementia, frontotemporal degeneration, and vascular dementia. Dementia itself isn’t actually a diagnosis. It’s a constellation of symptoms involving deterioration of the brain.

So what Christmas gifts do you buy for someone who has a condition involving deterioration of the brain?

Let’s talk about a different medical condition. For the sake of discussion, let’s talk about anxiety. I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder about 20 years ago, so I decided to do a web search to see what gifts are recommended for those with anxiety. After all, these should be things I want for Christmas, right? Maybe I can find some stuff to put on my Amazon wish list.

Here’s what I found:

An assortment of soothing teas. (I hate tea. I think it smells like urine.)

Dark chocolate. (I can’t say I don’t like dark chocolate. But if you know me, you know I try to keep sweets and candy out of our house.)

Cuddly plush toys. (If you give me a cuddly plush toy, I will give you a funny look. What exactly am I supposed to do with this stuffed tiger?)

A poster that says “F*ck Anxiety.” (To be fair, I don’t hate this. But I don’t know where I’d hang it.)

A self-help book on reducing anxiety. (I might actually be angry on this one. So you know what I need to do to cure my anxiety? So you’ve got all the answers?)

Therapy sessions. (Oh my goodness. Don’t you dare even try this. I’m picturing a group of friends at a holiday party saying, “We all went in together and made you an appointment with a psychologist!” No. Just no.)

Gift certificates for massage. (Okay. Yes. This is right on. Please buy me this for Christmas, everyone.)

Lists of this type imply that: 1) It’s your job as a gift buyer to help me me cure/treat my medical condition (it’s not), and 2) You should choose a gift related to my medical condition rather than choosing a gift based on what you know about me as a human being.

Since I was asked to write an article about gifts for those with dementia, I assumed that other people had written similar articles. I googled, and I was right.

There are quite a few suggestions for gifts for dementia patients…and I have a problem with that terminology. You don’t buy a gift for a patient. You buy a gift for a person. And a person’s diagnosis should not be the primary factor in what you buy that person.

Nevertheless, the internet suggests the following gifts for people with dementia: Classic movies, CDs of favorite oldies music, shoes with velcro ties, sweatsuits, dolls, fluffy stuffed animals, large clocks, giant calendars, location devices for someone who wanders, and automatic medication dispensers.

I’m just going to go out an a limb here and say that an automatic medication dispenser is not a good gift for anyone at any time. If someone needs one, buy it for them. Don’t count it as a gift. You might get the same response a friend of mine got when he bought his wife a Swiffer mop for her birthday.

As for the location device….Ugh. Can you imagine being excited to open gifts and realizing you’ve been given a tool so your family can track you? Think about that for a minute.

Oh, I’m so grateful you gave me this gift because you don’t think I’m capable of being responsible for myself. And now you’ll know where I am ALL the time? Merry Christmas to me!

Many people with dementia don’t like the idea of being tracked. And I can’t blame them.

If it’s tool that might be helpful, buy and buy it now. Don’t wait until Christmas. Trust me–it doesn’t count as a gift.

I know a lot of people with dementia who do not wear sweatsuits. I know plenty of people with dementia who would take those velcro shoes straight to Goodwill. I also have a lot of friends with dementia who no longer have a CD player because they use their iPhone or computer to play music.

Making a list of gifts for people with dementia implies that people with dementia are similar and have similar wants and needs.

A person’s medical diagnosis should not define an appropriate gift. We don’t buy gifts for patients. We buy gifts for people.

Sometimes I think I should rename this blog “Things That Frustrate Elaine.” And that’s being gentle.

For the past nine months, I’ve struggled with nerve pain. More recently, I have some level of numbness in my hands most the day. I’ve had an MRI. I have a diagnosis, two prescriptions, and a referral to physical therapy. This is something that will be chronic, but it seems like my health professionals are confident we can keep it under control.

In other words, don’t y’all be worried about me.

Yet, the input keeps rolling in…

They say that cherries are really helpful for inflammation. ( I want to ask, who is “they?” Are we talking about researchers at a university? Or people in the Facebook group “Cherries for Inflammation?”)

I know someone who had nerve pain and it was actually a tumor and then they died.

I heard that nerve pain has a lot to do with gut health. Do you drink apple cider vinegar?

I started doing (insert: yoga, meditation, inversion, Cross-Fit, prayer, supplements, special diet, cartwheels) and my pain got better. 

What you really need to do is retrain your nerves and teach them to be calmer. (This makes me picture myself doing a Powerpoint presentation in front of a hyper classroom of nerve roots.)

Ugh.

If you or a loved one has dementia (or cancer or a peanut allergy or Lyme disease, for that matter), you can relate.

Has someone made a ridiculous suggestion to you about how to fix the problem? Perhaps they implied that there was a simple solution…and you just hadn’t identified it yet. You might have been insulted, and you were justified.

I read an article about a woman with dementia who changed her diet and she got her memory back. (This article is currently circulating on Facebook…don’t get me started.)

They keep my great-aunt who has Alzheimer’s really stimulated by making her do puzzles all day. It keeps it from getting worse.

My grandma had hardening of the arteries. It got better when she stopped drinking.

You know you won’t get that Oldtimers if you have a glass of red wine a day, right?

Have you tried coconut oil or vitamin E? (Or milk thistle or lavender or iron pills?)

These comments come from well-meaning individuals who typically know next to nothing about Alzheimer’s and related dementias. In fact, they likely do not know the difference between the terms Alzheimer’s and dementia. And they often place a mysterious “T” in Alzheimer’s, referring to it as Alltimers.

Let me be clear here. If you haven’t had any education on Alzheimer’s and related dementias, I don’t expect you to be well-versed. I’m not judging people for their ignorance. I’m merely suggesting that those who are not well-versed in this area should refrain from giving advice.

Furthermore, when you tell someone that you or loved one has been diagnosed with a dementia-causing condition, you aren’t asking that person for a fix. You didn’t ask for advice. You aren’t expecting that person to give you a magical dementia cure.

You didn’t say, “Please vomit up every single thing you’ve ever read on the Internet about dementia.” You didn’t ask, “What outdated Facebook articles can you tell me about so I can cure myself?”

These people might be distant acquaintances, but they are often close friends and family. Maybe you’re caring for Mom, but your brother keeps calling from across the country with ridiculous “solutions.” Perhaps it’s a family friend who once read a book on Alzheimer’s and now has all the answers. Maybe you delete their texts because you don’t have the energy to respond. Or maybe you get in arguments because you think their ideas are off-the-wall.

Perhaps you feel like they just don’t understand. That’s the other thing about offering unsolicited magic cures…what you’re really saying is, “Your problem isn’t a big deal. It can be easily fixed. You just haven’t been smart enough to find the solution yet. But I have it.”

It’s dismissive.

When I lived alone in a house that was built in 1942, I used to go to Home Depot every other week with a house problem. I’d explain it to the Home Depot employee in their orange apron, and I’d expect them to give me a fix. There was one older guy in particular who seemed really invested in me not hurting myself or burning down the house.

They didn’t need to come to my house to physically fix the issue (although I would’ve paid top dollar for that), but they did need to walk me down aisles, tell me what tools to use, and give me a specific fix for the problem. And, bless their hearts, they’d do their best to give me useful instructions and send me on my way.

In this situation, I wanted someone to say, “Your problem isn’t a big deal. It can be easily fixed.”

But dementia isn’t like a leaky toilet or clogged gutters. There isn’t one simple solution out there–and if there were a solution, it would probably not come from a know-it-all who isn’t educated on dementia but spends a lot of time on social media and once knew a person whose mother’s uncle had a type of dementia that they can’t remember or never knew in the first place.

Why do know-it-alls do this? Why do people think they need to give us advice that is at best useless and at worst harmful when we mention we have a health issue?

I’m going to give people the benefit of the doubt here. They’re not trying to be jerks. I think we want to be helpful. We want so desperately to fix a problem. Let’s just solve this dementia thing so you can get on with your life.

If someone tells you that they have Alzheimer’s, Lewy-Body dementia, frontotemporal degeneration, cancer, HIV, arthritis, or osteoporosis, resist the urge to regurgitate every thing you’ve ever heard related to that condition. It’s not helpful. And it typically makes you sound like an idiot since you have not become an expert on this condition in the past five seconds.

If you think about it, so many problems in life are not fixable. That doesn’t mean we can’t help. Help is listening. Help is being supportive. Help is offering to watch someone’s kids or mow their lawn. Help is sending a random Starbuck’s gift card just because.

Dementia is degenerative. We may not know how to fix damaged brain cells, but that doesn’t mean we can’t help. It’s just that sometimes helping doesn’t involve fixing.

Unless you work at Home Depot.

I expect solutions from them.

My husband did an Ironman triathlon in 2014. I was proud of him, and I’m sure you could tell that in my voice if you were to hear me talk about it.

A 2.4 mile swim. A 112 mile bike. Then a 26.2 mile run. I can’t wrap my brain around it. Why anyone would choose to pursue an Ironman triathlon for the sake of a hobby is beyond me. But it does make me proud that my husband chose to do so.

I heard the same pride in someone else’s voice recently when he was talking about his spouse’s hobby. It was an older gentlemen I met at conference put on by the Alzheimer’s Association. He came up to me, holding hands with his wife. She smiled but remained silent. He let go of her hand only momentarily to give me an enthusiastic handshake.

He introduced me to his wife. He mentioned she now had Alzheimer’s, and she lived at home with him. I smiled at her, and she smiled back despite seeming that she wasn’t following the conversation.

“Do you know what she really loves doing?” he asked me with a giant grin of proud excitement. “She loves rolling up napkins and wrapping them around pens! And she’s good at it!”

I felt like he was almost bragging.

I was a bit taken a back. Here was a guy who was telling me that his wife wrapped pens in napkins with the same pride I had when I told people that my husband did an Ironman triathlon.

People frequently tell me about the “odd” behaviors of their loved ones with dementia.

My wife puts dishes in the dishwasher, even if they’re clean.

My husband does laps around the basement all day.

My mom likes to play in the kids’ sand box.

Typically, there’s a question that follows. The question is: “What can I do to get them to stop?”

And no one has ever bragged to me that their mom is good at playing in the sand box.

But this man wasn’t asking how to get her to stop wrapping pens in napkins. He wasn’t considering this an odd or annoying behavior. In fact, he asked me what other activities she might enjoy if she got such a kick of out of doing that.

I found a napkin and a pen (ironically)—and I wrote on that napkin a list of supplies he could get at Hobby Lobby or Wal-Mart. Crepe paper. Metallic wrapping paper. Fabric scraps. Shiny pipe cleaners. Colorful bendy straws.

We decided he should put all of these new supplies out of the kitchen table and sit with her. Then he’d see what happened.

And he was excited. I don’t even know how to convey how genuinely enthusiastic this man was about the plan we had created. He told me he’d go shopping the next day if he could get a ride.

I wish I had gotten his contact information to follow-up. I don’t even remember his name or his wife’s name.

But I’ve thought about them a lot.

I’m not an expert on love, but there’s something to be said for loving someone where they’re at. I’m sure he loved his wife when she didn’t have Alzheimer’s. I’m sure he loved her when they could have interesting conversations and go on adventures together.

But when I spoke to him, he wasn’t focusing on what she couldn’t do. He wasn’t focusing on who she no longer was. He was focusing on who she was now.

And, when her abilities were becoming more and more limited, he looked at her and saw a strength. He could’ve focused on a million weaknesses. He could’ve told me about the struggles and challenges of Alzheimer’s, but on this day he told me about her potential.

She was really good at wrapping napkins around pens. He celebrated that. He loved her where she was at.

And when she sat down and concentrated on wrapping those pens, it made him so proud.

Sometimes the people I meet are pretty dang amazing.

I used to say something that makes me cringe now…I used to say “Dementia is a marathon, not a sprint.”

I would use that statement to encourage people with dementia and their care partners to practice self-care. You have to take care of yourself if you’re running a marathon, right? You have to accept water at the aid stations, just like you should accept help from family and friends if you or a loved one has dementia. You need to not push yourself too much because you’ve got miles to go, and you need to be strategic about how you use your energy.

See? Dementia’s like a marathon.

Ugh.

If I spoke to you years ago and made that statement, please forgive me. It was a dumb thing to say. It isn’t the dumbest thing I’ve ever said—because I say lots of dumb stuff—but it’s pretty dumb.

Here’s the thing, friends. I’ve run a marathon. I decided to do it in the summer of 2012. I knew I’d have a flexible schedule that summer. I had undergone knee surgery the previous year and was feeling like a new woman. I was looking for a challenge.

I signed up for a marathon. I mean, what else do women in their 30s do when life gets stagnant, right?

It was on a particular date, obviously. I knew how my time I’d have to train.

I reserved a hotel room for the nights before and after the race. I looked up restaurants for the night prior to the marathon. I did those things about three months before the actual marathon. You can never be too prepared, right?

I finished that marathon. I wish I had been faster, but I finished.

I’ve heard people say that you’re a different person after you complete a marathon. I wasn’t. I was just me…with a marathon under my belt. That felt good, of course, but I can’t rank it among my most life-changing events. I might run another marathon someday. I might chose not to.

How, my friends, is running a marathon anything like dementia?

Both can be long, obviously, but I can tell you exactly how long a marathon is. It’s 26.2 miles. And then it’s over. Done. Where are my post-race snacks?

I’m sure everyone who has done a marathon counted down the mileage. 13 miles to go. 8 miles to go. 3 miles to go. And then .2 miles to go. If you’re a marathoner, you know that .2 is not insignificant.

If you’ve run a marathon, you know that well-meaning people shout “You’re almost there!” at mile 8 and you want to punch them. You’re not almost there. You know exactly how many miles are left.

Let me ask you this….

How long is dementia? How long will a person live with dementia? How long will a carer caregive? Exactly how long is this journey?

Although a marathon has an exact distance, dementia doesn’t.

I chose to do a marathon. As much as I complained about bloody blisters, lost toenails, chafing, and 4 am 15-mile runs, I made the choice to do a marathon. I wondered at times if it was a great decision, but it was always my decision. When I complained to a friend that I had to get a run in at 8 pm on a Saturday night, he told me I didn’t have to. I was choosing to do that run. He was right.

But dementia isn’t a decision. It’s not a choice. You don’t get to plan to get dementia at the “right time,” like I decided to run my marathon at the “right time.” And, if I had decided to sit down on the curb on one of those early morning 15-mile training runs, I could have sent my husband a text and he would have come to pick me up…well, as soon as he woke up.

You can quit a training run. You can drop out of a marathon. Sure, maybe it doesn’t feel great to quit, but you always have that option.

I wish you could quit dementia. I wish you could say, “Eh. This is really hard today. I’ll come back to dementia tomorrow when I’m more rested.” I wish you could say, “Dementia, this isn’t really working out. I’m done with this.”

Whether you’re a care partner or a person living with dementia, you can’t quit dementia.

Everyone made a big deal when I finished a marathon. In retrospect, the marathon was easy compared to the training, especially since I did most of the training solo.

But the second I crossed that finish line, I started getting voicemails, texts, and Facebook messages. I got a medal. More importantly, my husband drove me directly to Dairy Queen where I ordered a large Blizzard. It’s the only time in my life I’ve let myself order a large Blizzard.

You don’t get a medal when dementia is done. You don’t get to go to Dairy Queen. A guy I know recently lost his wife to Alzheimer’s. He had hoped for dementia to be over. He didn’t want her to struggle or live in pain any longer. But after she died, he said, “I wanted this phase of my life to be done. But now I just feel so empty.”

That’s the opposite of a medal.

I had a conversation with a close friend a few weeks ago. Her husband was diagnosed with cancer in May. He had inpatient chemo for 30 days and is now finishing up (fingers crossed) outpatient chemo.

She confirmed that cancer is no more like a marathon than dementia is. She and her husband did not, in fact, sign up for cancer online. They did not choose the date and place they wanted to experience cancer.

They did not, and still do not, know where the finish line is. Or if there even is a true finish line. Even if chemo does its job, there’s always a chance cancer will return.

My marathon might return, too. But only if I sign up for it.

And let me close by saying this—with the hope it won’t offend anyone.

Running a marathon is challenging, but if it’s the most difficult thing you’ve ever done, I’m glad for you.

Dementia isn’t a marathon. It’s not a sprint.

Turns out, it’s not a running event at all.

Good morning, my friends!

It’s time for me to take a break. I’ll be back in the fall. In the meantime, I’ll be running some of my favorite older posts on the Facebook page.

I’ve got a report at work I need to focus on. After that, we will be headed to the beach for a week.

While I’m gone, don’t forget to be kind to yourself.

I leave you with one of my favorite quotes:

“She believed she could so she did but then she needed a break.”

Maybe I added that last phrase.

See you later, alligators.

I had driven across Iowa on a hot and humid summer afternoon to give a presentation to staff at a memory care community. I couldn’t park close, so I had to walk for about five minutes to get to the building.

By the time I entered the lobby, I was sweating. Not sparkling or glowing or any of those other words women who don’t sweat much might use. I was sweating.

And I sweat a lot.

A friend of mine goes to a workout class with me and walks out looking refreshed. I walk out looking like I’ve been stranded on an tropical island for weeks and someone just rescued me…except I’m not that skinny. Ten minutes of exercise and my hair is drenched, my mascara is dripping down my cheeks, and my shirt looks like it’s just been pulled out of the washer.

I know there are medical conditions that cause excessive sweating, but I don’t have one of them. I’m just a woman who sweats a lot.

As I entered the memory care community on this particularly sweltering day, I saw a bench. I decided to sit for a minute and attempt to stop sweating before I walked in to do my presentation.

An older woman with a walker slowly made her way up to me. I greeted her, but she didn’t respond. She sat down next to me.

I figured she didn’t want to visit, so I pulled out my phone to check for messages.

Then she said, “You sweat more than the average girl, don’t you?”

I put my phone down. I hadn’t realized I was sweating quite that much. I told her that I did sweat a lot.

“It’s good. You get the bad stuff out faster so you can be a better person,” she explained.

I hadn’t heard that before, but I was intrigued. In fact, it was the most positive interpretation of extreme sweating that I had ever heard.

“Like toxins?” I asked.

“Oh no,” she said. “Like old boyfriends.”

“You sweat out old boyfriends?” I asked.

“Unless you want to keep them inside,” she answered.

I nodded. I certainly didn’t want to keep old boyfriends inside. I mean, let’s sweat those guys out and be done with them.

There was a short silence as I pictured tiny versions of my old boyfriends sitting on my skin until I wiped them off with a towel.

I asked her if she had sweated out all her old boyfriends.

She said, “No, I don’t sweat so much.”

Then she got up and shuffled on.

And somehow, I didn’t feel so self-conscious about sweating.

There’s something about this conversation that I love.

This woman didn’t introduce herself. She didn’t try to make small talk. She wasn’t commenting on the weather or complimenting my dress.

She went straight for my sweating.

Perhaps it wasn’t appropriate. Or maybe it wouldn’t be appropriate in most settings. Most of us understand that you shouldn’t go right up to someone and comment about what might be making them self-conscious in that moment.

But it’s par for the course when you sit down in the atrium of a memory care community.

If this woman hadn’t had dementia, we probably would’ve had some generic scripted conversation like “Hi. Hello. How are you? Good. And you? Fine. Isn’t it so hot out? When will it cool off?”

Sure, I’ve had lots of people with dementia make comments to me that aren’t kind.

A guy at a facility that I frequently visit often tells me I’m looking fat. Once a man with dementia told me my hair was scroungy like an alley cat.

I know that sometimes people with dementia lose their “filter” or social judgement as the condition progresses. This can mean hurt family members and awkward situations.

Yet, there is a part oft this departure from typical conversation that I enjoy.

When the person with dementia doesn’t follow the “social script,” I feel like I don’t have  to either. And there’s some barrier that breaks down.

A woman with dementia commented on my sweating. She didn’t ask me how I was or why I was visiting. She went straight for the sweating.

I didn’t expect that to come my way, but I leaned in. I didn’t just nod and smile. I wanted to engage.

And I got a reward. Now when I am sweating a lot I picture my old boyfriends squeezing out of my pores.

There’s something strangely fulfilling about that.

I was shopping at Target when I ran into a woman I know. Her mother-in-law has dementia.

If you’ve read my blog for a while, you might think I hang out at Target a lot. This isn’t the first time I’ve written about a conversation with someone I ran into there. In fact, I think it’s the third. I don’t really even go to Target that much, although it sounds like I have a booth there to answer questions about dementia. (Side note: If Target wants to pay me to pick up a side gig at such a booth, I’m open to it. I mean, they have optical. Why not a dementia question booth?)

In this case, the woman was upset because her mother-in-law, Beth, was more interested in another family than their family.

You see, Beth lives in a nursing home, and a family of four resides in a little tent in the corner of her nursing home…at least that Beth’s reality. Beth’s family’s reality is different. They don’t see a family living in a tent. They see a small table with a few figurines and a lamp on it.

“What should we do?” the woman asked me.

I asked if the tent family seems agitate Beth or make her angry or sad.

“No,” the woman said to me. “It’s annoying that they are all she wants to talk about but she seems to like them.”

I said that I didn’t see a problem…that perhaps this family kept her company…that maybe she found a sense of purpose in looking after them.

“How can you say there’s no problem when my mother-in-law is obsessed with a made-up family supposedly living in her nursing home room?” she asked, a bit frustrated with me.

I get why she was surprised when I said I didn’t see a problem. I get why she didn’t accept my answer. And I regretted how I worded my response.

I understand that this situation as a whole is less than ideal. I understand that Beth is a woman in her 70’s who is supposed to be enjoying her grandchildren. Instead she didn’t know their names. This was a woman who used to be everyone’s confidant. Now she rambled on about the tent family and couldn’t follow a conversation. This was a woman who ran her own business, and now she couldn’t even remember what she sold.

But she remembered the details of the tent family.

The dad was a doctor. The mom was a nurse. They had two kids–a boy and a girl. Beth said the kids were doing well in school. The boy even played baseball. The girl was sweet but absent-minded. She always forgot her jacket on chilly mornings unless Beth reminded her.

Beth’s daughter-in-law was resentful of the tent family–as resentful as you can be of a fictional family that lives in the corner of a nursing home room (which was actually pretty resentful). She saw the tent family as an obstacle in communicating and connecting with Beth. And she was frustrated that Beth could remember details about the tent family but couldn’t remember that any of her kids were married or that her own husband had passed away.

I tried to reframe it for her. Maybe the tent family was an opportunity. Maybe the tent family was a way to connect with Beth.

I suggested asking questions about the tent family and making them the center point of conversation. If they were the only topic that engaged Beth, it seemed like talking about them was the best way to engage her.

I want to be clear that I don’t think every problem is an opportunity. I’m not that person who minimizes problems and tells you they make you stronger and contribute to your personal growth. I’m your realistic friend–not your sunshine positive rainbows friend.

Sometimes you have mean, awful, ugly problems and there’s no way to reframe them more positively.

But once in while…once in a while…we see something as a problem when it’s not a problem.

Dementia is problematic, to be sure. It creates challenges and it hurts people and it limits lives. It can be one of those mean, awful, ugly problems. Obviously.

But the tent family? I didn’t seem them as a problematic. In fact, I felt like everyone should just accept and makes friends with the tent family.

I didn’t think the woman would take my advice. She seemed resistant to accepting the tent family as part of…their family.

But then I got an email from her a few weeks later. Here’s an excerpt:

I asked Beth about the tent family and we connected like we haven’t in a long time. She was so excited to tell someone stories about them. Each time I go, I get excited to hear what she is going to tell me they are up to. Last time she told me that dad was cheating on the mom and she was planning to tell the mom. She also said the boy got caught kissing a girl behind the school and he was grounded. The girl was twenty years older, so the parents weren’t happy at all.

Sometimes what we view as a problem isn’t such a problem. And sometimes stepping into someone else’s reality–especially when it’s quite different than our reality–is where we connect.