Holy

After David retired from St. Vincent de Paul he volunteered in the food bank, so he was still coming to the Georgetown campus. I remember him walking around the administrative offices, stopping into different offices, all smiles. He would tell Ned Delmore, the Executive Director, "you are a holy man," with a grin and a laugh.

This was his refrain for many of the conversations he had, as his vocabulary by this time was severely limited. This was a mainstay phrase of his conversations for nearly a year. "You are a holy woman," he would tell Chris in the payroll department. It made people smile. It made David smile, which was always a pleasure to see. He was speaking simply, but with much feeling and emotion. His years of ministry to others was being boiled-down to these simple phrases, and his true spirit of contentment, playfulness, and meaningful reflection, shined through.

He stopped using that phrase after he moved into Gaffney House. Other gestures and emotion came through to those around him, but few words. I know he is capable of speech because there are times when he is effervescent and chatty (see previous blog). But more often than not, he doesn't speak much anymore.

Which is why a recent visit turned so delightful.

When I arrived today David was napping, sitting upright, on the couch. I nudged him awake. He looked around, then looked at me. Puzzled at first--he had just woken up--but then he smiled at me. "Walk?"he mumbled. Yes, and off we went. Once we got out the door, I asked him 'how are you feeling today?' He turned to me with a grin and said "I feel holy."

Wow! I was overcome with sweet memories of hearing this again. I repeated it back, and he nodded and smiled. I was surprised how deeply moved I was--that this recollection of a 'phrase gone by' had brought such a deeply satisfying and happy experience in me.

In reflecting on this it occurs to me that something else is happening; instead of always relying on the memories of when he was well, instead I was drawing from a time when his diminishment was well underway, and it still gave me joy.

The lesson for me was this: I can no longer wish or hope that David will return to his former self, and sometimes I think I keep that unreasonable hope alive by using the memory of him being well as my anchor of reference when I'm with him. While those memories are precious and will never leave me, to always rely on them reinforces an unrealistic expectation, and also takes away from what he offers us now: glimpses of himself shining through Alzheimer's.

And when it happens, it can be a sight to behold.