“I Don’t Know What to Say”

A woman and her friends had pledged they would visit Ginny every weekend after she was admitted to a memory care unit.  

They used to be a foursome, with regular golf outings scheduled throughout the summer and fall. When the weather turned cold and snowy, they took turns hosting Rummikub® games at their condos every week.

They had become friends decades ago when they all met at a beginner quilt class and started sewing together every Monday evening until arthritic fingers and waning eyesight became too challenging. They had seen each other through every stage of life, or so it seemed: becoming grandmothers, becoming great grandmothers, becoming widows.

Then Ginny became the one to have dementia. She’d forgotten to put on a coat and gloves when she went for a walk in the middle of January. Her kids decided she needed to move into a home. Her friends decided they would visit every weekend. No matter what.

But now the problem seemed to be that they didn’t know how to engage with her anymore. They didn’t know what to say other than to ask how she was doing. Was she going to activities? Had she made any new friends?

Ginny typically answered “no,” and then stayed silent. Maybe, they thought, their visits didn’t matter to her anymore. Maybe Ginny had even forgotten who they were.

Then one of the friends, at her wits’ end, asked, “Well now, Ginny? How are those kids of yours?” Ginny didn’t answer.

The friend continued, talking more to herself than anything. “Let’s see. You had four boys: Chuck, Jacob, Brian, and Bobby. Or Robert, I guess I should say. Though I swear, people kept calling him Bobby well into his 40s.”

There was a moment of silence before Ginny said, “Bobkins. That’s what I call him. But you can do that with a little boy. He’s only 4, y’know. I don’t know where you come off calling him 40.”

The friend stared at Ginny.

“He loves playing with those little cars,” Ginny continued. “What are they called again? Match something.”

“M-matchbox?” the friend replied.

“That’s it! Matchbox! He can sit and play with those for hours. So content. Now Brian? That’s a different story, let me tell you. He doesn’t mean to get into trouble. But it’s like he just can’t help himself. Last week he decided to throw a softball against Mrs. Morgan’s garage window to see what would happen. ‘I really didn’t think it’d break, Ma,’ he said. ‘It’s called a soft-ball for a reason. I thought it’d just bounce.’ For goodness sake, I don’t know what goes through that boy’s head!”

At one point, Ginny’s friend wanted to interrupt and tell her that her boys were all grown up with kids of their own. But then she thought, what did it matter? If Ginny thought those boys were still little, playing with their Matchboxes and breaking garage windows, who cared?

The friends no longer have any difficulty making conversation with Ginny. They just ask her about her boys.

Rosemary Apol-Hoezee, RN, MPH, CPRHM
Dementia Specialist