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| Lake Honor, College of the Ozarks |
When I was at the College of the Ozarks, students
would drop out of school to “find” themselves. It’s not as if they were lost physically,
they just couldn’t seem to decide what they really wanted to be when they grew
up—if they grew up. We’ve all known
someone with a big ego and a strong sense of self. We’ve met people
who seemed self confident one day and uncertain the next. Then,others who
never trusted their own judgment, or believed they were worthless. They couldn’t
find their own value and wondered, Who am
I?
Fragile egos aside, no matter how
much my friends questioned who they were, they always knew their names and backgrounds—real and embellished. They knew their brothers, sisters,
friends, boyfriend or girlfriend. The only thing they were unsure of was why
they were on this earth and what their
purpose in life was.
I dropped out of college to pursue
my own destiny. My imagination has
always been darned active, but for my life to have been any different is
unimaginable. My life certainly didn’t follow the plans my youthful self made for my future, but I wouldn’t
change any of it. The road I followed brought me to Jim and the family I
cherish and the experiences that made me who I am today.
Don’t get me wrong, everything wasn’t
peachy pie perfect. We hit some bumps, big and small, along the way. We made
mistakes. Vietnam changed Jim, dementia changed him even more. But I don’t
think Jim lost track of who he was, or who he loved, and who loved him. Even
when he couldn’t say the words, his eyes would light up from time to time, and
you knew he was there. Inside.
As the present slipped from his
memory, he remembered the past. Jim grew up in a large itinerant family. They
would pile into a car and head across the state, or country, depending on where
they could find work. Home was where they were at the time—it might be a rental
house, a camper trailer, a tent, under a tree, or with relatives. That kind of
life might not be for everyone, but Jim saw it as a series of adventures. He
loved reminiscing about the people he knew, the places he went to school, and
the sites he’d seen.
So, when his short-term memory
faded, he spent quality time in the glory days of his youth. He never had to
find himself, because his heart was the same. A lot of things changed as Jim
became more dependent on others to provide his personal care.
People often asked me if Jim knew
who I was. He rarely spoke, so he didn’t call me by the wrong name. I do know
that one time when I was at the Alzheimer’s Forum, someone at the long-term
care facility tried to shave him, and Jim pushed the razor away. “Linda,” he
said. His mom got a kick out of that. She said he didn’t want anyone else to
shave him because he knew I’d be back to do it.
Jim may not have known who I was
all the time, but I always knew him. I learned to love who he was through each
stage of the disease. When he became more childlike, I knew his roots from the
stories he had shared with me.
For those of us who have our short-
and long-term memories intact, we shouldn’t question who we were. We should not
just be determined to be the best person we can become when we grow up—if we
grow up. Knowing just exactly who we are, our faults and our strong points, could
be key to being the best person we can be today.
Copyright © February 2016 by L.S.
Fisher
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