Only the cat knows

You know... to make laundry a less dreaded chore. 

I think that is the hard thing about a death. Or a break up. Or dementia. 

To lose one half of a shared experience. To lose the chance to turn to that person and say: "remember when we were so sure he was going to drive that minivan straight into the ocean?" or recall the name of that town that we climbed up the bluff on to see a school of dolphins frolicking one hundred feet off the shore or tell me if it was Fannie May chocolate Santas that hung on the tree. We are left alone to hold up our side of the story. Validate our experiences. (And some of us write down our little stories in rashes of wildfires so not to lose it all!)

I address memory in the scope of my profession. I review compensatory techniques like daily journaling, memory books, establish routines, and write cue cards which people then stick to their bathroom mirror. 1. Brush Teeth 2. Wash Face 3. Brush hair 4. Lipstick.  I might help with orientation, ability to sequence your dressing routine, and decrease the overall frustrations that memory loss can bring. I cannot, however, find a solution for the broken heart of the other- the sister, the husband, the girlfriend- who sits with their loved one who doesn't know who they are anymore. 

So it is with relief that I have the pleasure of working with a gentleman who visits me with his witty daughter. We do the same exercises each time he sees me in hopes of creating muscle/motor memory. I have written the exercises down on bright colored paper and his daughter says she hung them around his condo. He lives alone with a long haired cat which occasionally he looks for when she goes under the bed. I make him promise me that he will stop getting down onto the floor to look under the bed. His answer always results in smile. 

"Did you do your exercises over the weekend?" I ask him every session. (We really can tell if you have been doing your exercises.) 

He blinks and I watch him try to recall.  He suddenly looks at me with a fish eye. "I can't remember. I guess only the cat knows. I'm thinking that she will never tell."