Richard, who has Alzheimer’s, lived for a while next door to us with his daughter. His advancing disease made it necessary for his safety to move him to a Sunrise facility, where he seems to be doing very well. We visited him for the first time there a few days ago.

One thing about our call on Richard was especially poignant to me. We visited for a while in his room (a bright space, attractively furnished), and on the dresser was one of those double-frames for photos with, on the left, a picture of Richard as a young man in the early 1940s, and, on the right, a picture of his wife (now long deceased) from the same time. From our conversation, we knew that Richard still knows that the young man and woman in the pictures are he and his beloved. We sat and talked some more, and Richard put on a CD. Richard loves Sinatra, and so do I, so it was no surprise to me that the disc he played was of the young Frank with the Tommy Dorsey band. I commented, “Ahh, Sinatra” — at which point Richard went over to the dresser, and, pointing alternately to the CD player and the photograph of himself, protested, “That’s me.” It was obvious he had conflated his own identity with the sound of Sinatra’s voice in that period. Then a girl singer took over the vocals on the track we were hearing, and I recognized her as Connie Haines. So I said so, and Richard again disagreed strongly, going back to the double-frame and pointing to his young bride, saying, “That’s her.”

Somehow, he was able to hold two ideas in his head at the same time. He knew the photographs were of him and his wife. But he also “knew,” just as certainly, that the photographs were of the singers on the CD, the singers making the music that meant so much to him. The music which began as a metaphor for himself and his wife when they were young had gone beyond metaphor; now the two of them had become the music, and the music had become them.

When we read a work of fiction, the story can draw us into its world; while we read, we are not here, we are “there,” we become the protagonist in our mind’s eye; his fears are ours, his triumphs are ours. The difference is while this is so, we never quite lose the part of ourselves that says, “I am me, reading this book.” Richard, when he hears the music, seems to lose that.

Maybe it’s because music means a lot to me, too, or maybe it’s because the music of his time meant a lot to my father, whom we lost to Alzheimer’s, but when I realized what was going on with Richard, I started to cry, then held back my tears. At the same time Richard’s confusion is a symptom of his disease, there’s something beautiful in it. Counterintuitively, the disease doesn’t always cloud truth — sometimes it reveals it. And the truth can be a beautiful thing.


One Comment on “Richard.”

  1. Craig says:

    Thank you Ted, a beautiful story that made me cry too. It brought to mind a song Patti Page sings on her last album ‘Brand New Tennessee Waltz’. The song’s called ‘Where’ve You Been?’ and about a couple, never apart for 60 years, who are separated in an aged-care facility. I’ve just had a listen to it after reading your story and have had another good cry. I can’t bear the thought of being separated from my wife.

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