Seeing beauty amid our brokenness

Along with two friends, each week I visit Nora, an elder experiencing the slow-motion slide into dementia. My friends and I go to accompany Nora (not her real name) and one another, to share soul-revealing conversation, and to keep vigil with our friend, who charts the passing of cognitive abilities she always defined herself by.

An inherently deep and intelligent woman, Nora is well aware of what’s happening to her. She grows frustrated searching for words, pulling up synonyms her net snags on. She relays stories of not remembering and wondering, for example, if it’s the middle of the night or time to get up—the symbolism of clocks no longer signifying the time. Yet she also shares detailed dreams she recalls, and astute reflections from day-to-day. Every Tuesday when we arrive, she lights up with surprise, though we’re standard weekly fare and always listed among the felt-tip-penned daily events her husband posts on the fridge. “I love Tuesdays!” she exclaims as we trickle through her door.

For as long as I’ve known her, Nora’s blue-gray eyes have shone with rare love and wisdom. So I was surprised when, on a recent visit, she was overwhelmed with guilt about her life and how (she feels) she’s treated people. The weight of her self-reproach transfixed her, and surprised all of us really. It was shocking since Nora seems especially caring, as people go. Yet from the precipice of memory loss she looks on her life and sees moral failure. “Nora,” I told her, “when we look at you, all we see is a beautiful, kind person.” “Oh, I love hearing this,” she replies, leaning forward, reaching, trying to soak it in—uncharacteristically needy for our affirmation. I, along with my other friends, repeat it, all telling her: You are a beautiful, beautiful person. We’ll keep reminding her.