Denise and a Penguin Named Priscilla

Not too long after we moved my mother into skilled nursing, I noticed that what had started as one stuffed animal was growing into a collection on a shelf above her bed.  I asked a staff member where they were coming from.  "A church group comes to visit and leaves them with the residents."  That troubled me.  Yes, my mother was ill, but she was not child-like, and I was not not sure my mother ever wanted a church group to visit her.  The staff member assured me that the visitors were respectful, and I felt I just had to trust that.  Mother was quite non-committal on the subject, and was far more interested in knowing whether or not I had brought her some chocolate.       

That image came to my mind last week when I walked into a long-term care community.  Denise was sitting by the door.  She waved for me to come over. I  had talked to her a couple of times before, and I knew she could be quite sorrowful and anxious.  She could also be difficult to understand.  I walked over, and she surprised me by holding out a small stuffed penguin.  "I have a creature.  Her name is Priscilla."   We did not really get to talk as the activity director was calling my name.  I invited Denise to come join the conversation that was going to be held in another room.  In just a few minutes, she surprised me again by coming into the room in her wheelchair on her own.     

A very sweet group was gathered around me, and we began to discuss Psalm 23.  Denise then surprised me yet one more time.  She showed us Priscilla with an outstretched arm, and said in a remarkably strong voice, "I know this creature, who I call Priscilla,  is not real, but she gives me courage.  I know I get courage from God, and I know God is real.  God gives me refuge."  I was stunned, not only by the clarity of her voice, but by the clarity of her thinking.   I was also very touched by the support and understanding that the frail group extended to her.   As I listened to these interactions, I felt the room filling up with love.  It was as if we were all on a raft calmly floating our way to shore. 

I may always struggle when I see dementia patients holding dolls or other toys.  Yet, Denise was able to provide some insight, and I am grateful.   As I helped one resident get to the dining room, I thought, "I am right where I need to be." In the future, when I am troubled by what I see, I shall remember Denise.  Her struggle is heroic, and I am blessed to be able to learn from her.  

   

I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
    where does my help come from?
My help comes from the LORD,

 the Maker of heaven and earth.     

Psalm 121:1  NIV