Alzheimer's, dementia, vascular Parkinsonism. It's kind of like identity theft. The people in your life start thinking that you aren't you anymore. But I think you ARE still you.
What is identity, anyway? Is it the numbers on your social security card or driver's license or passport? Is it your position in your family? Is it how you earn your living? Is it what you like to do when you're not working? Is it the sum of what you do, what you say, how you react?
Does identity change? I think a lot about this. And I've recently had a thought that comforts me, so I'm sticking to it. Even if we can't see it or hear it; even if we feel "robbed" by his inability to communicate and act and react in the ways that we are used to; even if we feel helpless to reach him -- he is still there with identity intact.
I like to think that he's hunkered down in the eye of the hurricane that is life. He's warm, and dry, and relieved to be out of the storm. He's found a peace that passes our understanding. He has found a safe harbor. And his identity is safely anchored in the hearts and minds of those who love him.
Corny? Yes. But that's just one of the countless pieces of his identity that is now a part of mine.
1 comment:
That is a comforting picture. He is warm and safe, and we will keep his identity safe for him. Back to bed for me.
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