“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
I had the same conversation over and over again last week with an elderly woman named Rose, a rather odd experience for someone who talks to people for a living (if you think about it, that’s really what a journalist does).
Rose is probably in her 80s, petite, with a silver Dutch clip. And boy is she a flirt. Each time I answered yes to the first question, she’d nudge my leg and say, “Oh that’s too bad. If I were 21, I’d go with ya,” laughing with gusto at her own joke. She doesn’t wear glasses, so (in part because of my own vanity) I take it her eyes are still sharp.
Sadly, Rose’s memory is not—or, at least, her short-term memory is not. On the few occasions when I managed to direct her off-script, I learned that Rose is of Italian descent, worked in the shoe division of Uniroyal for more than 40 years, and was widowed a couple years ago.
I doubt she remembers anything about me.
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
I was seated to Rose’s right at a table, along with two other women, neither as old as Rose but seniors themselves. The one to Rose’s left seemed to recognize quickly the situation. I felt I could read her expression: “That poor young man, trapped in this never-ending conversation.” I think she was embarrassed.
Truthfully, I didn’t feel trapped, though there was no escaping the loop of questions. I was confused the second time they came, thinking maybe she hadn’t heard me the first time. Soon, though, I realized hearing wasn’t the problem.
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
I have two living grandparents, both on my mother’s side. Grandpa is 88 and his remains the most popular lap in the toddler room of the church in which I was raised. Grandma is 83 and still cooks Sunday dinner every week for as many as 23 people. They’re out-of-it when it comes to technology or popular culture, but in conversation—and most everything else—they’re about as with-it as they come.
I share this to illustrate how foreign my exchange with Rose seemed. Each time she posed a familiar question, I did my best to answer with the same energy I had the first time—“No, we don’t have any children yet, but we’d love to have a family some day”—and she, in turn, would smile and offer a “God bless you,” with no recollection of my previous responses.
I’d like to think I was kind and patient, but I wondered if I would manage to be so consistently, if 15 minutes with a stranger were years with my own grandmother.
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
I can only guess that Rose has Alzheimer’s disease. When I described our cyclical chat later to my wife, an occupational therapy master’s candidate who has worked with senior citizens, she concluded Alzheimer’s or dementia.
The diagnosis doesn’t matter much, nor does Rose’s full name or the location and circumstances of our encounter. I’ve omitted these details deliberately because I don’t want you to fixate on one person—I want you to be able to imagine Rose as anyone in your life. She could be your mother, grandmother, aunt or maybe not a relative at all. Perhaps she’s your neighbor, or just someone you meet by chance.
Would you feel trapped?
“Are you married? How many children do you have? Where do you live?”
The ever-sagacious Will Smith, during the opening narrative of the 2005 movie, Hitch, tells us, “60 percent of all human communication is nonverbal, body language; 30 percent is your tone. So that means 90 percent of what you’re saying ain’t even coming out of your mouth.”
That breakdown is spot on for Rose. She seemed to forget my words almost as soon as I spoke them, but it didn’t matter to her. My smile, the fact that I didn’t pull away when she touched me and my willingness to enter a world of constant déjà vu were all she needed to be happy.
And when I focused on the 90 percent of what she can still express as coherently as ever, the other 10 percent was easy to forget.
