In many, if not most, cases, names are important. In Texas,
all sodas are “coke,” as in: “Do you want a coke?” “Yes.” “What kind—regular,
Dr. Pepper, Sprite, diet?” But if I order a Coke, don’t ask me if Pepsi is OK. Choosing
names can be fun. I have enjoyed figuring out the call name and longer
registered name for my dogs. For instance, Toby was officially Toby’s Little
Rascal because one-year-old daughter Meghan repeated “Toby” from my few ideas
on the way home with him, and he had a hair spike like Alfalfa. Some people
agonize over what to name their baby, even leaving the baby nameless for days
rather than give the wrong one. Some don't care about their name. "Just don't call me late for dinner."
On the line “Named for” in my baby book, Dad wrote, “her
very own self.” He and Mom picked the name together, but Dad chose the
spelling. He didn’t think the feminine form with an i looked complete. The masculine form has been problematic as many
people have looked for a male when calling my name. Others have automatically
spelled it “Terri” when I give my name. It’s not a big deal now, but it used to
bug me.
For a long time I abhorred my middle name. In good Southern
fashion, they gave me “Terry Sue.” That’s what most of Dad’s family, especially
his aunts and uncles, called me. It was fine until the kids on the block behind
me found out, and one of them liked the University of Arkansas. They took to
calling out “sooey pig” and oinking at me when I’d go play. I learned to avoid
them and my name. An older adult friend took to calling me by both names when I
was a young adult. I still hated it, but I tolerated it from Marianne as I did
from my family out of respect for someone older and because she’s about as Southern
as you can get. It was normal, not an insult. She has always said it as one
word, with a slight lilt to the end and a smile, and in time it made me smile
and became special to me. It’s a mark of our relationship.
When the name is
missing
My pastor talked about names during his sermon this morning.
His mom experienced a severe brain hemorrhage. A few days later, his sister
asked her to name the three family members who were there. His mom said his
sister’s and dad’s names but not his. His voice still reveals the ache—that
moment when someone so close does not know who you are. Soon after, an occupational
therapist gave his mom a pencil and paper and told her to write the alphabet.
His mom wrote j. John said that it
was another moment of pain. She didn’t know even the starting letter. But o followed the j, and then h and n. She might not have been able to say
his name, but she still knew it. Still knew him. When she named him as a baby,
she claimed him. She still claimed him.
I’ve been chewing on that today. I had never thought about
naming a baby a way of claiming the baby, but it is, and it becomes an integral
part of the person. One of the biggest hurts that I’ve heard people express
about their loved ones with dementia is “He/she calls me by (some other name)”
or “He/she thinks I am (pick a relation).” It’s one that almost always produces
a catch in their voice. It’s not the running through siblings’ names trying to
get the right one when someone is in trouble or a simple slip of the tongue.
What the person occasionally adds but always means is “He/she doesn’t know who
I am.” The claimed relationship is gone.
I heard the catch on my latest animal assisted therapy visit
at the memory care unit. A husband came to see his wife. They were sitting
together when I went to another area. When I returned, he was where I had left
them. She was across the room staring in the opposite direction. He looked up
at me and said, “Yesterday she was so talkative. Today, she doesn’t know me at
all.” He left a few minutes later. He might have known it was part of the
disease, but I could see the defeat in his body language as he walked away.
Fading away
Dad does still remember some family members’ names and those
of friends he sees regularly. More commonly now, unfortunately, I’ll be sharing
news from friends and family on Facebook, or Mom will tell me something that’s
happening at church, and he’ll ask, “Who’s that?” or say, “I don’t know
him/her.” Sometimes when we identify the person, “That’s Tim’s son” or “She
used to go to the chapel,” he’ll nod in acknowledgement. Sometimes I can see
that he’s made a full connection between the name and person, like a vivid memory
pops up, because his expression also changes. Other times, even with some
framework, he’ll shake his head and shrug us off, annoyed that he still doesn’t
know the person.
Dementia has a set of stages its victims go through and
common symptoms they experience, although no two will have the same journey. I
don’t know, for example, if Dad’s going to start wandering. The end stage,
however, is always the same.
So I do know that just like the names of those he hasn’t
seen recently have already started vanishing, names of those he sees weekly
will disappear. And then those of the people he sees daily. Or, he may still
have the names but not the name/person combo. One day I could be Meghan or my
sister Alice or maybe his sister Lucy. I could be niece Courtney one day and my
mom the next. Or maybe within the same visit. They are all lovely people whom I
love, but they are not me.
It doesn’t bother me that I’m a new person every time I see
the residents at the memory care facility. I know it’s the disease. Sometimes,
though, as I answer “What’s your dog’s name?” for the second or third time in
an hour from the same resident, I see Dad in their faces. I have to consciously
turn off that part of my brain, or I cannot finish the visit. Will not be able
to go back.
I have known it’s because of my relationship with Dad versus
the residents, but I think John stated it perfectly this morning. It’s Dad’s
claim on me. He claimed me before I was born. Terry Sue if it’s a girl. When he
and Mom stopped by the industrial arts competition when I was a high school
senior, he put his business card on only one set of drafting blueprints. Because
he claimed me, he marked it to let me know they had seen it. He has claimed me
when meeting new people. “This is my
daughter Terry.” He was always great about helping people. I nearly always took
precedence if there was some overlap with a need because he didn’t claim them.
I am his.
In an earlier blog, I wrote about how I knew when we went to
the zoo last fall that he wouldn’t remember going. Yet when he drew a complete
blank while looking at the book I created of the visit, it was like a smack
upside the head with a board. I have had a feeling it’s going to be the same or
worse when we reach the point that he doesn’t know me. When he doesn’t claim me
anymore.
But not gone
