Naming Rights

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

I left the blog hanging there this afternoon. I hated that thought. I still do. I hate that every day a tiny bit more of his memory—including that of our relationship—dissolves with the cells in his brain. I’ve been chewing on that ending and idea ever since. A few hours later, I realized that it doesn’t matter whether or not he will claim me. I will still be his. Always was. Always will be. Not even dementia can take that from us.