Evelyn is in a fog. But I’m coming to realize she’s not the only one

Several have thanked me for last week’s post. It described a session sponsored by the Alzheimer’s Association that allowed me and other caregivers to experience what life looks like to an Alzheimer’s sufferer.

We were given goggles that blocked our peripheral vision.

We donned headphones emitting an unrelenting buzz that compromised our hearing.

Painter’s gloves limited our ability to manipulate a button or handle a deck of cards.

And then we received a long list of instructions that most of us failed to follow because we couldn’t hear or understand what we were supposed to do. And if we did think we understood what task to complete, our compromised senses hindered our ability to accomplish it.

I left the experience with new appreciation for the limitations of all the folks living in Evelyn’s hallway, each of them an Alzheimer’s sufferer. They can understand only what the invading disease allows into their damaged brains. They’re in a fog.

Opening my eyes . . . and my heart

Realizing this teaches me to go slowly with Evelyn or any Alzheimer’s victim. Speak distinctly, keep communication simple, be patient. Stay calm, even if they don’t understand or react appropriately. They cannot operate at my pace; I must adjust to theirs. They’re in a fog.

And as I pondered that, I thought of a second lesson I want to mention here.

It dawns on me that Evelyn and her peers are not the only ones living in a fog. Everyday, “normal” people all around me are limited by some fog I may not see and they may not understand.

Discovering their fog

The fog of insecurity. Or shame. Or pride. Accusations buzzing in their ears constantly telling them, “You’re not enough.” “You need to impress.” “You must succeed.”

Their every action clothed with limitations they can’t shake off. “What would your mother do?” “What must your father think?”

The vision of themselves conditioned by years of negative self-talk. “You’re too fat . . . or tall . . . or short . . . or quiet . . . or loud . . . or young . . . or old.”

I’m convinced even healthy, well-functioning people are compromised by some fog of self-doubt or fear. Most of us have—or think we have—something to hide.

Retooling my approach

But when I deal with a difficult person, or a troubling friend—or even a pleasant checkout clerk or neighbor or church lobby buddy—I seldom pause to consider whatever baggage they’re bringing to the conversation.

It would be so helpful if I could know the maelstrom of influences affecting my acquaintances every day. Impossible, of course. But I can retool my strategy for approaching the people I meet.

• My dad, who made his living as a successful salesman, told me, “Everyone wants to feel important.” How would it help others if I showed them they’re important to me?

• Mark Rutherford a century ago wrote, “Blessed are they who heal us of our self-despisings.” And my friend Roy Lawson, who has served decades as a pastor, teacher, counselor, and mentor, told me, “I’ve decided my only job in every relationship is simply to love.”

How much stress could I eliminate if I’d silence my ringing compulsion to impress or change or teach the people I know? Think of the fog that could be penetrated if I would just love.

• Jesus said, “Do to others what you’d have them do to you.”

What if I could follow such sound, simple advice? Maybe it would clear from my psyche my own fog that blinds me to what others are feeling.

The fog is closing in around Evelyn these days. She’s sleeping more, interacting less, and withdrawing farther. Someday that fog will thicken until we lose her completely.

But long after that, I can keep considering the fog others are facing. And I can offer a hand to help them walk through it to a clearer vision of their own potential.