In my reflections, I meditate on moments during my journey of discovery in dance, volunteering with people with dementia, work as a psychologist and more.
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"Aaaah, hén shūfú de..." The words leave my lips, with a cloud of vapor in the cold air. The freshness of the air slides past our warm cheeks and ears, taking away all the tension and worries from the past week with it. Arm in arm, we walk on, and the nursing home gradually fades into the background. The trees are still bare, and in some places on the sidewalk, it is decorated with white. Lost in her thoughts, she begins to speak about her familiar topic: "Zhàngfū de qián" (The man’s money).
A few Friday nights ago, I had signed up for a musical performance at the library. As a Friday worker, I'm often inclined to go straight home, but I thought attending an event every now and then might do me good. I had underestimated the uncomfortable feeling of coming home and being greeted by darkness would feel since starting my first full-time job. That evening, I stretched the time before returning home, had dinner at a restaurant, and then walked to the library. Everything being within walking distance not only means arriving at the location faster but also provides more time to fill. I step off at the third floor. My eyes slide over the book covers, and I’m caught by "Alzheimers in Beweging" by Gera de Leeuw. This book describes how our brains can be stimulated through movement exercises, specifically for people with Alzheimer’s. On Thursdays, I try to be present to dance with her during the dance afternoons. I also regularly sing Chinese songs for her when we walk together, doing everything to stimulate her to break her verbal loop. The question of how I could move with her in a new way, besides walking, dancing, and singing, lingers as I put the book back on the shelf.
Her verbal loop wasn’t clear to me at first. I tried deciphering her story with my Chinese teacher, but even she couldn't make much sense of it. It seems that her Chinese language system is deteriorating. I wonder how she sounded in English back in the day, a language she reportedly spoke fluently. Since I’m still struggling with Mandarin language, it’s an extra challenge not knowing whether it’s my language system or hers when I don’t understand where the conversation is going. Attentively listening to her story, it begins with the man’s money, something must be done with it, I’ve discovered. Then she mentions something about the house (jiā). Normally, I listen to her story, respond sympathetically, and don’t ask questions. I’ve learned not to oppose or ask questions, as this can make people with dementia anxious and stressed. The story starts over while we’re still walking on the right side of the street.
"Let’s cross the street," I say to her, turning my head to check if the cyclists and cars stop. "Yes, crossing is good," she replies, pausing her story for a brief moment. We walk back via the other side to the nursing home, our usual route. She starts her story again. Then, suddenly, she says, "dūodūodūo" (many many many). I hear this for the first time today! "Dūodūodūo?" I ask her curiously. "Dūodūodūo," she answers firmly. "Dūodūodūo??" I ask again to be sure. "Dūodūodūo!!" she responds even more clearly. We both burst out laughing, probably because we sound like two pigeons trying to communicate with each other.
Then she starts again about the man’s money. "Do you like mápó tofu?" I ask her abruptly. "Mápó tofu? Duì!" she answers enthusiastically. The loop starts again from the beginning. I interrupt her with an urgent question. "Can we ask the man to buy mápó tofu with that money for us?" Clouds of laughter fill the icy air in front of our faces. "What did you just say?!" she laughs, as though I’ve deviated from the script like an amateur actress and started improvising. "Let him bring it to the house (jiā) so we can eat together, because there’s dūodūodūo!" Laughing heartily, we continue moving towards our destination, and I realize that we might still not be finished talking about this topic.
