Many facilities are using nostalgic environments as a means of soothing the misery, panic, and rage their residents experience. [But is it okay to further deceive dementia patients about reality?]
Some of the porches had rocking chairs that you could sit in and watch people go by. Many of the residents were quite restless, and there was nowhere else to go, so people did walk by fairly often. Daylight came in through high windows just below the ceiling, and the ceiling itself consisted of bright light panels painted to look like a blue sky dotted with clouds. In the evening, as it began to grow dark outside, lights on the porches came on. Sometime later, the street lamps were lit; and finally, around eight o’clock, the ceiling sky was switched off, so that the unit came to look like a small-town street at night.
The illusion was surprisingly effective. While the central area didn’t feel like outdoors, exactly, it didn’t feel like a room, either—it was halfway between the two, at once enclosed and public. People who spent time there found themselves referring to the hallways as streets, and the suites as houses. And although the unit was conceived as a kind of nostalgic stage set, a harkening back to an America of eighty or ninety years ago, when many of its residents were children, in fact it looked much like the town outside: Chagrin Falls, Ohio, in the Chagrin Valley just east of Cleveland, a town of clapboard houses with wooden shutters and shingled pitched roofs and rocking chairs on the porches.
The impression that the unit was outdoors and public was all the stronger because the people who gathered each day in the central room had no common purpose or shared understanding of what they were doing there. Some knew that they had come to live in the memory-care unit because they could no longer manage living on their own: they could no longer drive, or they tended to forget their medication or leave the stove on, or if they went for a walk they might get lost. Some knew that they were in a memory-care unit but didn’t believe they needed to be there and tried to get out. Others did not know where they were, or knew sometimes but not at other times, or else seemed to have reached a point at which the question of where they were was no longer important.
The staff tried to keep the residents busy. They played hangman and trivia and bingo and beanbag toss. They performed stretching exercises and cognitive exercises every morning. There was Bible study and crafts and manicures each week. They watched Indians games on TV in the summer, and Cavaliers and Browns games in the fall. Elsewhere in the facility, there was an artificial main street, with a library, a gift shop, a beauty salon, a chapel in which services were held on Sundays, and a couple of faux storefronts—an oil company, a hardware store. Sometimes the residents were taken on outings—picnics or fishing at a nearby lake—and sometimes relatives came to take them to lunch, but most of the time the clapboard streetscape of the memory-care unit was their world.
The streetscape at the Lantern, the home at Chagrin Valley, is particularly encompassing and detailed, but comforting fictions—scenery, props, and other simulations—are employed in many homes for people with dementia. Some nursing homes offer their residents realistic vinyl baby dolls, along with diapers, bottles, and clothes. Some residents grow so attached to the dolls that it seems they believe they are real babies, although it is difficult to tell. Many people become visibly calmer when they are holding the dolls; but some relatives and staff find the dolls demeaning, and wonder whether it’s possible not to infantilize a person who is cuddling a toy baby.
People with dementia often ask to go home. Some ask even if they’re still in the house they’ve lived in for years; but people in institutions can ask many times a day. Telling a person in an institution that they live here now, that this is their permanent home, is usually neither comforting nor convincing, so, to address this problem, many nursing homes and hospitals have installed fake bus stops. When a person asks to go home, an aide takes them to the bus stop, where they sit and wait for a bus that never comes. At some point, when they are tired, and have forgotten what they are doing there, they are persuaded to go back.
Some years ago, a company in Boston began marketing Simulated Presence Therapy, which involved making a prerecorded audiotape to simulate one side of a phone conversation. A relative or someone close to the patient would put together an “asset inventory” of the patient’s cherished memories, anecdotes, and subjects of special interest; a chatty script was developed from the inventory, and a tape was recorded according to the script, with pauses every now and then to allow time for replies. When the tape was ready, the patient was given headphones to listen to it and told that they were talking to the person over the phone. Because patients’ memories were short, they could listen to the same tape over and over, even daily, and find it newly comforting each time. There was a séance-like quality to these sessions: they were designed to simulate the presence of someone who was merely not there, but they could, in principle, continue even after that person was dead... (continues)
Larissa MacFarquhar, New Yorker
No comments:
Post a Comment