Birki

My family's recently deceased golden retriever loved rhyme.  She adored water, but hated to swim.  She was the most loyal, lovable dog I've ever known.

One of Birki's favorite things to do was to take walks around the neighborhood wearing her purple leash and collar.  She knew the route, and if one strayed from that route, she would pull in the correct direction to avoid being led astray.  Any rhyming variation of "Birki, want to go for a walk?!" got her excited.  My personal favorite is, "Turkey, we need to have a talk."  And then we'd walk.  And Birki was happy.  She was well-behaved and only made bathroom breaks in the barren field on Ashline Drive.

Oh, and Birki loved puddles: the muddier the better.  She also liked shallow streams where she could prance around and lap up the water and saturate the curly hairs on her belly.  I only saw Birki swim once, and that was when she made one step too far in a lake, hit a deep pocket and gave one little doggie paddle to get her back to shallower waters.  I could tell she was nervous.

Named after one of the most comfortable and reliable brands of shoes -- Birkenstock -- our dog was also reliable and a comfort to the family.  She was the most perceptive and loving creature I've ever met.  She was stubborn, but only in ways that made her more lovable.  She will be missed, but I'm happy to know she lived a happy, long life.  I'll miss my Birk Tirk.

Disease of the mind

I spent a good part of today in the psych ward of a nursing home, giving eye exams to those suffering from Alzheimer's Disease, Dementia, Schizophrenia, and other diseases of the mind.

Disease of the mind.  What a horrible thing.  Aside from making an eye exam incredibly difficult (forget "better one or two"; it was challenging enough to get the patients to keep their eyes open); I can't even imagine how difficult it is for the families of these elderly patients.

The first patient of the day was a woman in her late 80s named Helen.  She kept asking, "Why am I here?"  Assuming she was referring to the closet-sized room they had set aside for us to use as an examination lane, I replied: "To have your eyes checked" in a cheerful voice.  After we re-hashed this conversation several times, she changed her inquiry slightly to "Why did my son leave me here?" and I wanted to cry.

Not that this particular nursing home mistreated or neglected its residents in any way, but I could never imagine a life for myself or for others close to me within the realms of a nursing home, especially in the psych ward of a nursing home.  The hallways are filled with confused wandering souls, some on so many psychotropic medications, one wonders if they are completely aloof because of their underlying neurological condition or because of the medications themselves.  Many are unable to stand, and some cannot even sit comfortably; several eye exams were conducted while the patient lay in bed.  Some rooms lend a subtle stench of urine.  There are toys in others: boards that light up and shiny holographic pictures on the wall, that are more suggestive of a daycare facility for toddlers than a home for those well into their eighties and nineties.  I guess there is very little difference between needy toddlers and the elderly who can no longer care for themselves.  Except the extensive medications.

Medication after medication, and they're not just psychotropic medications.  I flip through the hundreds of pages of the residents' health records to include important health history as part of the eye exam.  Medications for diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, heart disease, skin conditions, et cetera, et cetera.  While the medications alone are overwhelming, the disease of the mind is what scares me the most.

I worry less about those in the nursing home than those who are their closest family members.  What about Helen's son?  I'm sure every time he visits his mother, he feels remorse and probably a great deal of guilt.  But, what options does he have?  In Helen's condition, it is highly unlikely she could live on her own and probably does need a full time staff to ensure that she is adequately fed, bathed, and medicated.

And the blank stare you get from those who have lost the great majority of their memories: those that look their loved ones in the eye and say "Who are you?"  That is probably worse.


The human brain is an incredibly complex organ; however, it is often only when it starts to fail that one recognizes just quite how astonishing it is, especially in regard to its plasticity and memory capabilities.  This may be selfish, but I hope I keep my mind and my sanity until the end, and I hope those close to me do as well.  I never want to experience what these nursing home residents and their families deal with on a daily basis.