In the 1933 Marx Brothers movie Duck Soup, Chico gets caught red-handed, dressed as Groucho and says, “Who are you gonna believe, me or your own eyes?” Over the years, it turned into “your lying eyes,” and Richard Pryor made that version famous when his wife caught him with another woman.
Every caregiver ends up on the other side of that joke.
Someone who has not seen Gail in months comes to see her. She smiles, asks about their kids, tells a story, gets up to help clear the plates. There are small slips. She asks a question that was answered two minutes earlier. Nobody says anything about it, me included. For an hour, she looks like the woman they have always known. Then, on the way out the door I hear, “She doesn’t seem that bad to me.”
Nobody’s eyes are lying.
The visitor saw a good afternoon. I’m glad they did. By tonight, Gail will not remember they were here, and whatever she summoned to get through that hour will be as gone as the memory of it.
A familiar face, a little novelty, and the pride of wanting to be herself in front of company will pull something out of a person that is not there on a Tuesday afternoon with nobody watching. I’m her safe place. I’m the one she lets see what she shields from everybody else. That’s an honor. I embrace it with my heart, the way I embrace her with my arms when she gets anxious.
I keep a journal because I do not trust my own memory to hold every detail. But you do not answer “she doesn’t seem that bad” with a journal, and you do not answer it with logic. I have tried. It turns into a debate nobody wins, and it puts Gail in the middle of it.
So I say, “I’m so proud of her.” And I am. She had a good time.
You can believe your eyes. But trust your heart.
Gregg
Get a letter like this every Tuesday.
