To a parent, providing comfort and joy to a child can be the only meaning of Christmas.
When a loved one enters what Shakespeare called second childishness, providing comfort is a challenge. Joy may be out of reach altogether.
A demented mind is caught, helpless, in a swell of time. The past surges without warning over the present like a rogue wave over a desolate shore.
And those trying to make sense of non-sense, and trying to give care and take the burden of care away, have little more than instinct to guide them, for the mind’s deterioration is a mystery.
There’s no treatment, no cure for dementia, although G8 nations vowed this month to find one, if not the other, by 2025, showing, perhaps, a naïve belief in fairies in lab coats.
Meanwhile, folks getting old are advised to feed on fibre, walk briskly and look on the bright side of life to keep dementia at bay.
But where dementia has set in, the comforts of home are enough no longer. Loved ones are sent to institutions where mental decline may be managed better.
If we visited them on Christmas Day, we might find scenes like these:
Grace, who used to sing in a church choir, cheeks as pink as her slippers, joins in when school children visit to sing carols, her voice soaring to heavenly heights.
George, who never liked kids, is shaking his head violently from side to side and being wheeled away hurriedly to the quiet room.
Carol, in her blue hat with the veil and her best coat on, stands by the door waiting for a taxi that will never come to take her to lunch with someone who will never come either.
And William is making another scene because he hasn’t been allowed out. Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding, for he has an important appointment.
Some patients have family members with them. Other patients, sitting alone, watch — some curious, some suspicious.
Fiona is interested in the visitors. She’s the widow of a diplomat and practised in small talk: What is the population of your country? What are the principal exports? What is your line of work?
Hands that do up buttons and open jars, hands that hold tools or lift heavy objects, hands that text messages or play the piano hold hands that have no inclination to do any of these things any more.
Other hands reach out cautiously or flutter nervously, afraid what a touch might bring. There’s a lot of fiddling with watches.
Ben, expressionless, holds a new sweater in his lap. His wife has a gay Christmas bag almost full of other presents. She’ll leave with them, unopened.
Grace asks her daughters if father’s coming. They turn away so she can’t see the tears.
Members of the staff have made sure that there are gifts for those who’ll receive no visitors this day, like Walter. He assured the nurse — the warden he calls her — that his boys would come to see him on Christmas.
They haven’t come — they’ve never come — but Walter doesn’t seem distressed. He holds a red balloon. It’s all he asked for, all he wanted.
Muriel strokes the turquoise plush pillow she’s been given and feels the dachshund she had once. She starts to fret. Has Fritzie had his walk today? Has someone fed him? Yes, dear. Turkey.
It’s time for the residents to have their turkey dinner, too. Most of the relatives have left, only those belonging to first-timers risk being in the way.
Paper hats are distributed. The professional caregivers hover to make sure nobody chokes, to wipe up spills, to carry cheer along with the trays.
William flings his tray across the room. He needs to wear the grey pants and blazer that he came in. He goes around the room yanking paper hats off until he’s led away gently.
It’s time for the big male attendant to lead Fiona back to her room as he does every evening that he’s on shift: And what is your line of work, young man?
Giving comfort and finding joy.
As Tiny Tim would say: God bless them, every one.
