A glimpse into life in the shadow of Alzheimer’s
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” I ask. Andries looks at me. His eyes are clear, yet searching. He furrows his brow briefly, then shrugs. “I don’t remember.”
I smile. “Did you sleep well?” He thinks for a moment, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. Then, with a small laugh: “I don’t remember, but I probably did.”
I place my hand on his arm for a moment. “You don’t remember much anymore, do you?” He laughs broadly now.
“No,” he says, “but do I need to?”
We both laugh. It’s a small moment, a spark of recognition in a world that’s increasingly shrouded in mist.
It’s Sunday. We’re sitting in the living room of his ward. The room exudes a sense of home. In the corner, the television is on. A choir is singing a hymn on the screen, the voices echoing softly through the room. Another resident is sitting in a chair by the window, slowly drifting into a light sleep. Andries leans back, his eyes blinking wearily. Perhaps he’ll doze off for a bit too.
It was difficult, that period before we received the ‘Alzheimer’s’ diagnosis, a little over a year ago. Of course, we saw Andries declining—his memory was increasingly failing him, but he was also getting physically weaker. Was it just old age? Or was there something more at play? You so badly want to do something, to mean something, to solve something. But eventually, the realization comes: there’s so little you can truly do. No medicine, no solution, no way to turn back time. What remains is presence. Just sitting with him, having a cup of coffee together, being patient with the stories and questions that repeat themselves time and time again. To be there. To be present. Present in the moment of ‘now’—the only thing, and perhaps the most valuable thing we can give.
Andries walks with his walker down the hallway to his room. His room is at the end of the hall.
Above his desk in his room hang photos and memories. He seems to pay little attention to them.
After lunch, we take a walk through the park. The care home, Insula Dei, is beautifully situated in a wooded area, with a park on the complex. The air is fresh, the trees rustle softly in the wind. We talk a bit about nature. About the trees, their shapes, their roots. About Beppie, his wife, who passed away over twenty years ago. The conversations are short, fragmented—fleeting glimpses of memories that briefly light up and then fade away again. We stop by a large, solitary oak tree. An impressive tree, a few hundred years old. We sit down for a moment.
I ask: “How old do you think that tree is?”
He looks at it, his gaze focused, his hand resting on the weathered wood. Then he nods slowly.
“A few hundred years,” he says. Certainty in his voice. Trees and wood—that was his profession.
Every Monday, Chin comes to visit Andries. For years, he helped her with Dutch lessons, as a language buddy. Now it’s different. The roles are reversed. Today we take a walk together through the park. The air is fresh, the trees stand still in the gentle afternoon sun. Andries pulls his jacket a little tighter around himself. “It’s cold,” he says.
Chin laughs. “You always say that!” she teases.
Andries looks at her, a faint smile on his face. “But it is cold,” he murmurs.
We walk on. No big conversations, no rush. Just together, step by step.
Koba, another resident, looks up and asks the caregiver: “How much longer do I have to stay here?”
“Quite a bit longer,” she says softly.
A difficult question. And an answer that brings little relief. The residents know all too well that they are stuck here, that they can’t just go outside. Sometimes the realization seems to fade, but at moments like these, reality seeps through again. Koba mumbles something, her gaze wanders. Then she stares at the ground, as if she can find the answer there. Most residents know somewhere deep down that they can’t just leave. “Can I come along?” is heard regularly, or “Where am I going?” Questions without a satisfying answer. These are difficult moments. They are not allowed to come along. And there is nowhere left to go. This is their final place of residence. Sometimes that realization seems to fade, sometimes it is painfully clear.
Jose, one of the residents, comes back inside. She had walked away a little earlier, and I ask: “Where are you going?”
“Just visiting my sisters,” she says, her voice sounding cheerful.
When she returns, I ask her: “Did you see your sisters?”
“Yes, they were just here, but they’ve already gone to work,” she replies with a smile.
She then tells me that she comes from a family with eight sisters, that she is the oldest. I see a glimmer of pride in her eyes when she mentions her place in the family. The words are so natural, as if her sisters are always close to her, even though they are no longer present. Jose gets up, she leaves again.
I get up and say that I also want to stretch my legs. Without saying anything, she takes my hand, and together we walk down the hall. Where to? It doesn’t matter, we just go. There is no destination, no rush. Slowly we return to the living room. As we walk, she starts talking about her sisters, her nephews and nieces. About her American husband. It’s hard to follow, the words come in fragments, memories that blend together. But Jose likes to talk, her stories are a mixture of past and present. Occasionally I nod, ask a question, but more than that is not necessary. She asks several times how many children I have, and I answer patiently each time. There is something in her gaze that seeks confirmation, the feeling of connection. I feel that connection, that contact. It’s as if we’re in the same moment for a while, without fully understanding it. And then, just as quickly as it came, it’s gone again. She is satisfied, and so am I. Tomorrow, another chat, we both think.
Joëlle, one of the caregivers, comes to sit with me for a moment. We get acquainted, and after a few moments of silence, she asks softly: “Is it difficult?”
I look at Andries, who is sitting in his chair, lost in thought. “The most difficult part is actually behind us,” I reply. “Now it’s really just… being present. Just being here for him. That’s the only thing and perhaps the most beautiful thing we can do.” Joëlle nods understandingly and gets up to go to Andries. She sits down next to him, calmly and patiently. A few minutes later, Andries’ conversation comes up again: a story about his son Dikkie—my brother. It is a story that often recurs, time and time again. The words are simple, but the emotion they carry runs deep. It’s not just about the past, but about everything that is no longer there. Dikkie, his son, who is no longer around, but who will always have a firm place in Andries’ heart. The story seems to almost hang in the air, deeply rooted in memories that we can no longer fully grasp.
Laura, his partner, comes to visit regularly. We go to the “Brasserie” together, we have a drink. She shows Andries some family photos on her phone.
Andries has been to the hairdresser, he looks fresh and younger.
Classical music fills the room. It is quiet in the living room. The soft sounds move through the room, filling the silence without breaking it. On one side, a resident dances along slowly, swaying rhythmically to the music, lost in the moment. In another corner, a caregiver is combing the hair of another resident, tenderly and patiently. Small gestures of care, of presence. The world outside seems far away. Here, in this room, only the now matters. The plates for dinner are already on the table.
“I find it annoying to be left sitting here all alone,” says Andries when I indicate that I’m leaving.
“Laura will be here in half an hour,” I say reassuringly.
He sighs briefly, looks around.
“Well, then I’ll just wait here.”
His words linger. Waiting. Until someone comes, until time passes, until something recognizable presents itself. I nod, smile, and briefly place my hand on his arm. Tomorrow is another day.
Today Hanna is here—Andries’ granddaughter, my daughter. She doesn’t speak Dutch, but that doesn’t seem to be a barrier. Andries effortlessly switches to English. We take a walk through the park. The sun gently peeks through the branches, the air is fresh. “That’s my tree,” he says to Hanna as we pass the old oak tree. His voice sounds certain, as if this tree really belongs to him, as if he recognizes something that remains his, despite everything. Hanna talks about her student life in Breda. Andries listens, nods occasionally. The park exudes peace, the atmosphere is relaxed. A Sunday without haste.
We are sitting in the living room. Andries looks around. “So, this is where I live,” he says.
“How do you like it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “The people are usually nice, but it’s often boring.”
When I came in today, a nurse stopped me. “He’s not doing so well today,” she said softly. “He has difficulty walking and getting up.” I walk to the living room and sit down next to him. He is sitting in his chair, his head slightly bowed, his breathing calm. He is asleep. A little later he opens his eyes. His gaze is cloudy, confused. His words come slowly, laboriously. He hardly seems to recognize me. Then he sinks back into sleep, as if being awake is too much today.
“What did you have for breakfast this morning?” I ask.
Andries looks at me. His eyes are clear, yet searching. He furrows his brow briefly, then shrugs.
“I don’t remember.”