June 17, 2000 - A Diary Entry – The First Day – I am nervous. I am a recent inductee into the realm of Alzheimer’s. It is a new phenomenon in my life. I am trying to make sense on how this will play out in my mother-in-law’s life and in my marriage.

When I volunteer at her first facility I think the director will tell me what to do. Instead, she instructs me to create my own program. It is instant panic. What could I do? What if it flops? Her response: “I’ll know better for the next time.” I am definitely winging it on my own. I seriously think about breaking this volunteer commitment before I start.

Somehow I find the courage to go in for the first meeting. The director introduces me to each new friend, telling me something special about each. One of the endearing traits of many of my friends with Alzheimer’s is the great ability to cover up a vanishing memory. A new friend often convinces me that they have been misdiagnosed.

We reach Diane. Diane stops the director from her introduction and says, "Let me do this. I am Diane and I am a hooker. It was a real easy job and I made a lot of money."  Story accepted. (P.S. She was an artist.)

For my first session I choose to revise my opening routine from my kindergarten classroom from years ago for these seniors. I create a lesson plan drawing from the things I see my mom and dad enjoying. We sing action songs, play games practicing eye/hand coordination and I read a story.

Things are going smoothly. The opening action song is well received – so is the first game. Then I begin to read a favorite book. Within one minute half the group is sound asleep. Not the response I am hoping for. One gentleman raises his hand and asks, “When are you going?” “Soon,” I assure him. “You are getting in the way of my nap.”

But for the half that stays awake - we have a great time. They actually create the ending for the session - show and tell. And since repetition is another trait it is show and tell, show and tell and show and tell. It is delightful and we laugh each time.

I receive such warm feelings from a group of people that only for brief moments are truly with me. My words don't count. Perhaps my activities don't count. All that matters is that we share a conversation respecting each other. I walk out of the unit filled with happiness for the moment. I receive more than I give. I am definitely going back.

It is very ordinary to be with friends, but the feelings from these friends are extraordinary.

July 18, 2000 – A Diary Entry - Every visit and she is the same. Dressed in her coat, carrying a purse and pacing. Each step shows her agitation. As she passes, “Damn it. I told him to pick me up. Where is he?”  She heads to an exit only to return a minute later. “Damn it. Where is he?”

I begin to tell a story to my friends about my mother’s wringer washing machine. The lady in the coat with the purse sits down. She is quiet. She is listening. When I finish she tells me a story of her wringer washing machine.

It is a small moment and I hear the power of family stories to briefly open closing worlds. Stories raise us. We begin with lullabies, nursery rhymes, fairy tales, Dick and Jane. We grow up in the stories of our families. We model the stories on television. We become stories in process.