Death isn’t exactly a foreign concept in the senior living world. On the contrary, it’s something so prominent that it’s brought up nearly every day in some capacity. I even just posted about it back in May. This month, however, I was faced with a unique death-related predicament that really got me thinking. We have a resident on our memory support unit who joined us in the spring. Pleasantly confused, he settled in quickly and quite nicely. His wife, however, had a really difficult time with the transition; she’d visit often and was extremely anxious, to put it lightly. Slowly, she too began to settle into her new normal. She even stopped visiting so frequently. Eventually, she stopped visiting at all.
Our resident didn’t notice – in fact, he never once asked for her. We, on the other hand, found it a bit strange until we heard the news: tragically, she had passed away at home and no one realized for quite some time. Naturally, their family was distraught. Not only did questions need to be answered and arrangements made for Mom, but someone had to talk to Dad. What would they say? How much should they divulge? How would they get him to the funeral?
As is always the case with dementia (and family dynamics, frankly), there’s no one-size-fits-all here. Being that our resident hadn’t asked about or looked for his wife whatsoever, I truthfully debated whether they should say anything in the first place. It was important to his children that he be present at her funeral, so I suggested the following:
- Remain calm and straight forward during the difficult conversations that would follow
- Pay close attention to his reaction, as that will determine how to proceed (i.e., discuss further or stop talking about her death altogether)
- Be mindful of his mood; if he seems unaware or less upset than you’d expect, move on. You don’t need to stress the reality of what has happened.
- Validate his feelings and stay with him if he needs you to
- Ask him how he feels and if he’d like to attend her services – leave it up to him
Lastly, I stressed that while it was important to answer any questions he asked, there was no reason to go into too many details. When I was a little girl, I lost my six year old cousin in a terrible accident: she was struck by not one but two cars while running across the street. I’ll never forget the way my mom talked to me about it. I asked her if she’d seen her (which she had) and wanted to know what she looked like: “Like Nicole, only sleeping.” I was 8 – I didn’t need to know more than that. I didn’t need to know the truth; I needed love, comfort, and reassurance. The same goes for my resident.