A year or two ago I found myself working in the midst of a large community of Alzheimer and dementia patients. Nurse Ratched and co. swiped mental capacity from the aging community at an alarming rate.
The MoCa, a basic test, was used to determine the extent of cognitive impairment in an individual. Because of urinary tract infections, the bane of mental capacity in anyone affected with any form of dementia, these tests results could vary greatly from day to day. The poor, confused community was not aware that their rooms were viable real estate for monetary negotiations; it wasn’t enough that they lost their health, their wealth and their independence. The director and her underlings were interested in the bottom line, which is how businesses thrive; but at the expense of the mental health and welfare of the people they provided care for. As an administrative social case worker, my job was to fight the system on behalf of the patients, without becoming one in the process. I feared the MoCa. I noticed myself starting to exhibit symptoms of Alzheimer's. My grandmother was diagnosed and deteriorated then passed at a rapid rate, within a few years. It does run in my family. I began noticing simple signs. I started spitting more when I spoke, yeah, gross. Watching your spit fly in the sunlit air during a business meeting is not an endearing quality. I looked it up. It’s what happens when your mouth starts to forget how to handle the synapses that pass from the brain. Brain fart became my middle name. I suddenly felt like I was continuously stoned, though I had been clean and sober for years. I do use caffeine medicinally, for migraines, so if you’re straight edge, I’m not joining your band. Caffeine did nothing for the fog I walked into every day. It wasn’t a physical lethargy but my quicksilver tongue and wit had somehow transformed into a methodical pattern of ingrained duties and habits. Words would be at the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t retrieve them, and would have to finally replace them with simpler versions. I noticed myself breathing more deeply, trying to move past the continuous folly of my lackadaisical mind. I convinced myself that I could adjust; that this horrific nightmare of using mediocre and predictable thought patterns would make me normal. Only I would miss the witty and sarcastic musings, but they were my pride and joy. My broken brain could skate on normal and no one but my closest friends and immediate family would possibly even notice. Simultaneously to my personal dilemma a great friend (not to mention a phenomenal drummer with over 50 years of experience) who lost his wife and his beautiful home on ten acres, lived close, was retired and looking for a past time that didn’t entail internet pornography or sleeping all day, every day or cleaning up other people’s dog’s poo. Even my half witted brain knew that rearranging our grannie house that we used as storage and turning it into a “jam room” would greatly benefit both of us. I had read in my elderly studies that music was sometimes the only thing a person could remember after their brain pathways became clogged with plaque. I planned to cure myself with music. My doctor buddy agreed. She said using your opposite hand to do things instead of your regular hand was proven to be beneficial for the beginning stages of dementia. Continuously learning by doing crosswords or puzzles could also strengthen the mind but no, thank you. Never been a fan of sitting still. Rich, my drummer friend, came over and we cleared the space. It took all day. He set up his drums, and we agreed we would learn a song together. I used to listen to the jukebox when I worked at Round Table pizza. In the mornings when I opened I would habitually throw on “White Rabbit” and sing along at the top of my lungs while vacuuming. Rich was from that era, that song was written by his soul brethren. It would take him ten seconds to learn it. That was the original plan, one song. Before we had a chance to work together again (Rich and I were both beaten and battered from moving around the piles of storage in the grannie house), my cousin, Jerry, called. I had visited his wife earlier in the week and he mentioned he missed hanging out with my husband. He said he was going to come over and play music with Dan. They lived together a long time ago, and my cousin played guitar while Dan, my husband, dabbled in congas. They spent their early adult years goofing off with beers and creating a sloppy barrage of garage medleys with whoever showed up to party at my Uncle Utt’s house. Sawittre, my beautiful, obnoxious and usually inebriated cousin, sang her heart out, though we often tired of her bad song choices, that were not the songs the other people were simultaneously playing. My other cousin, Art, played the drums. I heard he was quite good, but I never had the pleasure of jamming with him. I mentioned to Jerry that Rich had just set up his drum set at my place, and we made a concrete plan. Once upon a time, in a town far, far away (Oroville) we would party at Rich’s house on a hill. We played music until 3 in the morning. These were wonderful, open jam musical medleys. We camped and partied at our own little home made Hillstocks. Every holiday for years, that was our go-to place. When Rich’s wife died he was not able to financially sustain such a large property and he had to let it go. C’est la vie (et morte). Dan still had his congas, but he hadn’t touched them in years. His heart wasn’t in it. Rich was such a talent on percussion, we didn’t really need more drums anyway. I was really shy at first. I couldn’t get near the microphone. My voice scared me. My big mouth amplified? BAD idea. I just wanted to fight the on setting Alzheimer's my paranoid mind convinced me I had. A few musicians came over, a poet, a friend, a cousin, whoever. We had a blast. We danced we sang, everyone made up songs. The best by far was by Jackie and me--deep voiced and dark in hilarious heavy metal riffs. The grannie house was no party virgin, we did have many a swarray in that place back in the day, but it officially became a music room. We enjoyed the act of being crazy and once in awhile a true harmony would arise from our antics. Rich called them sandcastles. He said we build them and then they disappear forever. I became braver. I sang my poems, I only had about 8, but then I started writing more knowing they would be accompanied by melodies. My cousin knew a lot of songs from the 90’s, alternative grunge or folk songs. He was limited to Jack Johnson, Marcy Playground, and… Slayer. We were all learning together. I realized I sucked really bad at singing Jack Johnson songs, even when I memorized them. My vocal range and Jack’s just don’t sync. I sang them anyway. My cousin sang beautifully, but he was apprehensive and not confident in his ability. He got over it. Dan found a bass guitar that James’ mom purchased for him on a whim when James decided he wanted to play bass (then changed his mind after trying it). Dan loved it. He didn’t love THAT bass, but he loved the instrument, and he bought himself a good one. We were excited. With Dan’s background with playing the congas, he was a natural at keeping rhythm and timing. We had real musical jams with a guitarist, a badass drummer, a bass guitar and a vocalist, as horrific as she was (me). I was memorizing things, learning how to harmonize and kicking dementia’s ass. It was phenomenal. Rich’s daughter, Gayla, a great friend, and Jerry’s wife, who happened to be Gayla’s cousin, Natalie, began singing too (because if my sucky ass can do it, anyone can)! Natalie had a beautiful high voice, reminiscent of June Carter Cash or Dolly Parton and Gayla was a hard, girl punk rock queen. Before long I met a guitarist at the last farmer’s market on Del Paso Boulevard. For some reason, out of nowhere, a wild hair poked me and I grabbed a bunch of starter potted plants and drove to what I was expecting to be a Farmer’s Market but instead it was just two guys with a couple tables of vegetables. I asked them if it was OK if I joined them and they shrugged. I set up a table of my starter plants and started painting (I had mentioned before I’m not one who easily sits still). The commission piece I was working on included a large image of Hank Williams Sr. the country music legend. A well spoken gentleman began to chat with me about the artwork. I could tell from his vast knowledge of various genres of music he was a seasoned musician. I invited him to play with us, as it happened to be jam night. My husband was not pleased that I had invited a total stranger into our home. I felt that Rich, being as talented as he was, needed a musical companion to play with who had more experience than the clown party posse we had formed. I was right, Eric and Rich played together beautifully. They were from the same genre. Somehow a talented bass playing neighbor invited himself over. Dino lived a couple houses down. He could sing too. The three older men were given the grannie time slot of 4PM to 6PM, to play music that they all knew, and they sounded great. Walking the Dog, House of the Rising Sun, and other blues or classic rock songs were played well. The tunes were perfectly timed and pitch perfect but Rich was miserable. He liked the act of making music, not rehearsing music. Playing the same song 3 times in a row to get it record ready was cumbersome and made music NOT FUN to him. He tried to tell me, but I didn’t understand. Jackie named their band “Timeless Timeless Time” after the cigarettes Rich smoked. We thought it was hilarious. We added an extra time for the third person. The guys didn’t like it. Did we care? Dino suggested naming their band “Dino Rose”. “Isn’t that your name?” “Yes.” Silence. After 6PM the crazies (my crew, Jerry, Dan, Natalie, Gayla and myself, sometimes Jackie and Craig) would enter, and we would play alternative or punk or random things we were learning together. Rich drummed for us and we made music fun because we are fun. Rich felt our goofy energy and lack of care brought a bright element that gets lost in over rehearsal. Sometimes our timing was off. We went with it. That’s how it’s done when you’re live. We were live every Saturday. Sometimes we sang a song like a ballad, sometimes we sang it like a punk rocker on meth. Regardless, we always had a good time. Sometimes we played until midnight because the police in the hood don’t care. Sorry neighbors, but just a tiny bit. Rich and Eric asked Dan to kick Dino out of the band. He was a raging alcoholic and he flaked on an actual gig they had set up in Colfax. He showed up after the no show at regular jam time sloppy annihilated, and called Rich an asshole and yelled at Eric. Eric is as mild mannered as a human being can be (unless you speak about his Rush Limbaugh newscast blasting neighbor, who Eric angrily wishes death upon). Dan looked at me incredulously, “Why do I get stuck kicking him out of THEIR band?” “I don’t know, It’s your house.” Ha ha ha. I enjoy Dan’s pain. He’s my husband, it gives me pleasure. Don’t judge. After Dan kicked Dino out of the Timeless Timeless Time he only showed up two more times wasted and totally confused. He finally got the hint, after Dan had to escort him off the property. He was a neighbor, though so he still glared at us when we walked by with our dog. Oh well. I was so glad he was bounced because I could stop hiding my microphone. His mouth literally sprayed dog shit smell on everything he sang into. We removed the casing of the mic he used and bleached it, but ultimately had to throw it away. I started smelling mics after that, and will no longer let ANYONE use my mic. Screw that. My spit smell is mine. I don’t want anyone else’s husband’s weiner or wife’s vagina smell on my mic. You never know what people do with their mouths. There’s salad being tossed and it’s not getting near my mic. You hear, me, Gayla? Natalie? Ha. Eric asked if he could jam with us, and he was a nice addition. He brought a little more structure to our shenanigans. We got him to loosen up, and trained his ears to endure student level vocals, bass and rhythm. Then we got better. After 2 years we actually weren’t totally awful and were invited to play at a couple of parties. We play near 70 cover songs. We can’t even play all of our riffs in a 4 hour session. An old man in a wheelchair, wasted on Oxy with mutated fungus feet even complimented my singing in Olivehurst. Haven’t heard of Olivehurst? That’s OK, most people haven’t. My uncle in Penn Valley said we could play at any bar. I’m thinking he’s speaking of the local bars in that neighborhood, (population 300). We were even missing two key members of our band that day that we played in Penn Valley because of an emergency appendectomy. I have totally gotten sidetracked. Did singing and learning to play music cure my early signs of Alzheimer's symptoms? No. But I can rock a rattle, a tambourine, play loose congas, and jam part of one song on the steel drum. I even jump on Rich’s drum set every time he smokes or pees. But that is not what made the symptoms disappear. I was fired from the social work position for standing up to a bitch-ass bully who was the number one ass-kisser of the director of the facility. It was the first time I had ever been fired but I could not have cared less, because I hated working with that unmedicated, bipolar nightmare excuse for a human in close quarters. I forgot to mention that I am physically empathic and actually absorb negative health issues (mostly pain) from others. I am not sure how to process or eliminate it, except by having no contact. As soon as I was no longer in close proximity with people suffering from multiple forms of dementia my symptoms disappeared. Something really great came out of it, though. I have a new appreciation and passion for making music. It became the whole crews regular therapy. Not every jam is magical but every now and then we can feel the vibration of true wonder in the notes and everyone is simultaneously riding that perfect wave.
4 Comments
Gayla
9/23/2017 05:38:34 pm
That's right Lady! It helped with my depression as well. It is the best surprise I've had. I love you.
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Anita
9/24/2017 02:24:27 am
I love you 💕
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Natalie
9/28/2017 01:41:38 am
Jam nights are therapy. I look forward to the laughter and being around my family just as much as the music❤️
Reply
Anita
10/19/2017 01:59:53 pm
You and me travel to the beat of the SAME DRUM!
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