Shelby could sing.
Lord, could he sing!
The cliches - like an angel, like a bird, like the wind in the willows - are not enough. No, Shelby could sing like the dawn must sing when it welcomes the sun, like the earth must sing when it welcomes the rain, like the desert must sing when it welcomes the wind.
Shelby could sing.
Lullabies to his new granddaughter, comforting her and charming her with his voice and rhythm, pulling words out of his imagination, singing sweetly and lovingly …
The wind’s outside puffing up the willows
We’re inside fluffing upon your pillows
It’s get into bed time
Sweet dreams in your head time
Shelby could sing.
Until that one cruel day when the music stopped.
Dementia.
Moving quickly, relentlessly, like an ill wind on the prowl, breathing confusion into his mind, whistling while it worked to take away so much of who Shelby was, turning him into a stranger even unto himself.
No more lullabies.
No more concerts where the musicians could not help but connect with him, smile at him and even play to him. *
No more Shelby.
I was blessed to become his caregiver. I got to witness the miracle.
It was Wednesday. Shelby and I were driving to the mall where he loved to eat a Cinnabon and watch the world go by. The world he no longer lived in.
The radio was on. Sam Cooke was singing:
Don't know much about history
Don't know much biology
Shelby was humming along:
Don't know much about a science book,
Don't know much about the French I took
He threw in a word here and there. The wrong word, but in his mind, the right word:
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be
The dementia had stolen so much of who Shelby was but on this Wednesday, it could not steal the music from his heart.
His wife took him to church that Sunday and even though he had lost many words, especially nouns, common and proper, Shelby was able to sing in the Chancel Choir. He couldn't always find the page number, but he could find enough of the words the dementia had worked so hard to erase from his mind.
Shelby could still sing.
Once again, he could sing lullabies to his new granddaughter, comforting her and charming her with his voice and rhythm, pulling words out of his imagination. Not the same words as before, a lot of wrong words, but in Shelby’s mind, the right words, singing sweetly and lovingly …
The wind’s outside puffing up the willows
We’re inside fluffing upon your pillows
It’s get into bed time
Sweet dreams in your head time
Shelby could still sing.
I took him to a jazz concert in the park. Front row center, where he waved an imaginary baton, sang imaginary words - in tune and in rhythm - and where the musicians could not help but connect with him, smile at him and even play to him. *
Less than a year later, Shelby died.
I believe he will take first chair, at the worst, second in the heavenly choir. His voice will ring out, one of thousands upon thousands, singing with immeasurable joy, love, honor, exultation and glory. If you could hear them you would find yourself lifted up, twirling in circles, like a child in a snowfall trying to catch the flakes on her tongue, letting the voices flow through her like she was made of gauze, feeling, as Dickens put it, “ as light as a feather, as happy as an angel, as merry as a school boy.”
And you would hear Shelby.
Lord, could that man sing!
Dementia be damned.
Lord, could he sing!
The cliches - like an angel, like a bird, like the wind in the willows - are not enough. No, Shelby could sing like the dawn must sing when it welcomes the sun, like the earth must sing when it welcomes the rain, like the desert must sing when it welcomes the wind.
Shelby could sing.
Lullabies to his new granddaughter, comforting her and charming her with his voice and rhythm, pulling words out of his imagination, singing sweetly and lovingly …
The wind’s outside puffing up the willows
We’re inside fluffing upon your pillows
It’s get into bed time
Sweet dreams in your head time
Shelby could sing.
Until that one cruel day when the music stopped.
Dementia.
Moving quickly, relentlessly, like an ill wind on the prowl, breathing confusion into his mind, whistling while it worked to take away so much of who Shelby was, turning him into a stranger even unto himself.
No more lullabies.
No more concerts where the musicians could not help but connect with him, smile at him and even play to him. *
No more Shelby.
I was blessed to become his caregiver. I got to witness the miracle.
It was Wednesday. Shelby and I were driving to the mall where he loved to eat a Cinnabon and watch the world go by. The world he no longer lived in.
The radio was on. Sam Cooke was singing:
Don't know much about history
Don't know much biology
Shelby was humming along:
Don't know much about a science book,
Don't know much about the French I took
He threw in a word here and there. The wrong word, but in his mind, the right word:
But I do know that I love you,
And I know that if you love me, too,
What a wonderful world this would be
The dementia had stolen so much of who Shelby was but on this Wednesday, it could not steal the music from his heart.
His wife took him to church that Sunday and even though he had lost many words, especially nouns, common and proper, Shelby was able to sing in the Chancel Choir. He couldn't always find the page number, but he could find enough of the words the dementia had worked so hard to erase from his mind.
Shelby could still sing.
Once again, he could sing lullabies to his new granddaughter, comforting her and charming her with his voice and rhythm, pulling words out of his imagination. Not the same words as before, a lot of wrong words, but in Shelby’s mind, the right words, singing sweetly and lovingly …
The wind’s outside puffing up the willows
We’re inside fluffing upon your pillows
It’s get into bed time
Sweet dreams in your head time
Shelby could still sing.
I took him to a jazz concert in the park. Front row center, where he waved an imaginary baton, sang imaginary words - in tune and in rhythm - and where the musicians could not help but connect with him, smile at him and even play to him. *
Less than a year later, Shelby died.
I believe he will take first chair, at the worst, second in the heavenly choir. His voice will ring out, one of thousands upon thousands, singing with immeasurable joy, love, honor, exultation and glory. If you could hear them you would find yourself lifted up, twirling in circles, like a child in a snowfall trying to catch the flakes on her tongue, letting the voices flow through her like she was made of gauze, feeling, as Dickens put it, “ as light as a feather, as happy as an angel, as merry as a school boy.”
And you would hear Shelby.
Lord, could that man sing!
Dementia be damned.
