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Jannette and Vicky - Their story in photographs

3/23/2018

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“That horse just knew she was special.”

It’s a rainy February night in Nashville and we are poring over photographs spread across the kitchen table. Jannette points to two photos of Vicky standing at a fence. In one, a beautiful brown horse nuzzles her neck, and in the other, Vicky’s arm lovingly extends as she pets the animal. Her smile in the photo is innocent, pure and full of goodness. Jannette has been Vicky’s companion for more than ten years, and from time to time they’d travel to Jannette’s hometown of Waynesboro, TN. It was on this particular trip that a neighboring horse was unusually gentle and calm upon meeting Vicky.

“He came right up and pressed his face against hers, I’d never seen him do that before,” Jannette explained. Vicky and the horse shared a moment and the horse lingered, wanting to stay close to Vicky. Jannette couldn’t get a photo in time of the horse pressing his face right to Vicky’s, but she is adamant about how special it was.

She shares other photos from that trip: fishing, time outdoors, as well as the many others from their more than ten years together. “Hat Day” was a favorite annual occasion. The two would make a whole day of going to different stores, trying on hats and taking pictures. “You have to make your own fun,” she chuckled, “And we had a lot of it.”

It’s hard not to feel a mix of emotions as we go over photographs. The photos tell a beautiful, vibrant story of life, of friendship. But they are just that – stories and memories from the past, from a different era.

Vicky was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease shortly before Jannette began to support her. There were slight declines over their decade together, but the major declines occurred within the last two years. Today Vicky does not speak, and spends most of her time in her room in a hospital bed. Hospice is now involved in her care.

I asked Jannette if Vicky communicated in the past.

“This girl talked from the time she woke up, ‘till the time she went to sleep. She’d talk in the bathroom, she’d talk all day. I’d ask her, ‘Vicky, who are you talking to?’ and she’d say ‘myself.’” Jannette laughed as she recalled the time another staff member filled in one night when she wasn’t there. “We always watched family friendly shows. Well, I came back the next day, and Vicky was going on about this dream she had.” As the day went on, the story grew. Jannette began to suspect Vicky may have been watching a crime show the night before. “She dreamt she was in a motel…and there was a guy with a gun who shot someone. Well, she got the gun and put it in a dumpster!” The dream grew all day and by nighttime Vicky was still talking about it. “Someone was murdered and she saw it,” Jannette was sure Vicky had never had a dream like this before, but the excitement of solving the mystery in her dream occupied the entire day.

There were other funny stories too. Vicky often called Jannette “Stacy” as a part of the dementia. “She called me Stacy so much, I told her I’m going to change my name to Stacy.” Jannette paused, “Right now I’d give anything to hear her yell ‘Stacy!’ from her room.”

Jannette’s road to becoming a companion was not an obvious path. Like many others in this field, a series of life events led her to Progress. Years before, Jannette’s son Willie passed away from cancer, and she cared for him throughout his illness. Though the experience was a tragedy, it provided her with a unique perspective that would later be applicable in her role with Progress.

At the time Jannette came to Progress, it was 2008 and she worked at a factory that made housing materials. As the recession began to unfold, her hours were reduced, and she began to search for a new opportunity. Her former sister in-law was a Progress employee, and knowing Jannette’s history and heart, suggested she become a companion.

During their first year together, Jannette and Vicky formed a close bond. “We had a ball, we got to do everything. We went shopping, went to the waterpark, movies, whatever we wanted to do, we did it.” As the years passed, another roommate joined Vicky, but their bond remained close.

Vicky’s sister Pat is also very involved in her life, and explained some of the things that make her so special. “Vicky was a sweet child. She didn’t have the chance to experience all the things you and I might experience, but she never complained about anything.”  At the time Vicky was born, children with disabilities were not given an education, and Pat wondered how different Vicky’s life might have been had she been in school. Vicky was especially close to her mother, but now Pat is the only remaining family in Vicky’s life. Pat is incredibly grateful for what Jannette has done. “Jannette has meant the world to Vicky, I don’t know what we would have done without her.” Pat credits Jannette as being like a mother to Vicky, and explained with certainty, “I truly believe that God sent Jannette to us.”

As the evening goes on, Jannette shares more stories, and we go over more pictures. There are pictures from a trip to Chattanooga. Pictures of gardening. Pictures on a river boat. Pictures from Prom. Pictures with Santa. Pictures playing puzzles. And those dear pictures of trying on hats.

“A lot of people with dementia get angry or violent as the disease progresses. But with each decline, she’s still sweet. If you could see her in the mornings when she first wakes up, I’ll look at her and she smiles at me, that sweet, innocent smile.” Jannette reflects even more, “I get glimpses of her still. There are times when she knows you, and you know her… and it’s her spirit that’s actually there.”

I asked Jannette how difficult the last few years have been. “I really love Vicky. It’s hard to watch. But I can’t imagine not being here. I know if I’m here, she’ll be taken care of until the end. Not that it’s not going to hurt.”

Jannette and I flip through the albums one last time. “Reflecting over the good times we’ve had helps to make this time easier,” she explained. I asked if there was anything else she wanted to share about Vicky and she simply said, “Being with Vicky has made me a better person.”

In the moments and memories scattered in photographs on the table, a narrative so sweet and gentle and joy-filled can be felt without the need for words or explanation. Even though Vicky can no longer speak, the pictures say a hundred thousand beautiful words.


Lily Wojcik, PR/Events Manager Progress

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One of those transformational moments…

3/16/2018

1 Comment

 
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I think most of us experience moments that make a deep impact on the course of their lives. I’ve had several. I'm not talking about dramatic events, like the loss of a loved one or sudden financial windfall, but a moment…a particular interaction…that answered a question I hadn’t known how to ask.  A moment which to someone else would’ve passed unnoticed but to me was life changing.

I grew up in a smallish Southern Indiana city, in a medium sized house.  It sometimes felt smaller, being home to our six person family.  A fairly typical 1960's build, the upstairs was primarily for the business of life...eating, sleeping, getting ready to go out in the world, doing homework, reading quietly. The downstairs was for the more relaxed side of life...hanging out, watching tv, playing cards, playing pool, having slumber parties.

The hallway upstairs connects bedrooms and bath to kitchen, living and dining rooms.  In this space, I made some decisions about my life.  I'm not sure exactly why, but maybe because this space is a kind of portal.  Only big enough to scoot by another person and have an isolated interaction or have a few quiet moments to think before heading out into the family fray.

One especially significant hallway memory had to do with getting the right message from my mom at the exact right time.
                                                           ________________________________

I've always been creative.  I don't remember a time when I wasn't thinking about how to make something.  By the time I was 10, I would save my allowance and wander the craft kit aisles at Ayr-Way (predecessor to Target).  I needed to have paper and pencils and markers and yarn and more complicated things like printmaking tools and oil paints.  My mom taught me to sew in the 5th grade, so fabric became a big deal too.  My dad was always properly impressed throughout my purse making phase...which I think lasted about 2 years.  I kept diaries off and on and wrote poems sometimes.  I felt very artistic and fun.

By early adolescence I also had the growing suspicion (and discomfort) of being a little different.  Nothing spectacular I could really put my finger on, but the sense my siblings fit in a little better in the world...did things and were interested in things that seemed a little more normal.  I wasn't agonizing over it, but I was thinking about whether I needed to be less artist, more normal.  One ordinary day, my mom stopped me in the hall and said "honey, of all my children, you are the most different and I really love that about you."  Those, of course, may not be the precise words, but it's what I remember.  I was given in that moment permission and validation to be myself.
                                                       ____________________________________
 
My mom knew how I “worked,” my strengths and weaknesses, how I interacted in the world. She knew how an eleven or twelve year old was likely to feel a little different and might make some weird decisions as a result.  She knew how to support and reassure me so I could discover the happiest me. (My dad was great at this too, but this transformational moment in the hallway belonged to me and my mom.) It’s a legacy for parenting, being a friend, or any ongoing relationship of human caring.
 
We do the work we do in this spirit. We support and reassure people to find their own happiest me. Every interaction may not be transformational, but every interaction teaches us where people are in their lives and how they interact in the world. We validate strengths. We celebrate differences. We support a growing sense of self confidence which leads to greater independence.  Maybe it looks like getting a job.  Maybe it looks like having a girlfriend or boyfriend.  Maybe it looks like planning a menu and making dinner.  Maybe it looks like dancing or joining a gym. Maybe it looks very independent or maybe it looks like having a support person or other friend close by to help.
 
We hope it always looks like each person’s difference makes them worthy of being honored and respected; complete validation of the happiest me.


Donna Goodaker, Executive Director, Progress

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