“OK, now I am going to play a love song!” I announce to fifteen people fanned out before me in the Gentle Care unit of the nursing home. Many of them are asleep in their wheelchairs, white-haired heads drooped over like a field of snowdrops in February. A few give me drowsy smiles of expectation. Dave peers at me from under his green John Deere hat, always ready for some tunes. I know he loves “Home on the Range,” so I will play that at the right moment.
Dorothy is alert and engaged this morning, smiling at me from her recliner. Her friend Ruthie is visiting with her, holding her hand.
“Dorothy was there for me when my husband died,” Ruthie said when I first came in to find her sitting beside Dorothy. “Weren’t you?” she said, squeezing Dorothy’s hand. When Dorothy did not respond, Ruthie looked up at me sadly. She was helpless in the face of her friend’s deterioration. But I could also see her love.
I rarely know the detailed diagnoses of these fragile elders living in Gentle Care, some of whom I have come to know and love over months, often years. It wouldn’t matter much. Even the medical staff do not understand dementia very well.
Do these people know me too?
Just as I announce the love song, a white-haired gentleman strides into the room towards Ruthie and Dorothy. “Perfect timing!” he says with a big smile and a wave to me. This is Jack, Dorothy’s husband. He pulls up a chair and sits on the other side of Dorothy. I always encourage families to join my weekly performances, and Jack rarely misses my “Tuesdays at Ten” shows.
“OK, this song is for you and this handsome young man!” I say to Dorothy. Jack and Ruthie laugh, and Dorothy’s smile brightens.
The love song I play is one I wrote many years ago called “You Tempt My Touch.” I walk around and sing for the whole group, but I circle back often to Dorothy and Ruthie and Jack. I come to the bridge of the song:
What can I learn about love?
What can I learn about love?
When I meet Jack’s eyes as I sing these lines, I see they are full of tears. I realize I am looking into the eyes of a man who has learned so much about love—far more than I knew when I wrote those lines.
It is hard to keep singing without crying myself, but I close my eyes and power through. I concentrate on pushing out my belly button. That was always my mother’s advice for avoiding tears when in public.
To bring the energy up and lighten the mood, I follow with a peppy version of “You Are My Sunshine.” They know this song from their childhoods and some of them sing with me. Dorothy loves upbeat songs. She keeps perfect time with her feet and her hands, also nodding her head left and right to the beat. Jack and I often laugh that she should be the drummer for the band when we take “The Tuesdays at Ten Show” on the road.
When the performance is over, Jack tells me that Dorothy was first diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s over 30 years ago. It’s been so hard—especially lately, as she recently had a heart attack. But he’s been by her side through it all. He visits her almost daily. He talks to her about what he has been up to or the latest news from their daughters. He shares memories such as their wedding, or fun times with friends—even though she often doesn’t respond or seem to understand.
Jack meant it when he told Dorothy, “I will stay by your side until death do us part.”
Not everyone who lives here gets regular visits from their spouses. Family members can be uncomfortable being around a person with dementia. And I do understand why: they feel grief, sadness, or even anger as they witness dementia’s cruel attack on their loved one. And they do not know what to do with those hard feelings.
Sometimes they feel that their loved one might as well already be dead. One man I met while singing for his wife in a private session waved a hand towards her with disgust. “She’s completely gone,” he said. “Nothing of my wife is left.” I couldn’t convince him that she was still with us, still worthy of respect and love. She still needed human connection! She still needed his love. But her husband of many decades would not even hold her hand. He could not face how changed she was—and as a result, he could not really face his own loss and pain either. He could not heal or truly process how his life had changed.
Some may think Jack’s devotion to a wife who long ago forgot his name is foolish. But he still calls Dorothy “my bride.” He knows she is still there, in a changed form. His love for her is strong. His constancy through thick and thin has benefitted Dorothy—and it has made him a better person, a kinder person, a wiser person.
“She comes alive when you sing!” Jack says as we continue to chat after the show. “And I loved your beautiful love song. Thank you for playing it for us.” His eyes are shining, all sadness gone. I take one of his hands and one of Dorothy’s, giving them both a squeeze.
Ruthie says, “Dorothy knows about love, don’t you?”
“Love can hurt!” Dorothy declares, with a sweet smile.
“You are so right, it sure can!” I say, and we all laugh.
“It’s the dark and the light, both sides,” Ruthie says. I tell them that I once wrote a song called “When You Love You Always Get Burned” and we all laugh again, especially Dorothy.
“But love keeps us going, and it feels good too,” I say. Dorothy nods, a big smile on her face.
Maybe Dorothy has learned more about love than any of us.
I wrote the above story in 2018, one of my earlier pieces about elders and music for this Some Glad Morning project. I shared an early version with Jack, who gave me permission to publish it.
Over the years Jack became a friend. Except when he was ill or out of town, he joined my weekly group faithfully, holding Dorothy’s hand throughout and beaming that big smile of his. Jack made my job much more fun! He gave me many song suggestions—one that he thought would be good for the group was “Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard” so I learned that one just for him. He loved “Hallelujah,” which I would sing often. And he loved my original music too, becoming one of my first subscribers on Substack. He would sometimes email me beautiful photos like the “fire rainbow” at the top of this post or share writings or songs that moved him.
He worried about me when I was sick and couldn’t sing. Once he told me he thought of me like another daughter. I learned so much from his open spirit and beautiful heart.
In April of 2023, Jack unexpectedly passed away. The day I found out, I had to perform at my regular Gentle Care gig. It hurt to see the empty space beside Dorothy in her regular recliner. I had to do the belly button trick a few times during that performance. I sang Hallelujah for him one last time, feeling his warm presence comforting me. I still miss him very much.
There is always more to learn about the mystery of love. I wish we could all be inspired by Jack’s example of what it means to love.
You can hear the love song I sang to Jack and Dorothy in this video I recently completed and posted on my music Substack. Sending love to you all.
Music is a sweet pathway to the soul. So neat to have these experiences and learn so much! Your music and sweetness are gifts the world needs. Love this so much
Aw, another beautiful love story. It takes a special person to be loyal and committed. Thank you for sharing, Elizabeth!