Cowboy Heroes
a story about dementia and what still remains
My days with SJ began with one of a dozen photo albums from her hall closet—one for each trip abroad. Filled with intimate journal entries, newspaper stories, travel brochures, and photos of a life to be forgotten, they illustrated a glimpse into the experiences of an adventurous and fun-loving woman who could no longer tell her own story. After an hour or so of reminiscing, with me asking all the questions I knew she could answer, she would lead me around her apartment, giving the same tour I’d come to know well enough to deliver myself.
“What do you say we go get some of that hot stuff?” she’d say, referring to black coffee from any establishment that offered it on the menu. Appreciative of the hot stuff myself, I would gingerly steer us toward the door.
Nearly ready to leave, she’d invariably retrieve the box of mementos of her first husband, a man she seemed to remember as an old friend, rather than the father of her two daughters. He’d passed away in a car accident fifty years prior. She spoke about him with levity, ostensibly removed from the pain of losing him, yet still incredulous that he’d drunkenly get behind the wheel.
SJ was born in Pendleton, Oregon, a proud descendant of Oregon Trail pioneers. Her home was ornamented with family artifacts—German steins and dishware, Pendleton blankets, and country music CD’s—representing nostalgia for a simpler, bucolic lifestyle.
“How bout’ we take off and head to the Round-Up?” she’d ask with a grin, but also, I believe, serious desire. I wanted desperately to pack up the essentials in a couple canvas bags and give her the gift of one last rodeo, but instead settled for country drives with the company of her beloved Kris Kristofferson and his timeless, weathered voice.
On the road SJ seemed her most comfortable, and also her most talkative. I was raised not to interrupt someone while speaking—even incoherent and aphasia-ridden speech, void of any subject-predicate relationship— and so I learned to listen and read body language. SJ was the first person with dementia I spent considerable time with and I’m grateful for the lessons in patience and observation—abilities I would rely on time and time again with future companions.
In between her extended monologues, songs from Kristofferson’s The Complete Monument & Columbia Album Collection elicited from her what I can only describe as a look of rapture. Eyes fixated on the Palouse rolling hills, shoulders bobbing back and forth to the beat, an undeniable clarity emerged.
Music has a way of tethering humans to a cherished time and place of the past, while also planting one firmly in the present—perhaps the greatest strength of those living with dementia. In my most treasured memory together, SJ briefly eluded the forgetfulness and aphasia, quietly yet perfectly singing the chorus of “Jesus Was a Capricorn”. Throughout two years of dementia companionship, I experienced such moments of lucid expression less than a handful of times, always illuminating a human autonomy pleading to continue shining for itself.
As agreed, we’d stop for “the hot stuff” at one of our favorite spots. “Oh yeah, that’s hot hot hot alright!” she’d say satisfied, as if the secret of hot coffee belonged to the two of us alone. Occasionally SJ would also order a burger at The Wagon Wheel or “one of those great big things,” meaning a cinnamon roll from The Pie Safe Bakery and Kitchen. “That right there is A-number-1,” she’d say, her catchphrase for anything she truly enjoyed.
We had dozens of outings together, after which she’d tell her daughter, “the nice, young man came and took me for a ride.” The underlying emotions of our excursions carried over, but never superfluous details such as my name.
On one of our last days together, completing a sunny loop back from Potlatch, SJ gave me a name better than that from birth. As one of the Highwaymen played in the background—I can’t really remember which—she placed her hand on my arm and said, “You and me, we’re Cowboy Heroes.” In that moment I realized—she didn’t need to know my name, or details of my personal life, to feel safe, and with a gentle guidance, forever capable of experiencing the splendor of existence.
…But I will remain
I'll be back again and again and again and again and again and again…