‘Music,’ Dr Arnold, the director of the nursing home, had told Sam when she first arrived, ‘is often one of the last links to our world that people with dementia have. See how everyone’s eyes light up when they hear music? Or even if their eyes don’t light up, they automatically move, remembering. The mind is the last great undiscovered field, but we are beginning to learn a little more about it. But here at Leap of Faith charity, we are not keen on researching our patients, we want to make them happy.’
Sam had been touring the nursing home for over two hours and it was thrilling, glorious, to see how people with dementia could be taken care of and stimulated.
‘We can do both,’ said Sam, writing in her notebook: ‘make them happy and do a little research, that’s part of what Kindness wants to do. Our aim is to help organisations like yourself and help to fund research into areas of dementia that may not have been covered before. If only we could get some researchers in here to investigate what sort of music works best, just to give people peace and happiness.’
Dr Arnold, an older man who walked with a stick, looked thoughtful.
‘I don’t see what harm it would do,’ he said, ‘but the researchers have to be mindful about the people we work with. They are the most important people in this place.’
Sam smiled at him. ‘That’s why I’m here,’ she said, ‘because of that ethos.’
‘Walk around, make yourself at home,’ said Dr Arnold, ‘I’ll have one of the team come out later to show you around the whole facility. I’m afraid I’ve a meeting right now. Your boss is pretty persuasive though.’
‘He is,’ agreed Sam, thinking of how long it had taken her to persuade him to change the charity’s name to Kindness instead of the beautiful Irish name that nobody outside Ireland could pronounce.
As she walked around the nursing home, she became aware of a sense of lightness and happiness that she hadn’t felt in any of the other care homes she’d been in. The music was a huge part of it.
Each place in the home had speakers and music played from them. Upstairs, there was classical in one room and gentle Big Band stuff from the forties and fifties in a sitting room.
The ward for the people with the most serious level of dementia was locked.
‘People move from upstairs to down here eventually,’ said the director of nursing, letting her in. ‘That said, we do our best to make this a very special place.’
Wards and rooms surrounded a large airy room that led into a beautifully maintained garden. There were flowers on the windowsills, Glenn Miller was playing in the background, and feet were tapping.
A very slim blonde woman was gently feeding the tiny, frail little old lady who was seated on a chair covered with a beautiful piece of sheepskin to protect her delicate bones. There was something vaguely familiar about the woman carer, although Sam couldn’t quite say what it was. Yet there was just something . . . the woman was tall, older than Sam for sure, and had blonde hair tied back in a very severe ponytail. She was murmuring gently to the little old lady as she fed her.
‘Come on, Mildred. Just a tiny little bit more and we can stop. You’ve got to keep your strength up. How are you going to go dancing with Stanley later this afternoon if you haven’t had any lunch at all?’
Again, Sam marvelled at the gentleness of the carers who worked with these people. It wasn’t always easy, she knew. She watched the woman for a little while, watched Mildred holding her tiny little head up to be fed, like a little beautiful bird.
When lunch was over, the woman very gently cleaned Mildred’s tiny face with a soft cloth and then laid a gentle hand on her cheek.
‘Now, my darling,’ she said, ‘you’re beautiful again. You’re always beautiful, but even more so. Shall we get your lipstick and your powder?’
Mildred nodded, the first sign Sam had seen that she understood anything.
‘I’ll be back in a tickety-boo,’ said the woman, smiling.
As she walked towards the corridor, Sam noticed that the woman had a word for everyone, a smile, a touch on a shoulder, a gentle, ‘How are we doing today?’ One of the nurses whirled past and Sam interrupted her.
‘That carer, she’s very good, isn’t she?’ Sam said.
‘Cal?’ said the nurse. ‘Brilliant. She came in initially to help out with her uncle-in-law. Seamus over there. But she stayed. Don’t know what we did without her to be honest. For some people it’s a job, but for her, it’s a vocation.’
That woman, Sam decided, that woman would be perfect to talk about what caring for someone with dementia meant. She was connected to the nursing home by family and yet she had that rare and precious gift of being able to take care of people.
Rona, Callie and Sam sat in a small sitting room and shared a pot of tea.
‘I’m trying to get a vision of what it takes to be a carer,’ Sam explained to the woman who’d been introduced to her as Cal, who looked a little uneasy. ‘Rona tells me you started coming as a volunteer to help with your uncle and it turned into a job?’
Callie nodded mutely.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Sam. Her instincts were pricking like crazy – there was something wrong. This poor woman was very stressed.
‘No – I, I think I’m going to be sick.’
Callie bolted from the room.
‘Callie,’ said Rona, standing up.
‘I’m fine,’ Callie said as the door slammed.
The name made all the puzzle pieces fall into place.
‘Callie Reynolds,’ Sam said suddenly. ‘Oh gosh, no wonder she was so stressed. Poor woman. I am so sorry – I never meant—’
‘It’s my fault,’ said Rona shamefacedly. ‘I was so desperate for money and Callie is so brilliant with patients, and she could tell you so much and . . . Please don’t tell anyone she’s here.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ said Sam, horrified. ‘I read the papers too. I think she’s suffered enough.’