Tales From the Edge of Memory – Guide to Approaching a Person with Alzheimer’s
1. Announce your arrival gently.
When you enter, simply say: “Hello, it’s [your name].”
Don’t ask me if I recognize you — that question can unsettle me, worry me, or make me doubt myself.
2. Step into my world.
If I talk about people who have passed away, or places from long ago, there’s no need to correct me.
Join me where I am. Even if that world isn’t yours, it makes me feel safe.
3. Don’t contradict my beliefs.
My mind sometimes wanders into different times, different realities.
Pulling me abruptly back to “the truth” only adds to my confusion.
Let me keep my own landmarks, even if they seem incoherent to you.
4. Don’t take anything personally.
If I don’t recognize you or if I speak to you differently, it isn’t rejection.
It’s my memory faltering. My affection is still there… even if it hides.
5. Help me preserve my dignity.
If I struggle with utensils, don’t rush to help.
Try simple foods first, things I can pick up with my hands.
Maybe I can still manage.
6. Offer me your presence, not just explanations.
If I’m anxious or lost, don’t try to reason with me right away.
Give me your hand. Your closeness speaks louder than words.
7. Speak to me with respect.
I am an adult, even when sick.
Talk to me with tenderness, but without infantilizing me.
I deserve your full consideration.
8. Bring my passions back to life.
Even weakened, I can still enjoy music, walks, or books.
Help me reconnect with these pleasures, however modest they may be.
9. Remind me of happy memories.
Invite me to share stories from the past.
Sometimes those memories appear clearer than the present itself.
10. Try to understand what agitates me.
If I become nervous or restless, it might be discomfort, fear, or a need I can no longer express.
Be attentive.
11. Treat me as you would like to be treated.
I am still a whole person.
What I’m living could touch you someday too.
Offer me patience, warmth, and respect.
12. Guess my silent needs.
Maybe I can’t say I’m hungry anymore.
But my mood or restlessness might be shouting it for me.
A small snack can make all the difference.
13. Don’t talk about me as if I weren’t there.
Even if I’m silent, I hear you.
Don’t talk over me — talk with me.
I’m still here.
14. Don’t carry everything alone.
You don’t have to do it all.
Rest. Ask for help.
You’re already doing so much.
15. Visit me as often as you can.
Even if I don’t recognize you, your visit does me good.
It anchors me to the world.
16. Be forgiving of my mistakes.
I mix up names, faces, places.
It isn’t indifference — it’s the illness.
Forgive me, silently.
17. Play my music.
The songs of my life can still move me.
Play them.
They speak where words fail.
18. Respect my strange gestures.
If I hold an object close or move things around without logic, don’t stop me.
These actions calm me, give me structure.
19. Don’t shut me out of life.
Even if I’m slow or confused, I still feel the joy of shared moments.
Don’t leave me alone in a room.
Make space for me, in my own way.
20. Touch can change everything.
A smile, a kind look, a gentle touch… these gestures still reach me through the fog.
21. Remember who I am.
Behind the absences, I’m still me.
Less present, perhaps, but still here.
Still worthy of your love.