When I was growing up there was a public service "commercial" on televsion. It was simple and pictured a young person bobbing around in some waves. The figure's little voice cried, "Help, help, help" as it moved in the water. A voice came on and said, "A mind is a terrible thing to waste." I hope I remember correctly--I think the ad was to raise money for college funds for African-Americans.
This week a family member had an incident that has affected the mind. This person is older. These things happen one doctor said. Another mentioned dementia. I asked about that. I must have showed some fear in my face.
"Dementia is nothing to be afraid of," the doctor said. "Many people experience it. My own mother and grandmother, for example. The terrible thing about dementia is if the person has no one to care for them."
I didn't like hearing those words. But when I thought about my love for this person, I felt strengthened to provide whatever care is needed, for whatever the duration may be.
I wrote this poem in response:
When the Mind Fails
Like worms, words don't surface
Like trails of snails, sentences stop
Silence and sleep become a place to slip
to slide...to burrow...to hide
Blessed are those who have someone:
so many don't.
Most of the women I've met in prison are surprisingly intelligent. Somewhere along the way education failed to reach most of these women and they "fell between the cracks." More education isn't insurance against dementia but there is growing evidence that it can help delay it. I'm a true believer in life-long learning: ee can be changed by the "renewing of our minds."
These days it's easy to find things to rail about--but, at least in this country--at least from what I observe firsthand in Georgia--a prison can become a setting for the wasting of the mind to stop.
How I admire these women I meet for not giving up.
How I admire those who work in prisons teaching and encouraging these women to carry on. They have someone who cares.
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