The undercurrent of heartache over the progress of the disease that accompanied our care of Savta over the seven years we lived with her was balanced, and often eclipsed, by the unexpected joys of seeing Savta’s positive reactions to her surroundings and to people she clearly loved and recognized. We had a lot of fun, laughter, and naches with Savta. That naches was mutually reinforcing. It encouraged Savta to keep going, fighting. It encouraged us to keep seeking ways to maintain Savta’s quality of life. Here are a few memorable examples:
Our friends, Sharon Levinson and her husband Jay Berkovitz from Boston, were frequent visitors to Israel during the summers and we invited them and their daughter Racheli often. Sharon, whom I met when we first toured Israel together in 1968, had a rich, cultivated soprano and her husband had a fine voice as well. Their harmonies as they sang zemirot together were a real treat. Since Savta always had a place at the head of the Shabbat table, she had an unobstructed view of the Berkovitzes. Savta turned her head to look at them, a position she sustained while concentrating on the harmonies. As she listened, she would noticeably nod and then smile. Sharon had no doubt that Savta was responsive and had, in her way, acknowledged her appreciation in a nod of approval. I interpreted Savta's nods and smiles to the Berkovitzes as her equivalent of a compliment.
Our friends Zvi and Sandy Ehrenberg, who live up the hill on HaTayasim/HaRav Berlin, were the only couple among all our acquaintances who made a point of inviting Savta and her caregivers along with us to a Friday night meal. On Friday afternoon, as soon as Savta was transferred from her wheelchair to Dov’s trusty old Volvo, like clockwork a broad smile would spread across her face. Her beret somewhat askew from the transfer to the car, her body slightly off kilter until we straightened her out on the seat, Savta nonetheless smiled in anticipation of the ride, her way of saying: Great, we're going places. I'm out of the house! In fact, Savta brightened up whenever she was transferred to the car and felt she was on the move.
The Ehrenberg boys would carry Savta in her wheelchair down roughly 10 steps and back up before we left. I would always tell her : Meht essen zusamen mit mahne gitte chaveirim, moht inz alle eingelahden (We'll be eating together with my good friends, they invited us all). In order to catch Savta's attention, Zvi and Sandy would greet Savta with a somewhat louder than necessary, enthusiastic welcome, Zvi in Yiddish, Sandy in English, respectfully calling Savta Mrs. Wachsman, not Sara. Until 2007, Savta would stay awake at the Ehrenbergs, stimulated by the change in environment and by the new faces. Gay, Savta's resourceful caregiver, became adept at preparing everything we needed for Savta beforehand. Savta's Shabbos meal, pre-ground and pre-heated at home, was in Gay's knapsack along with medications, a glucometer and blood pressure machine. Savta was fed supper in privacy in the Ehrenberg's den and would join us for the meal afterward.
Knowing that Savta was able and happy to participate in some form of social life was heartening for her and for us. She often smiled at the Ehrenberg's youngest son, Binyamin (Beany).
When we wheeled her back home, she would smile all the way, sometimes allowing her feet to drag somewhat playfully on the ground. It seemed to us that Savta appreciated the night under the stars, the simple pleasure of a shpatzir together with us as a family at that hour.
As often as I could, I would turn Savta toward the large mirror in her room and point out that her earrings matched her outfit, or that her sweater matched her skirt and earrings. Rouge, lipstick, eye shadow, perfume, night cream and day cream, had always been part of Savta’s routine toilette when she started the day. When Saba was alive, she would get up before he did, do her exercises (a routine she maintained until she was 84 years old), and make sure to apply her makeup while he was still asleep. I saw no reason to put a halt to what her grandson Daniel, the family cardiologist, dubbed “the lipstick factor. Maintaining those habits once she could no longer do so on her own, was not trivial. Who is to say that like most women, Savta didn't feel better and prettier with good skin care, makeup, perfume, and nice clothes? Seeing Savta tastefully dressed in what she wryly used to call her bigdei malchus (royal robes), with a hint of jewelry, made everyone feel good- Savta, the caregiver, Dov, me, and all those who looked at and interacted with her.
Savta reacted enthusiastically to the activities we planned for her at Nofei Yerushalayim. We started off with two, baking and dancing. We reduced it to one to accommodate Savta's sleeping schedule. Once a week, Rikki, the occupational therapist, organized ballroom dancing to fast-paced, rhythmic music. She managed to grab hold of Savta in her wheelchair and twirl her around while holding her at the waist. The physical touch and motion, coupled with the lively music, was exhilarating.
In 2008 I came home one day with a CD of Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto. It is a piece of music that can set your heart racing. When Savta listened to it, she was fully awake, her head slightly to one side in a classic pose of concentration. Her whole body listened to that concerto. She also knew I was listening with her. Savta's sensitivity to music was a blessing.
Efrat, when she played as instructed in my presence, was responsible for some of the most joyous moments I had with Savta. I often sang to Savta while Efrat played. Dov sometimes danced with me and with Savta to the accompaniment of ragtime, the theme song from The Sting. The look Savta gave me one afternoon as I sang to her was so expressive the unmistakable mental clarity and gratitude, the nod and tiny smile, the recognition of me as her daughter; I could almost hear her saying, you didn't turn out too badly, Goldie, you're okay, really okay. That slightly amused, sharp look was unexpected and breathtaking.
Once the dementia struck, Savta was entitled to depression and could have become an intolerable presence. That she did not, is not merely due to exceptionally good fortune. We knew real joy and laughter with her. I believe Savta very often found us amusing. There were times I sensed, upon reading the expression in her eyes, that Savta believed she was saner than we were.
Scientists working closely with chimpanzees, elephants and other higher mammals have documented on film instances of their ability to communicate a range of emotions without words, which include sympathy, grief, the “cold shoulder,” mischief and delight, not to mention fear and fury. Some chimps have been taught to construct simple sentences through symbols and gestures. Yet the claim that in dementia patients nonverbal clues and emotional responsiveness are real and frequent, is met with a bemused mixture of pity and denial.
The world, we decided, would not end because words failed Savta and she was in a wheelchair. True, she was not what she once was, but she was there. She could radiate priceless moments of focus, gratitude, irony, understanding, and mirth in her wizened, expressive eyes and with a smile from ear to ear every time we gave her a long hug and a kiss.
Those moments were frequent. They were both a reward and an incentive. For me, they were ha-peirot ba-olam ha-zeh;the earthly fruits as defined by the Sages, of an emotional investment whose benefits I experienced while taking care of Savta.
Goldie and her husband Dov, lived with Goldie's mother Sara and her caregivers in the same apartment for seven years in Jerusalem, until Sara passed away in 2009.
