Memoirs of a Nursing Home Resident

Why do so many people in nursing homes seem to be writing their memoirs lately? And where is the need? Is it some sort of Homerian desire to live on after death if only in the minds of people to come? Is it worthwhile for the ordinary, or do we only really benefit from the shared experiences and reflections of the extraordinary? Recently two people in my life in one way or another wrote their memoirs while in nursing homes. His was not published, hers was. I had a very strong reaction to them both, though in different ways.

One of them (which granted, I only was able to spend 45 minutes or so glancing through), seemed really beautiful and incredibly valuable for his family once he passed. He was a WWII veteran and shared stories, photos, and various little anecdotes and things documenting the course of his life. It seemed smart and pithy, but not self-important. It was very beautiful and touching from what I saw: he lived his life to the fullest.

The other made me cringe. It seemed on the surface to be sincere, but what is the point in being sincere with others when you're being dishonest with yourself? I feel a bit strange harshly criticizing the elderly, particularly people I know, but I have never read anything so patently selfish and self-promoting. Clearly she was not familiar with the maxim, "If you can't say something nice..." I can't understand why someone would choose in her memoirs to reinforce bad blood between family members and publically air in a published book not just her own dirty laundry, but that of her close family... and not out of any sort of concern for them, but just in a feeble attempt to present herself as a martyr or a saint. Regardless of it's childish content and horrendous lack of ethos, however, what reinforced its not needing to exist in my mind was how poorly it was written, despite the fact that she was at one point a journalist. Even the most basic of grammatical errors had not been corrected, there was no accurate or discernable chronology in what was presented as a chronological work, and this was a published book. I was not impressed: it more closely resembled the private diary of a young girl, a silly young girl, than it did the reflections and stories of a mature elderly lady looking back upon her life.

Then I got to thinking about the difference between these two people. I can't ignore or fail to mention that the latter woman shared in her writings that she had been diagnosed with dementia, while the man remained alert and oriented up until the point he was put on pallative care (he passed way early last tuesday morning, please keep him in your prayers)- long after he finished his memoirs. I know dementia is a serious mental illness and you cannot afford to take personally or hold them accountable for things people suffering from something like that say or do. But my goodness. I find it so hard to deal with the fact that this woman presented, with such great pride, this unflattering account of her life for her to be remembered by, dementia or no.

But moving away from the problem dementia presents, I've been wondering more about the content and what it is these people at the root of the matter had to offer. Putting aside presentation and personal issues, and even attitude, to just look at the content of both of their lives as they presented it, it seems to me that whatever drama she was able to conjure up, her life seemed more ordinary, and his seemed extraordinary. Her stories dealt with all things personal, while his stories transcended mere troubles and approached addressing issues. However biased a reader I am, I'd be willing to offer a guarantee that most all of you would in retrospect have enjoyed reading the WWII Vet's memoirs more. I don't think it is unfair to apply standard expectations of literature to autobiographical works, particularly those written in a nursing home (that is, while headed "down hill"), and praise it in virtue of it's meritorious content, the praiseworthy accomplishments of the author, and good presentation. Am I cruel and unfeeling for being so decidedly appalled by the selfish, poorly written memoirs of a little old lady with dementia in a nursing home? It still is quite the feat given her situation. I just can't bring myself to in any way praise it.

I'm not doing a very good job presenting the problems with this situation as I see it, so maybe I'll come back to this later when my mind is more clear. Also, perhaps I ought to mention that the woman I'm speaking of is closely related to me. I find it so difficult to try and objectively critique literature not just written by someone you know, but about the very same person. Maybe I shouldn't even bother trying to be objective. My small little mind just does not know what to do with it.