Mickey Mouse Moments and the Wittgenstein Fix

Monday morning we were all preparing for a long drive to Broomall, PA to visit my sister and lots of extended family.  Myrtle would be coming along.  This was a stretch, for her and for the rest of us.   A bold and potentially ill-advised expedition - we were all a tad nervous.  We would leave at 11 a.m, I explained to Myrtle early in the day.  That was a mistake, because she began asking questions like:

“Will my mother be there?” 

“Why not”

“Tell them I’m coming”

“Tell my father I’ll be there”

“I see snow (it is on the TV program she’s watching).”

“Is it a very bad storm?”

“Do you have snow tires on your car?”

This was distracting but when we began to debate the time of day, I felt like I was caught up in a nonsense which threatened my own sanity. 

Myrtle wears a watch.  Always.  Compulsively, even.  I would place said watch at 30 years of age.  It is a Mickey Mouse watch.  To complete the absurd image of a 30 year old Mickey Mouse watch being worn obsessively by a 90 year old woman with severe dementia,  know that this watch has no hands.  No hands.  In many ways, it is timeless.

“What time is it?” she asks.  I look at my clock on the wall. 

9:30 a.m., I report.  

She consults Mickey. 

“Oh, no, no, no.   It’s 12!  We better leave.”

Ok, I am stumped.

“Look, look!”, she insists, pushing the hand-less Mickey toward me, so I can see for myself.

“Well?  See?  It’s 12 o’clock, not 9:30!”

It’s 9:30 a.m. mom, I state wearily.

“What?  No, no, no.  Just look!”  Again, Mickey the amputee, is thrust toward me.

Speechless in Medford.

Last night Myrtle asked if I had lost her glasses.  I ponder a bit before responding.  She had Lasik surgery some years back and she no longer wears or needs to wear glasses, but she does not remember this and never will.  She has vision in only one eye – and it is, essentially, 20/20.   I know this information will not get processed by Myrtle no matter what words I use, and I was very tired from a long day of travel (with Myrtle in tow).   So, I just tell her I will look for them tomorrow.

She does not like my answer and she scoots in her wheelchair to my 14 year old son’s desk.  Reaching the desk, she began yanking on piles of books, drawers, everything …. determined to find her eyeglasses among his odd little mountains of schoolwork, art supplies and electronic gadgets.

Time to redirect.

Mom, do you want some hot tea before bed?   I need my glasses.

Mom, can you see me?  Yeah, of course.

See, you don’t need glasses.   Get my glasses will you?

I don’t think you have glasses.   You LOST my glasses?  (incredulously)

I did not lose your glasses.   Get them for me, ok?

I don’t have glasses for you.   Where did you lose them?

It goes on like this for another 10 minutes until my husband looked up from his book and demanded that I produce some eyeglasses for her so he could read in peace.  “Can’t you just give her any pair of glasses?  Seriously, Ro, this conversation is breaking my brain.”  

He has a point.

So I found eyeglass frames.  No lenses.  Just a frame and a broken one, at that.  After putting these on her face she sighs, “Oooohhh, boy that is so much better.  NOW, I can see!  Where were they?”  After enduring half an hour of badgering over these eyeglasses, I desperately want the satisfaction of telling her that these have no lenses and that there is no way these empty frames could make any difference in the world.  I watch as she handles the eyeglasses, wrapping her fingers through the empty frames, completely unaware that there should be glass in them ‘thar frames.  My moment of satisfaction would never arrive – she will never understand that these are empty frames – no matter what I say.

Speechless in Medford, again.

Earlier this week when I was considerably confounded by the inscrutability of Myrt’s commentary, I remembered something I read a few years ago about sense vs nonsense as applied to sentences and language, generally.  It was Ludwig Wittgenstein.  I grabbed my computer and escaped briefly into Wittgenstein’s Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.  Not a beach read.  Anyway, in order to separate sense from nonsense, he applies a whole system of philosophical grammar to language, using our familiar concept of grammar to establish the fact that meaning itself comes from the way language is used.  He marries logic and language (oh, happy day) to describe the rules of sense and nonsense.  It's such a relief to travel (if only in my mind) through orderly thinking.

Yes,  even Wittgenstein had his challenges ....I think he gave up on it all, eventually.

Nonetheless, I find this intellectual detour oddly comforting.... until I arrive at a different thought altogether.  The reason I enjoy reading Wittgenstein is because his thinking, like all philosophy, applies rules to things which aren’t as straight forward as - “How long should I boil this pasta?”    

And interactions with Myrtle have no rules whatsoever.  Social convention, the familiar shape of a conversation, the order of words in a sentence, the actual words themselves -- these all goes swiftly to hell in a handbasket.  I had a revelation  -  I am flummoxed throughout the day by what is a rule-less style of interaction and it is deeply stressful for me.  Maybe I like rules after all?

           

My sobering summary of these self-administered antidotes to nonsense:  Even as I complain about drowning in her sea of non-sequiturs, Myrtle is gradually losing her ability to speak altogether.   And when that goes, I know that I will miss the steady stream of nonsense, and I guess I will then strike out against the ocean of silence.