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Dementia and the Sense of Self

Sarah Burge

“I am not what I say or what I do or what I remember. I am fundamentally more than that.” 1

All serious illnesses involve some level of adaptation to new limitations that arise from the disease, but few change who you are at your core, what you know and how you live. To quote Terry Pratchett, author and sufferer of early-onset Alzheimer’s Disease: ‘You can’t battle it, you can’t be a plucky survivor. It steals you from yourself.’ 2

Collating all of the studies I read through, a picture begins to form of a gradual progression – the initial desire and attempts to hold on to the pre-dementia self (or selves), followed by inevitable adaptions and changes leading to new selves, perceived to be lesser than the former, with reduction in memory and ability eventually leading to an unrecognisable and totally disconnected new identity.

Another issue also arises from social instability: the social environment in which the Alzheimer’s sufferer operates, is surely also responsible for the maintenance of the patient’s sense of self. When memory fades and personal narrative is unreachable, others, with their memories, instructions, expectations and reactions, are the principle informants of the behaviours and emotions experienced by the patient that piece together their social self. Family and close friends can help remind dementia patients of their past, recreate familiar situations, be more effective in consoling and reassuring. Without this support, I would imagine that descent into an unrecognisable self would be faster and more pronounced.

Keeping in mind the idea of the direct impact of dementia on the sense of self, and the role of the family in helping ease the impact, I created a portrait of a dementia sufferer. Blacking out the canvas first, I then stuck on assorted pieces of photographs representing fragments of memories jumbled up and difficult to recognise. On top of this, I created a portrait in white – representing blankness, space, but also the potential to be changed, to adapt. The portrait is purposefully ambiguous in gender and many features are difficult to make out clearly. The style of the painting also blocks out the majority of the ‘memory’ photos. This puts the viewer into the role of a dementia patient looking into a mirror: some parts of memories shine through, but most are unclear, and parts of themselves are unrecognisable. It is unclear whether the memories behind the person are a part of forming the person, or are being blocked by the person.

Looking back at the quote with which begins this reflection, I am left with a fuller understanding of Alice’s meaning. A dementia-suffering ‘self’ might not be the same as what a person was before, but it doesn’t mean they are less; it is simply up to those around them to help them find a new sense of self, and recognise their value.

References
1.Genova L. Still Alice 2009

2.Pratchett T. ‘A butt of my own jokes’: Terry Pratchett on the disease that finally claimed him – The Guardian [cited 10 April 2016]. Available from: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/mar/15/a-butt-of-my-own-jokes-terry-pratchett-on-the-disease-that-finally-claimed-him

Whole Person Care, Year One, 2016
prize nomination