I stepped into the dark room with zero confidence, holding nothing but a ballpoint pen and a legal pad. Smelling of yesterday’s leftovers, the room was suffocating and seemed to perfectly fit the description of “misery.” Slowly scanning the room, I saw no signs of active life and was immediately ready to turn 180 degrees and run out the door. Suddenly, I heard faint wheezing sounds from around the corner. And with that, I had missed my only chance to flee. I trudged over to a frameless mattress swallowing a frail, old man. When explaining the assignment, the nursing home administrators had told me it would be easy. I interview the man, jot down notes, and write a biography about his father, an immigrant with quite the eventful life. My interviewee, Tony, was a 94-year old resident with Alzheimer’s disease.
Attempting to hide my obvious doubt, I quickly introduced myself and began asking basic interview questions. Silence. Thinking he hadn’t heard me, I started again when he abruptly cleared his throat to speak. Suddenly the stories of his father and childhood poured out as if a massive dam had collapsed: Luigi worked on the toughest railroad in town, the ol’ family mutt once ran away, joyous tears at the first sight of the Statue of Liberty, piano lessons with his mother, playing baseball at family picnics… Frantically abbreviating words, I tried to capture all of the stories within that first hour. When it was time to go, I looked down at the legal pad to see nothing but scribbles of unrelated, fragmented memories.
The following week, I obsessively thought about Tony and his book. There had
to be a way to produce a decent biography, even with fragmented information and
an inexperienced high-school author. And if I was who I claimed to be, a relentlessly motivated person in every aspect, I refused to accept defeat. The book continued to consume my thoughts until I came upon a brilliant idea; I would write a modern style biography without any standard chronology. I returned to Tony’s room feeling proud
and enthusiastic about the innovative idea.
“Who are you?” Tony asked suspiciously.
My meetings with Tony continued in similar fashion for many weeks. I introduce myself, listen to stories, leave. My efforts seemed absolutely futile, but I left feeling
sorry for Tony’s efforts towards what he perceived as a viable biography. Unfortunately, I discovered it was virtually impossible to write a coherent biography with an Alzheimer’s patient as the narrator.
One week, I arrived as usual for what had become routine for me, yet always
a new experience for Tony. I found him uncomfortably hunched over, refusing to eat, and trembling from nervousness. He exclaimed that the editor was coming to edit and finalize the unfinished biography. I kneeled down next to Tony, put my arm around his tense shoulders, and told him that the editor had called to reschedule. His exhausted eyes lit up and he squeezed my hands with joy. Although he couldn’t remember my name, I felt like a part of him knew me as his friend. And at that moment, I knew. There was never going to be a biography. I had been so distracted by my determination to write the biography that I had lost the genuine purpose of giving myself to others. Tony didn’t need more people halfheartedly asking question after question, rather he yearned for someone to simply listen to his stories, a genuine friend, me. In Tony’s ecstatic embrace, I learned the true, intangible joy of service, whether the need be obvious or veiled. And though he can’t recall his test scores, average income, or relative fame, Tony holds fast memories of his family and closest relationships throughout his life, those moments that truly matter.
I felt humbled by Tony’s lesson and am constantly reminded to appreciate and hold dear those people who have always blessed me with unfailing support in my life, my family. Given perspective, I realized that much of my stress was trivial and unnecessary. Instead, it is the honest gift of self that remains as my most treasured quality, a spirit inside me reaching out to help others in any way, yearning to create lasting memories and friendships. Although Tony’s biography remains unwritten, he wrote a significant chapter that has become an indelible part of my own life and story.
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