I was playing ball with my dog the other day when a car pulled into my driveway. I walked over to see my elderly neighbor, Nora, in her blue Subaru Outback. Her face glowed as she cranked up the radio and started waving her arms, dancing to the music.

“This station is made in Colorado!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she urged me to share her excitement.

Morgan Wallen’s “I Just Want to Love Somebody” filled the air. A fan of the song, I joined her, letting the music guide my movements. When the song ended, she gave me a cheerful wave and drove away, leaving me smiling.

Several months ago, I learned Nora has Alzheimer’s disease. Yet, even as the illness progresses, she’s found ways to love life—and to share that love with others.

FINDING MOMENTS OF JOY

In my 20s, I worked as an activities director for the Alzheimer’s unit at a local nursing home. Over time, I got to know each of the 15 residents personally.

There was Margaret, a petite woman with thick glasses and a Russian-sounding accent. She clapped along exuberantly with every song I played on the piano, not caring who heard. She loved the music with every fiber of her being, and it erupted from her every time I put my hands on the keys.

Beatrice—tall, slim and graceful—loved “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” and sang every word flawlessly whenever I played it. Often, when I moved on to another song, she’d try to sing along but would abandon it and return to her favorite. The two tunes clashed, so I’d play hers again, much to her delight.

Chuck was a big-boned tower of a man prone to angry outbursts. But whenever I started playing the piano, he softened into a gentle giant, occasionally shouting questions from across the room. Sometimes, he didn’t like my answers, so I’d quickly return to playing before he got too irritated.

Music brought us together in a timeless way, allowing us to create a shared world where joy could thrive. But not everyone was lulled into calm by the piano. Grace, for instance, preferred art.

She had several paintings in her room and often accused other residents—particularly Margaret—of stealing her treasures. Grace would erupt in anger, point her finger at Margaret and demand that she return whatever Grace thought she had stolen.

But take Grace on a field trip and you saw who she must have been before the disease. She transformed into a pleasant, polite lady, thoroughly enjoying herself wherever we went.

Little by little, I got to know these people as they were with Alzheimer’s. Though you could see how the disease was harming them, you could still see who they were as individuals through the small ways their personalities hung on.

WHO THEY WERE

The true tragedy of the disease became apparent when families visited.

Some would sit with their relatives and listen to me play piano, sharing in the joy of the music. These families understood they needed to accept their loved ones as they were in that moment and find new ways to make memories with them. There was still sorrow, but there remained ways to find some connection.

Others hadn’t reached that point yet. They were still trying to resurrect the person they knew before the disease. I saw adult children trying to get their parents to recognize their grandchildren and remember their names.

The patients often couldn’t recall the names. Sometimes, they didn’t recognize the grandkids at all—or even their adult children. I could see anxiety tighten their bodies. They knew, on some level, that they were disappointing this person in front of them, yet they couldn’t figure out how to make it better. Inevitably, the families would leave because they were too upset to stay.

I felt horrible for them, but once they were gone, we’d return to our little bubble of camaraderie over music, art or outings, and everything felt all right again.

I often wished I could convey to these families that their loved ones were still okay—not the same, but okay, and on some days, even happy.

ALZHEIMER’S HAS CHANGED HER— AND IT’S NOT ALL BAD

Now, over two decades later, I live next door to Nora, a woman navigating the difficulties of Alzheimer’s on a day-to-day basis. 

It’s funny because Nora has always been very reserved. From the day I first met her at a neighborhood get-together years ago, she was a woman of few words. But now, as her disease progresses, a new side of her has emerged.

During the holidays, I stopped by Nora’s home with gifts for her and her sister, Dot. Dot and I started a lively conversation with Nora in the background.

Suddenly, Nora turned up the radio. 

“This station is great!” she said. “Right here in Colorado!” 

Dot and I raised our voices, trying to talk over the music, while Nora be-bopped in the living room. Eventually, she turned the radio down, thanked me for the gifts, and left the room.

Since then, I’ve seen Nora a few more times. The other day, she pulled into my driveway again, music blaring. 

“Made right here in Colorado!” she declared, waving her arms and bobbing her head.

If you didn’t know her before, you might not notice anything wrong. But the signs are there, growing clearer with time.

Still, when she’s in her car, driving the back roads, blasting the radio and dancing without a care in the world, she’s radiant.

Alzheimer’s is stealing pieces of her. But in those moments when she’s dancing to her heart’s content, she’s not just living with the disease—she’s defying it.

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