Everlasting Soul

I have proof that the soul exists and I have proof that it outlives the mind. You know how I know? For ten years I worked with people who had Alzheimer’s and Dementia. I worked with people whose minds were slowly disintegrating but whose souls kept right on ticking.

It didn’t take me long to notice that although the elderly clients I worked with could not remember facts or faces, if I posed a moral dilemma, I always got a response.

I developed a list of questions I would ask them during our weekly discussion groups. Here are some examples:

1. What is the purpose of life? 

2. What is the secret to a happy marriage? 

3. How can I be a better parent? A better neighbor? A better friend? 

4. What qualities should I look for in a spouse? 

5. If you were driving alone on a stormy night and saw three people standing at the bus stop, and you only had room for two, who would you take: the doctor that once saved your life, your true-love, or a very old man?

These questions would evoke lively conversations and a genuine insight into the morality and values of the people I worked with. A woman with Alzheimer’s who couldn’t recognize her own daughter was able to warn me not to borrow too often from my neighbor or that marriage equals giving. People spoke openly about their spiritual feelings and about their belief in God. “He’s the One and Only Big Shot,” a ninety-year old told me.

A psychiatrist would probably say there’s a logical explanation for the ability to express opinions yet be unable to recall personal facts, but I believe God was showing me something else. There is a spiritual reason why a woman with Alzheimer’s can  easily tell me that if raised properly,  a child shouldn’t be afraid to tell his parents the truth, or that people don’t like seeing the elderly because it reminds them of death, but this same woman cannot remember what country’s she’s living in.

The best example I ever had of this phenomena was from my own father. He was recovering from heart surgery and between the trauma and the drugs his mind was completely rattled. On his first night home from the hospital we stood at the Shabbat table. Most of my siblings were there. My father was disoriented; he kept mistaking one kid for the other and was getting more and more frustrated. He could not understand why we weren’t answering his questions, which to us made no sense. My mother gently urged him to make the blessing over wine. My brother helped him stand and carefully handed him the silver Kiddush cup. But his hand shook and wine dripped onto his fingers. My father, a top chemist for the FDA in Washington D.C., had hands as steady as a surgeon’s but now couldn’t control his tremors. It was pitiful to see and my sister and I began to cry.

And then my father’s voice rang out strong and clear and in a beautiful melody he recited the Sabbath blessing without stumbling over a single word. In that moment of praising God, his soul stepped in and took over.

I rest my case.