I don’t think you’re Garbage, Allen.

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Dr Allen Bain is a PhD pharmacologist, father of four, and he's living with early onset dementia. His huge brain used to speak to us plebes rather haughtily of his knowledge of science. As president of Immune Network, Allen was working on oral immunotherapy of tuberculosis (TB) to shorten treatment duration. I’m not really sure what all this science means.

There's also a lot I don't know about Allen’s atypical brain function; his primary progressive aphasia (PPA) has progressed to include frontotemporal lobe dementia. But this I do know: he simply “is”. As his respite worker tells me, “Allen is what he is; he says what he says. We can't change that.”

Growing up, the highest value my family held was that a human had the ability to reason and know the truth. Dinner time debates about philosophy, politics or environmental issues were a regular occurrence. While visiting last week, I still found it jarring to my sensibility to hear my brother speak in illogical streams of words. If I try to stay in my logical thinking while listening to him, I get lost. But if I set aside my need for clear thought, and just take in his heart, I begin to value what he’s feeling.

I wonder why Allen, my little brother, now matters to me so much? We had never been very close. His mind is quite free of logic. His speech is plentiful, though it’s shocking how many of his words are disappearing. He’s certainly no longer tied down to rational thought that I had esteemed. Now I feel that by listening, I sense my migration to a fresh perspective.

In the evening, he tends to isolate himself from the rest of the family, in his dark basement office. On my visits I follow him down, as I know he enjoys an audience. As we sit together in front of his computer, Allen talks and I listen. He wants me to hear him as he gives his long and wandering diatribe.

Late one evening I tried to keep a record of what he was saying: Here’s a few of his favored thoughts and phrases.

After several failed attempts to get a word in during his long monologue, I try to wrap it up, “Allen, it’s late, let’s get some sleep.” We head upstairs. The house is dark, quiet. He turns on the hall light, I whisper to him, “Allen, it’s time to sleep.”

I have to cut him off as he ramps up again. I give him a hug, and try to direct him toward his bed.

“Good night brother.”

“Okay. Good night. Thank-you for listening to me, Wow.” He smiles and laughs, then turns away to his room.

Allen was an atheist, a scientist who sought to understand and remediate how tuberculosis reshapes the body. Now, with dementia, it’s as if he’s trying to peer through a thin veil into another world. He searches through his long walks to parks and churches, and through his frequent quiet times in wordless meditation.

I still struggle to value a mind that no longer reasons. Yet I keep returning to Allen’s home, drawn by his strange clarity, by the way he speaks of his soul. There’s some deeper part of him that’s emerging. He’s not garbage.

It makes me wonder: when reason fades, what remains of who we truly are?

And even if we don’t lose our logic, can we reach out to find a more eternal kind of truth?

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I would love to connect with you on LinkedIn or Facebook

See you next week,

Grayson

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