UCSF and the Jewish Home partner for research A world of interests ...

Tess Gallagher’s relationship with her mother
during those 17 years is a beautiful example of what
professionals in this field call habilitative care. The
goal of rehabilitation is to restore abilities and skills
in a person who has lost them. Habilitative care
focuses on preserving what remains. A person who can
paint, knit or enjoy word games is encouraged to do
these activities regularly; missing one day of activity
can mean losing the skill forever. Habilitative care is
life-affirming and hopeful.
When I think about caregivers like Tess (and I have
known many like her), I feel that we need a better name
for what they do. In Hebrew, we do
have a term for spiritual caregivers,
people who tend to the souls of
others. We call such people k’lei
kodesh – vessels of holiness. For
them, caregiving is more than an
obligation, it is a calling.
Empathy, relationship, and
creativity. These are the
ingredients of a Judaism that
is habilitative for people with
dementia, a Judaism that can
help a person hold on to what
remains, for as long as possible.
Rather than allow Judaism to fail us
when we need it most, “habilitative
Judaism” – with a focus on touching
the soul – makes our religion relevant in our care for
people with dementia.
Jack Marder, of blessed memory, father of
the Home’s Rabbi Sheldon Marder.
smallest neighborhood branch, was like a sanctuary
for him – my father’s holy of holies. … So now, in the
middle of his illness, in the middle of his dementia, we
began our weekly visits to the library. It always felt like
a pilgrimage.
… One morning, during one of these outings, my father
became very serious and said he wanted to tell me
something about his illness. I remember it clearly
because this happened only once. And here is what he
said: “Shelly, I feel as though there is a veil between me
and the rest of the world. Everything seems hazy. I just
can’t break through the veil.”
My father couldn’t break through
the veil; his illness wouldn’t let him.
I cried when he said those words
to me. I cried because I realized
how upset he was, and because
my father hardly ever shared his
deepest feelings with me. I realized
that he was giving me the best gift,
the only gift, he could offer me in
the midst of his anguish and fear.
My father was opening his heart.
He could not break through, but he
was inviting me to join him behind
the veil.
Ever since that day, I’ve been
trying to figure out how to do that,
searching for ways we can join the people we love in
their loneliness and solitude behind the veil. After many
R abbi Sheldon Marder
“My father was opening his heart. He could not break through,
but he was inviting me to join him behind the veil.”
My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease
before he was 60. … Later, he was given another
diagnosis, dementia with Lewy bodies. My father lived
with the illness for more than 20 years. He spent the last
few of those years at the Jewish Home, happily creating
bright and colorful abstract paintings in the Home’s
creative arts program. …
Somewhere in the middle of his illness, when he could
no longer travel even short distances by himself, he
asked a favor of me, something he rarely did. What
was the favor? He wanted me to drive him to the public
library near his apartment. … Any library, even the
years of trying, I know it is possible. Given enough time,
and patience and compassion, we can find a way in. We
can remain in relationship, even as life changes and
illness progresses. We can continue to see the image
of God within the human being before us. Even in dark
places there can be moments of beauty and dignity.
Believe me when I tell you there are openings in the veil.
Doorways of hope.
–Rabbi Sheldon Marder
Director of Jewish Life, Jewish Home of San Francisco
2009/ 2010 Jewish Senior Living
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