THE BROKEN JAR

My guest this week is Daniel C. Potts, MD, FAAN. A Mutual friend, Dr. Michael.Parker, introduced me to his story and that of his father, some years ago. it is one of my favorites. Dr. Potts is a neurologist, author, educator and champion of those with Alzheimer’s disease and other dementias and their caregivers. He lives with his wife and two daughters in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. The Broken Jar is limited edition of his father’s paintings, completed while suffering full-blown Alzheimers.

“MOTHER PLEASE,”

I don’t think we should; you recall what happened last year,” I responded to my mother’s request to take my father out of the nursing home for the ‘Walk to Remember,’ an annual fund raising event for dementia daycare. “But it may be the last time,” she said. “And besides, he’s never seen his artwork hanging in your new office. The wheelchair van could drop us by after the Walk.” Against this neurologist’s better judgment, I agreed to her plan.

My father, had become a local celebrity. A 78-year-old end-stage Alzheimer’s patient, Dad had been the subject of a book and several media articles because of his art … art that had been created after his diagnosis and by a man who had never painted before.

LESTER EUGENE POTTS, JR.,

was a child of the Great Depression. Born in the winter of 1928, the elder son of Lester and Katie Potts, Dad adopted the Depression work ethic while toiling in the family sawmill, an operation that kept food on the table and shoes on their feet at a time when many rural Alabamians suffered impoverishment. He soon became an “oak” of a man himself, and sweat, wood, food, family and love formed the earliest rings in his oaken core.

A model citizen, Dad was the father every son would hope to have. By his example of righteous, benevolent strength, he made his community a better place and bequeathed to his descendants and friends a template for good and noble living. He lived an exemplary life of service to the Lord, “loving his neighbor as himself” in a neighborhood that knew no boundaries of race, culture or socio-economic status. Friends often sought his wisdom, because they trusted his cool head and good judgment. He was a strong man who could build or fix anything and who kept a beautifully landscaped yard. However, the thing in which he took the most pride was his role as “Papa” or “Bubba,” the beloved patriarch of a close family.

THE DIAGNOSIS

of Alzheimer’s disease came in 2001, after a fairly rapid onset of cognitive dysfunction and behavioral changes signaled its onslaught. This capable, utilitarian man, full of life and optimism, soon became unable to complete a sentence or perform rote tasks, such as placing lights on the Christmas tree or sawing a plank. A man who had prided himself on his resourcefulness now found himself failing at simple tasks. He lost his smile and his sense of self-worth.

It was then that we enrolled Dad in a faith-based dementia daycare center called Caring Days, the longest-running center of its kind in Alabama, and a model for such organizations. Utilizing such interventions as art and music therapy, a carefully tailored program of cognitive stimulation is provided, all within the framework of stability and routine, which are both so important for dementia patients. Literally within days Dad began to globally improve: cognitively, behaviorally, and emotionally.

THEN CAME THE ART

The innate power of art lies in its ability to meld the heart and mind of the artist with that of the observer, to call to consciousness in one human being the depth of emotion, experience, spirituality, and intellect behind the creation of the artistic work. I believe art, in all its forms, to be the purest medium of human connection, the one that most truly promotes holistic communion between individuals. Madeliene L’Engle once said that the art is often greater than the artist. Dad, if he had been able, certainly would have agreed.

The only paintbrush Dad had held to that point was one that whitewashed fences, painted barns, or trimmed siding on a house. Time was too precious to waste on something not considered “work.” As more of nature’s wall of inhibition fell, due to the disease, however, Dad became open to the instruction given by a volunteer art teacher at Caring Days. What subsequently happened could be compared to wildflowers blossoming from a fallen log in the Alabama woods. Beautiful florals, inviting still life, breathtaking landscapes, and heartwarming Christmas scenes emerged from Dad’s paintbrush, much to the amazement of our family. And, more poignantly, a broken man was given once again something of which he could be proud.

Lester painted, all in all, about 75 original watercolors. For some he was given a template; for others, he seemed to paint images he had known best, many of them

brightly colored with unusual shapes: fences, trees, birdhouses, rocks, and leaves. His art, in many ways, parallels that created by other Alzheimer’s patients, marked by progressive loss of structure and characteristic form as the disease advances.

His last images, intensely poignant to the observer, recall the earliest days of childhood: his father’s boots and hat, picket fences, and, last of all, a starkly simplistic saw. This may have been his earliest childhood memory.

THOUGH DEEPLY MOVED

and thankful for Dad’s newly discovered gifts, I quietly struggled with his plight and grieved the loss of my father. On a whim, my perceptive wife gave me a poetry anthology by Henry Van Dyke, a Presbyterian minister, noted educator and member of President Woodrow Wilson’s cabinet. From the first line which met my eyes, then wet with tears, my soul was stirred and my life changed. The urge to tap into my heart and try my hand at writing became a consuming fire, and during the first few weeks of 2005 I wrote approximately thirty poems. What gushed forth was an unfiltered flood of memories and gratitude, directed, I believe, by the Holy Spirit, and inspired by an artist’s brush and poet’s pen.

As a physician, I saw only those functions and traits he had lost, as I had been trained to do. But his caregivers at Caring Days looked beyond inability and saw creative potential concealed behind the aphasic eyes of an Alzheimer’s patient. Seeing Dad struggle to manage his saw, they gave him a paintbrush. And in so doing, they gave much, much more.

For through his newfound gift came healing power, not only to the heart and spirit, but to the mind and body as well. His cognition actually improved, as did his behavior and mood. In fact, we feel Dad’s condition essentially stabilized for nearly two years largely due to his involvement in art therapy and the other Caring Days programs. This enabled him to remain in the home longer, and gave my mother (the primary caregiver) much needed respite, one of the most important benefits of any dementia care facility.

HAS MY NEUROLOGY PRACTICE

as a result of Dad’s story? Unequivocally, it has. I now espouse a model of care giving in which new or hidden talents and capabilities in each patient are sought out and developed through art therapy and other modalities. The focus should be on abilities that remain or can be identified and developed, not those that have departed.

Such focus creates an affirming environment in which the patients can be loved as they are, and in which the love of the caregivers may be genuinely expressed. This translates into respite in the truest sense of the word, and fosters a sense of identity and preservation of self-worth in the patient. Vicki Kerr, the director of Caring Days and Dad’s ‘adopted’ daughter, said it so well: “I‘m glad I didn’t know your dad before. I want to love and appreciate the Lester I know now.”

Our experience has given me a message of hope to share as well. If Lester Potts, a rural saw miller, can learn to become a watercolor artist in the throws of Alzheimer’s disease, then I should encourage caregivers to listen through the stammering for the song, to focus past the faltering for the dance, to “keep their eyes on the art.” Dad’s story can belong to other Alzheimer’s patients, too, if someone will provide the brush and paint.

ON THAT DAY

we acted against my better judgment, and I’m so glad we did. The wheelchair van picked Lester up from the Veteran’s Nursing Home and dropped him and Mother off at the ‘Walk to Remember.’ Dad was greeted affectionately by hundreds, and, unlike the year before, exhibited no agitation. He had advanced beyond that, and was only capable of handshakes and blank stares this time.

Upon leaving the mall we took Dad to my new office where his artwork is prominently displayed and placed his wheelchair in front of a particular piece that forms the cover of The Broken Jar. There the artist stared at his work for at least 30 minutes. I’m not sure what was happening in his ravaged mind at that moment, but I hope, in some way, by keeping his eyes on the art, he was able to “meld the heart and mind of the artist with that of the observer.” Perhaps, if only briefly, he was reconnected with himself through the hands of the Master Artist.

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Daniel C. Potts

The Last picture completed by Alzheimer’s patient Lester Potts before his death was of a primitive saw, much like the ones he had used as a boy at his father’s sawmill. However, the saw in the painting was missing its handles. After Lester’s death, his son, Dr. Danny Potts, was given an antique 2-handled antique saw by his friend and colleague, Dr. Michael Parker, to commemorate the now complete life of Lester Potts, who experienced restoration of spirit, mind, and body on September 15, 2007 when he went to be with his Lord.

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