Can you tell me about the happiest moment of your life?

If you find yourself waffling, unable to pick just one thing, then consider yourself blessed. It’s not a bad problem to have.

For some an enjoyable moment may be a big event, like a wedding or the birth of a child. For others, they are commonplace memories that may even run together: remembrances of days spent fishing or sharing time with someone special.

Enjoyable moments have a way of sticking with us — they become important anecdotes, maybe even plot points, in the stories that shape our lives. While we typically associate reminiscence with the aged, it’s actually a practice of the young, as well. It transcends time.

My wife and I often reminisce about the year of our residency fellowship, during which we lived in Tacoma, Washington. Our apartment sat atop a donut shop, complete with free smells and cheap apple fritters. It’s a good thing there were plenty of hills and mountains nearby for burning off the dough. It was a simpler time, and it highlighted important values in our lives before the plunge into full-time jobs and kids.

There is something hardwired in all human beings that drives our species to tell stories. By telling stories about our lives, we construct a sense of cohesion and meaning about ourselves. “I am who I am because this happened to me and affected me in such a way.” The practice of telling stories helps to connect a seemingly random series of experiences into a narrative. Things in life make sense, it stitches into a pattern with you as the thread.

The power of reminiscence is so strong, in fact, that it persists into the later stages of dementia. As a mental health psychologist who works in nursing homes, I find that it functions as a natural tool for moderating low mood and negative behaviors.

And, let me tell you, I have heard a lot of interesting stories in the process.

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I once worked with a gentleman who would often scare the living bejeezus out of his neighbors in the nursing home.

He was overall kindly and a tad on the goofy side, which could be attributed to his diagnosis of the behavioral variant of Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD). Folks with this disease essentially lose the safety brakes that prevent normally functioning individuals from laughing inappropriately, acting out of anger, or controlling their basic impulses. Individuals with this variant of FTD can struggle with excessive shopping or drinking waaay too much pop. But, this gentleman didn’t have these issues.

His problem was that he could not stop picking at a wound on his temple. A tiny scab grew into a serious medical concern, and the part of his brain that would normally tell him to stop worrying the bleeding sore was offline. The nursing staff would tell him to stop, he’d express understanding, and then ten seconds later his fingers would be back up at the sore, all words of caution forgotten.

He wandered, too.

Unsuspecting residents of the nursing home would be eating lunch or watching The Price is Right, and suddenly our friend would be standing in their doorway, smiling like a red ghoul. Completely, blissfully unaware of the effect he had on people.

It was heartbreaking to see an accomplished man decline to such a state. He walked the floors of the home incessantly and resisted when staff tried to direct him back to his room. The nursing and medical staff could dress his wound, but the bandage was no match for his impulsive fingers. The risk of infection became dire.

When I began working with him, it was clear that his sense of reality was warped by the disease. He had lost his sense of time or the ability to form new memories. When I asked him where he was, it was always a different answer:

“I’m at home.”

“I’m at church.”

“This is a school.”

He was always polite, and he was always incorrect (at least according to my reality). What interested me, though, was why he chose the specific locations that he did. When I asked him what he did for a living, he told me as if it were going on right now:

“I’m a teacher, and I’ve got students to take care of.”

So I said, “Tell me more about that.”

We sat down, and we talked. No longer did I need to chase him down the halls. He told me what it was like to be a music teacher, instructing students on different instruments and serving in his church choir. With few prompting questions, he had a lot to share about lesson plans, coworkers, and his favorite hymns.

It was amazing to hear his story.

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How, though, could someone remember experiences from his life in such detail, when he could not remember what he had for breakfast that morning?

The answer relates to the nature of memory and storytelling. Many dementias will typically erode the ability to create new memories, yet the process of losing older, more established memories takes much longer. If your life is a book, dementia will rip out the pages from the back first and move toward the front of the book, where childhood memories are written down.

Memory also becomes strengthened through storytelling. When you create a memory, the brain files it away in a huge catalog of remembered facts and events. If it remains in the stacks, it’s likely to erode and become forgotten due to misuse — this, theoretically, creates new room for new memories. Recalling the memory, though, causes the brain’s librarian to find that lost file, polish it up, and put it back, good as new.

In the process of storytelling through reminiscence, our important memories are maintained. The more that we recall those happy experiences — those personally meaningful events — the more they are solidified and strengthened. That is why people can have strong memories about childhood and why they are preserved, even in dementia — they have been recalled so many times that they are now as sturdy as stone pillars in the brain.

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By talking to my patient, I was giving him cues that were helping him to recall his important life memories, and he was having a great time telling me all about them.

At the end, I approached the head nurse and gave my recommendation:

“Get that man a piano.”

The facility purchased a relatively inexpensive keyboard for his room, and as he sat at the keys his muscle memory kicked in. Unprompted, naturally, he played. No more skin-picking, no more spooking the unsuspecting neighbors. He had something to do with his hands.

He still continued the same behaviors but to a lesser degree. Each time he was found wandering or worrying his wound, the nurses would straighten him up and lead him back to the keyboard, where he would go to work. I don’t know if he thought he was teaching pupils or giving a concert performance, but it didn’t seem to matter. The enjoyable distraction gave his wound time to heal.

And for the record, he played pretty well!

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Overall, take heart that, even in dementia, we can still retain our important memories to some degree. Sometimes we just need a hint to remind us.

If you’re interested in exploring these ideas more, check out my new book available on Amazon: The Golden Rules of Retirement: A Psychologist’s Guide To Living Life to the Fullest, No Matter Your Financial Situation. Kindle and paperback editions are available now by going to the following link: https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Rules-Retirement

As well, stay tuned for my upcoming book, The Golden Rules of Life Satisfaction: A Psychologist’s Guide to Living a Longer, More Satisfying Life No Matter Your Age, scheduled to release on February 1st, 2024! Pre-orders for the Kindle version are available now at a discounted rate.

And, stay tuned for details, including release date, upcoming sales, and future books in the Golden Rules series by visiting my website: lifecanbegolden.com/

-Lee Penn, PhD