Last night, I watched the Glen Campbell…I’ll Be Me documentary on CNN about his struggle, and his family’s struggle, with Alzheimer’s disease. I don’t know how the critics will rate this film, but I loved it. Four stars. I remember watching him in the original True Grit with John Wayne and got upset when Campbell’s cowboy character died in the end. I also watched his TV variety show and would sit enamored at his lightning guitar riffs. Although my friends rocked out to heavy metal, Campbell’s song “Gentle on My Mind” was the first tune I learned on the guitar. Most people don’t realize his beast-mode finesse as a guitarist. Until last evening’s broadcast, I didn’t know he subbed as a Beach Boy for Brian Wilson for a season.

In this documentary, I appreciated his family’s willingness to share a glimpse of their personal life backstage, and I applauded the family’s love and courage to take their famous father and husband on one last road tour, exposing him and them to the risks. I identified with them. Taking my mom out in public in our eight-year dementia journey remains a risky business. Forrest Gump’s famous quip may be overused, but it rings true for this disease: “Life [with an Alzheimer’s or dementia loved one] is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you are gonna get.”

In Campbell’s documentary, we are drawn into the tension with his family not knowing what he will do in a concert. Anything may happen on the stage, including his wandering off it. Instead of polished performances, we witnessed something real and winsome about the mess of life, tinged with adventure. In the middle of his first song, the words on the teleprompter disappeared (Strange for some to learn that Alzheimer’s patients can read. My mom lingers in the later stages of Frontal Lobe Dementia, but she can still read. Weird.), and the band, which included three of his children, stopped playing and everything halted with a thud. Yet there was something wonderfully authentic about this performance. At one point, he couldn’t remember his daughter’s name, and she guided him with grace into the next song. They played Dueling Banjos together, and he fingerpicked on the guitar in perfect cadence. Music is an amazing language. In a small way, I could relate. Three weeks ago, I took Mom to an Amish song service they had at her residency. Mom sang loud and clear every word of the first two verses of Amazing Grace right along with the singers. She loved it. So did I. Seeing Glen play a duet with his daughter revealed an endearing vulnerability with no little bit of courage on her part knowing anything could happen.

Glen’s wife, Kim, shared struggles from home and travel life too. She gave a humorous illustration from their touring. Some hotels have doorbells on each room suite, and Glen would mistake these doorbells for elevator buttons. He pushed them. People would answer their door and meet Glen Campbell. Although most caregivers don’t have famous family members, we can identify with much in this documentary. In public and in private, we just don’t know what may happen next.

Cora and I always enjoyed taking Grandma Mills to the dollar theater. Long before Mom’s dementia appeared, we saw dozens and dozens of movies throughout The Kid’s middle and high school career and often preceded or concluded these movie-going experiences with trips to the local ice cream shop. As Mom’s dementia progressed, Cora and I learned early-on to sit in the back row as Grandma Mills began to lose all social inhibitors and talked to the screen without using an inside voice.

Last year, I wanted to see the critically acclaimed Lego Movie, so I treated Mom to the full price, big screen showing. I tried to get to the theater early, but we couldn’t find Mom’s glasses, which she assured me had been stolen. We eventually found them behind the bed, which she assured me someone had hidden there. By the time we got to the theater, the seats were almost full, including the back row, so we sat in the cross aisle, which led to an interesting evening. As the movie began, Mom let fly her unequivocal assessment, “This is horrible!” She let it be known in no uncertain terms that Lord Business’s behavior was inexcusable. In a loud voice she commentated on how awful for that bully (Lord Business) to hurt so many people.

“Mom, they’re Legos.”

“They’re hurting.”

“Mom, they’re toys.”

“Terrible.”

“They’ll be okay.”

“I hate this.”

“Hang in there. It has a happy ending.”

She got up to leave, but I still held an invisible tether around her. She instinctively knew not to stray too far from me. She stood up and walked to the end of the row, staring at me with arms crossed. When she saw I was not moving, she came back to her seat in a cross-armed huff. The kids in close proximity received additional entertainment from our dialogue to the abhorrence of a few parents, but I refused to leave.

“You’re not a good person,” said Mom.

“Mom, we paid fourteen bucks for this movie, and I want to see it.  It’s the doggone Lego Movie.”

She was not a happy camper, but to the confusion and consternation of the adults and children around us, she soon turned a 180 and started laughing and clapping at the scenes. Like Glen Campbell’s concerts, with Alzheimer’s and dementia loved ones, we never know what they may do; we never know what they may say.

“Scott, your sister never visits me. Never.”

“Mom, we took you to a movie and went out for ice cream. Rochelle just left. She has spent this whole afternoon with you.”

“What? No!”

“Yes. She just left.”

“Well, it’s about time. She never comes to see me.”

I love the Goodwill and have often taken Mom with me. One of our first visits after I became her legal guardian, she wanted to purchase a blouse that even I could tell would not fit. I told her to put it back. She cried out in a loud voice, “You take my Social Security check from me and won’t let me buy a $4.00 blouse!” The eyes of all in the store bore holes through me. We put the blouse in the cart. I learned my lesson. Now, she walks in front of the cart and puts everything and anything in it, and I walk in back of the cart and take everything and anything out of it. Since she can’t remember from one second to the next what’s in the cart, everyone’s happy…except when they’re not. A few years ago, Cora and I took Mom to the Goodwill to browse for Christmas possibilities. In the checkout line, Grandma Mills grew impatient with our waiting and unloaded a salvo of cuss bombs that blew up all over the store. And not just one, but the bombs kept dropping. Explosions and carnage everywhere. Boom! Bam! Merry Christmas everyone. Cora and I could not tumble with her into the parking lot fast enough, but by this time, we were used to this public possibility and neither one of us could stop laughing.

“What so funny?” said my mom in a much better disposition.

“You’re choice of words, Grandma Mills.”

“Thank you,” she smiled, “glad you like them.”

In the winter, I would take Mom to the Y so she could walk around the indoor track and get some cold weather exercise. She had lost all of her social adeptness, but none of her social judgments. The indoor track had two lanes: one for walkers and one for joggers. As people passed us, Mom expressed her immediate observations at above normal decibels. The following were a few of her words verbatim:

“She’s a young pup.” (Pause.) “A fat, young pup.”

“Holy mackerel, Andy! She’s half dressed.”

“Wow. He’s a big one. Scott, look how fat he is,” pointing at a gentleman who just passed us and was still only a few feet away.

“Whoa, Nelly. Get a load of that one! Do you see what I see?” She chuckled and pointed. If the person looked back, she would continue to point as if to say, “Yes, you honey.”

And since Mom has dementia and forgets immediately, when these people walked or jogged passed us again, she was seeing them for the first time and treated them to another verbal barrage.

We also walked on the outdoor YMCA 1½ mile trail, where people could jog or bike in either direction, and as a few attractive ladies walked or jogged toward us, more than once, Mom put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Hey Scott, there’s one for you. Hubba hubba.”

One time she put both hands on my shoulders as if to hold me back and said, “Whoa. Down boy,” panting like a dog with a Cheshire cat smile.

Awkward.

Of course, I would tell her to keep her voice down or not to make such inappropriate comments or gestures, and she would say with sincerity, “Oh, okay, sorry.” But twenty seconds or twenty feet later, she would forget and take off again.

Mom’s ability to articulate her words has diminished and these humorous, but uncomfortable scenarios are no longer a concern. Now, the awkwardness is she will speak to someone and end her sentences in gibberish. They will smile, and I will smile and finish what she may be trying to say. Despite the stares and inelegant situations, I’m glad Mom continues to enjoy walks and movies and ice cream and activities. I suppose it’s the whole quality of life thing, which is another reason why I admire what Glen Campbell’s family did arranging his Goodbye tour. In the documentary, one doctor stated that Glen continued to do better than expected cognitively because his family kept him active.

Regardless of how the critics respond to the Glen Campbell… I’ll be Me documentary, I’m a fan. I respect the true grit of his children and wife. Instead of quarantining him to guard his reputation as a singer, songwriter, musician and entertainer, they amplify his legacy by giving people a glimpse at the unpredictable and rough rode for those who travel with this disease. His kids give their dad one last ride into the sunset. They raise awareness for this slow raging illness, which if we live long enough, many will have to face. For those of us already on this journey and not close to being famous, we can feel a kindred spirit as fellow travelers with the Campbell family. I say, “Well done.  Thanks.”