When memory fails there is always Elvis. Really.

I work at a retirement village and I carry an Elvis purse. In the assisted living area, which consists of many dear folks afflicted by Alzheimer’s, dementia and other awful brain disorders, I have noticed a constant. It’s Elvis. For all the treasures of memories that may have been forgotten, these sweet elderly ones—they remember Elvis.

A lovely lady one day came up to me and hugged me. She kept pointing to my extra Elvis bag—the one I carry my paperwork in—the one where Elvis is dancing to jailhouse rock in black and white and his name is outlined in red. She pointed and smiled widely and kept touching the bag. “Elvis!” I said and she nodded vigorously and clapped her hands.

She kept creeping up and touching it and then shaking her head. “I know! I know. I don’t have the right words.” She frowned and wrung her hands.

I patted her hand and told her I knew just what she was trying to tell me, that Elvis made her happy a long time ago, that she loved his music, that he was handsome( I figured that one out when she blew my bag kisses.) She clapped again and smiled and hugged me and then went on about her business.

My purse catches the eye of many. Through the nursing pavilion I walk and random strangers comment. A woman in a wheelchair says, “Oh I know him!” and shakes her finger at me and rolls her eyes. Some hate him and some love him but it seems in most cases that Elvis is someone not easily forgotten.

Recently I made the mistake of putting my purse down in the lobby of the assisted living facility. I was waiting for my interviewees and kept having to run across the parking lot to the healthcare area since they kept showing up in the wrong place. When I returned, my purse was gone. I checked everywhere and could not find it. One of the directors contacted everyone whom might have possibly come in contact with it. “No one has come in. I swear it. I have been sitting here and look each time the bell goes off. I can’t imagine where it might have gone.”

I tentatively inquire if one of our residents might have taken it. Not accusing anyone of stealing, and I try to explain the reaction that Elvis has been getting. He shakes his head and says he doubts it. The nurses and CNA’s say the same.

I can’t seem to keep it all together anymore when I start thinking that my car keys are in my purse, my debit card, my single credit card, my ID and my work ID’s and everything that will be so difficult to replace. I go outside and cry for a little bit and start making calls to figure out a way to get home. I am utterly unprofessional with the ones I am to interview and thankfully my coworker had taken over.

When I finally composed myself and went back in the building. The director shouts, “We found it! You won’t believe where it was!” he proceeds to tell me how it was pressed up against a wall in the fake bushes so you could not see Elvis’s face—hidden away. Obviously the resident was someone who didn’t care for Elvis.
“I told you that somehow Elvis is a weird fascination to our folks. No matter what they may have forgotten, they remember him. And I think too they remember if they liked him or not.” I laughed, happy that I didn’t have to start replacing bits and pieces of my life.

It isn’t the only place I find Elvis to have some sort of healing property or soothing ability. I also work in a group home for seriously mentally ill adults. Here, we play Elvis and it does wonders to improve moods, especially mine.

I recently realized that whenever I am stressed out with the ridiculous amounts of unnecessary paperwork, my coworker slips the ”I Am An Elvis Fan” CD into the player and suddenly I get into a rhythm to get the work done. In the dining room there are feet tapping and folks are singing off key and a bit of magic permeates the air. The music lifts us all up.

I remember once when I was cooking in the kitchen I had Jailhouse rock playing. I heard laughing and stepped into the small mudroom where the CD player was only to find our elderly gentleman client dancing the jitterbug with one of the ladies and both were smiling and laughing and clapping their hands.

I have cut out pictures of Elvis all over the group home though I am sure that makes some higher up angry. But I don’t care. My clients find it amusing. I even hung my spare velvet Elvis painting in the hallway when one of the clients kept removing and hiding the picture that seemed to bother him. The Elvis painting never gets hidden.

There is something about Elvis that brings people back and maybe sometimes it simply brings them back into the living. That mystery may never be solved.


Monika M. Basile