Teens pierce cloudy world of Alzheimer's patients

Genevieve Turcott's short hair is kept clean and brushed back from her face. Her fingernails wear a fresh coat of rosy polish. A Christmas tree glows in the living room where she and a dozen of her neighbors rest on wide chairs and couches upholstered in stain-resistant fabrics. A few workers in uniforms flit about doing chores: chopping lettuce for supper, supervising a painting project and making sure residents stay clean and comfortable.This is some of the best care money can buy for Alzheimer's patients.But there's no price tag on the love and energy that four high school students and their counselor bring once a week to the Bergen County residence.

Arriving from Demarest's Northern Valley Regional at 3 p.m. every Thursday, they infuse Potomac Homes in Hillsdale with a shot of adrenaline.There are high-pitched greetings, hugs and kisses and warm handshakes. The visits are part of a study to determine whether one-on-one attention can improve the quality of life for Alzheimer's patients while relieving stress on family caregivers and paid staff. Though preliminary results have been inconclusive, everyone involved feels the added attention has obvious benefits. Each week's introduction is as if it's the first. Turcott, who is 90, lives moment to moment, her jumbled brain unable to retain short-term details. She mistakes photographs of grandchildren for her own children before they grew up.

"Wh-wh-where are you from? School?" she asks her assigned buddy, Linda Young, several times during the two hours they spend chatting and making a picture frame from ice cream sticks and glitter.Still, the novelty of each moment does not diminish Turcott's enjoyment."This was all very interesting, meeting all the different people," she said. "It's a big change and an interesting one to meet people and have a project like this." Program director Jeffrey Robbins, a social worker from Boston, believes Turcott's reaction can be duplicated elsewhere. "When a person is placed in an institutional setting, the one thing they need the most is what they get the least _ an emotional connection to another person," he said.

The community-based program, and an accompanying study based on it, were conceived and developed by Robbins' father, Stanley, a doctor at Brigham & Women's Hospital in Boston, and Eileen Salmanson, a clinical social worker. Started four years ago in Boston, the program is in its second year in New Jersey. Alzheimer's is a disease that can tear apart relationships. Patients can fail to recognize their own family members; some become abusive or prone to vulgarities.Even in high-end facilities like this one run by Potomac Homes, some residents rarely get visitors. But for the high school students, the difficulties of the disease prove more of a challenge than a chore. The students start the semester with four hours of training about Alzheimer's.They learn that patients are prone to nervousness and agitation, and how to make them feel at ease: Make lots of eye contact when speaking, use plenty of physical contact to communicate, and never respond by saying "no."The students embrace the techniques, and develop new ones. Their youth and flexibility seem to give them extra patience with the frustrations specific to the disease.

Adriane Miliotis fusses over 81-year-old Mildred Paolo, who slumps in a chair snoozing for much of the visit. Johanna Zipse asks 80-year-old Agnes Kuhn to show her how to knit. Kuhn has no idea that the girl in the yellow sweater has become a proficient knitter under her tutelage. Aymar Jean perches next to 81-year-old Rudolph Drobnick, hanging on every garbled word. Whenever Drobnick trails off, Aymar nudges him along, prompting him with new questions about baseball or lawn care. After the group assembles hand-made picture frames, Aymar stands and performs "Silent Night." Drobnick's eyes open wide, as if in a trance. Another resident in a wheelchair breaks her customary silence to sing her own version a few minutes later. Adriane moves to the piano, where her renditions of "Chop Sticks" and Beethoven's "Fur Elise" draw a circle of curious onlookers. Kuhn, once an accomplished pianist, sits quietly on the bench beside her. The students note their buddies' progress in journal entries that will be used in the study. Aymar documents Drobnick's ups and downs in his neat print. Between the lines lies the wonder of how little it takes to improve a dreary afternoon for his new friend. "It was awkward for the first couple of minutes. He wasn't very responsive and, at times, he would stare into space," Aymar wrote after his first visit on Oct. 19.

But by the next week, the gentle man with the great smile perked up. "When I got there, he actually got up to greet me. Today, he showed a lot of companionship.

When we went to sit down, he made sure I sat down before him and right next to him. In fact, at one time, I thought I heard him say: 'Sit here. This is where you always sit."'Aymar, who usually spends afternoons in play rehearsal, choir practice or other duties of the busy junior year, said his relationship with Drobnick has given his life added meaning.

"It really helps put your life in perspective," he said. Adriane, who used to fall asleep in front of the TV after school, said Paolo has given her added energy."I want to help her," she said, "I want to reach into her brain and know what she wanted to say."Before leaving, Linda and Adriane go with Turcott to her room to hang the picture they made together. Turcott is reluctant to see these friendly strangers leave. The girls say good-bye, promising to come back."This is a big treat when you all come," Turcott says, "Because we wake up again."