What happens when the world is full of things that seem to need attention? Matt frequently picks up objects, moves them around, and puts them in places that make little sense to me. Sometimes those objects don’t even exist in the world I see.

This story is part of the Through Matt’s Eyes series—fictional first-person narratives inspired by real moments in Matt’s life with Lewy body dementia. The narrative is grounded in actual observations; his imagined inner experience is an exploration, not a claim of certainty.

Something on the floor

I’m walking through the living room.

There’s something over there.

Something small.

I walk toward it.

A little piece of something. A string, maybe.

It’s on the floor.

I bend down and pick it up.

It’s very small.

I hold it between my fingers.

I look at it.

There’s another bit hanging from it.

I pull at it.

It comes along with my fingers.

I turn my hand over.

Still there.

I work at it some more.

This shouldn’t be lying around.

I carry it with me.

There’s something else on the table.

I reach for that too.

Now I have a few little things.

I need to do something with them.

Here, take this

You’re in the kitchen.

I walk over.

I hold out my hand.

You look at me.

I show you what I’ve found.

You hold out your hand.

I give it to you.

You look down at it.

You turn your hand a little, examining what I’ve given you.

Then you walk toward the trash can.

You throw it away.

There.

That’s taken care of.

I turn around.

There’s something else over by the chair.

I walk toward it.

The paper towels

There’s a roll of paper towels on the kitchen counter.

It’s standing on a metal thing.

I pick up the roll.

Now there’s the metal thing.

I lift that too.

It’s light.

I turn it around.

There’s a long piece of wire sticking up.

I carry it into the hallway.

I put it down.

I walk back toward the kitchen.

The paper towel roll is on the counter.

It’s standing by itself now.

I look at it.

I pick it up.

There’s somewhere for this to go.

I carry it with me.

I see something else.

My attention goes there.

The paper towels can stay here.

The drawer

There’s something in my hand.

A used paper towel.

It needs to go somewhere.

I walk toward the kitchen cabinets.

There’s a drawer.

I open it.

Inside are bowls.

There’s room.

I start putting the paper towel in.

Then I hear your voice.

“Matt, that’s not where the trash can is.”

I stop.

You’re talking to me.

I’m holding the paper towel.

The drawer is open.

“The trash can is under the sink.”

I look at you.

Under the sink.

I hear the words.

What am I supposed to do?

You say something else.

“That’s not under the sink.”

I look toward the drawer.

Then toward you.

“Don’t put the trash there. Put it in the trash can.”

There are a lot of words now.

The drawer is open.

I have something in my hand.

You want me to do something different.

But what?

I know you’re telling me something.

Your voice sounds different.

Something isn’t right.

I look at what I’m holding.

I look at the drawer.

Maybe I start to put it down again.

“No, Matt. Not there.”

I stop.

I don’t know what you want me to do with this thing anymore.

I was doing something.

Now I’m standing here.

You’re talking.

I’m listening.

But the pieces aren’t coming together.

You take it

You come closer.

You hold out your hand.

“Here. Give it to me.”

I look at your hand.

That’s easier.

I give you the paper towel.

You take it.

You walk across the kitchen.

You open the cabinet under the sink.

You put the paper towel into the trash can.

You close the cabinet.

There.

It’s gone.

I look around.

There’s something on the counter.

I move toward it.

The tissues

There’s a box of tissues on the counter.

I pick it up.

There’s a tissue sticking out.

I pull it.

Another one appears.

I pull that one too.

There’s more inside.

I keep pulling.

Now there are tissues in my hand.

The box is getting bent.

I pull at the cardboard.

It comes apart.

There’s another piece.

I pull that too.

I’m holding pieces of the box.

You’re here.

“Matt! Why are you destroying the tissue box?”

Your voice is loud.

I stop.

I look at you.

You’re upset.

I know that.

You’re asking me something.

Why?

I look down at the cardboard in my hands.

The box.

The tissues.

What am I supposed to say?

I was doing something.

You want to know why.

Why what?

I look at you again.

You’re waiting.

There’s supposed to be an answer.

I don’t know what the answer is.

Maybe I try to say something.

A word comes.

Then nothing.

You’re still looking at me.

I can hear something different in your voice.

You’re angry.

At me?

I don’t know what I did.

I look at the cardboard again.

It’s just cardboard.

I was holding it.

Now you want me to explain something.

I can’t.

I stand there.

The pieces are still in my hands.

You take them from me.

You pick up the tissues.

I watch.

I don’t know why you’re upset.

But I know something has changed between us.

A little while ago, you were happy to take the little thing I found in the living room.

You looked at it and threw it away.

Now you’re upset about these things.

They’re just things.

I look around.

There’s something else on the shelf.

I reach toward it.

Another little thing

I’m back in the living room.

There’s something beside the chair.

A little bit of something.

I pick it up.

It’s thin.

I hold it between my fingers.

I pull it.

I turn it around.

I walk toward you.

I show you.

You hold out your hand.

I give it to you.

You look at it.

Then you carry it away.

That’s good.

I look around the room.

Everything seems all right.

There’s something else over there.

I walk toward it.

The day continues.

Behind the Story

Matt frequently reaches toward things that aren’t visible to me. He appears to pick up strings, bits of trash, or other small objects, manipulating them between his fingers. Sometimes he offers these imaginary objects to me.

When I respond well, I accept what he’s handing me, examine it, and dispose of it as though it were real. In that moment, I’ve joined him in his world……

But Matt also handles actual household objects in ways I find difficult to understand. He dismantles tissue boxes, moves paper towels and their holder to unrelated locations, and sometimes puts used paper towels or other trash into drawers containing clean dishes or utensils.

That’s when my response often changes–I often respond in a way that seems to expect him to join me in my world, my world that makes sense to me

I correct him. I explain that the trash doesn’t belong there. I tell him where the trash can is.

And sometimes my frustration is more obvious.

“Matt, why are you destroying the tissue box?”

I’ve asked questions like that. But what answer am I expecting?

Does Matt even recognize that he’s destroying something? Does he know why he began pulling tissues out of the box? Can he explain an action that may have happened without any deliberate plan?

And what does he experience when he hears the frustration in my voice?

Perhaps he understands that I’m upset but has no idea why. Perhaps the question itself is bewildering. Perhaps he simply stops what he’s doing and moves on to something else.

We don’t know.

Lewy body dementia can affect visual perception, attention, executive functioning, and the ability to initiate, organize, or change an action. Visual hallucinations may also make objects appear real when they aren’t visible to anyone else.

We can’t assume that all these behaviors arise from the same neurological process. Nor can we be certain Matt experiences them as attempts to clean up or put things away. He may simply be responding to whatever attracts his attention.

But this exercise has brought something into sharper focus for me.

When Matt hands me an imaginary string, I can cooperate with him without questioning his perception. Yet when he tries to put a real piece of trash into the wrong drawer, I often expect him to understand my correction and act on it. I expect him to interact in my world in the correct way. Is that fair, is that right?

From his perspective, the difference between those situations may not be obvious at all.

I still need to keep used tissues out of drawers containing clean dishes. I still need to maintain a reasonably orderly, safe home.

But perhaps I don’t need to explain why he’s doing something wrong.

Perhaps I can simply hold out my hand and say, “Here, I’ll take that.”

And when I find him dismantling a tissue box, perhaps I can recognize that he isn’t necessarily choosing to destroy something. He may be caught up in an action that makes sense only in the moment—or doesn’t require a conscious reason at all.

Instead of demanding an explanation, I can help him move on.

The thing is…..these actions build and build and build…..sometimes it’s too hard not to over react, too hard to keep my cool for an extended period of time

That’s what I’m hoping these stories will help me learn: not simply to become more patient, but to inately understand Matt’s world differently enough that my responses begin to change.

For more about the purpose and approach behind these fictional narratives, read Introducing Through Matt’s Eyes.

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