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Tag Archives: dad

Come Rain or Come Shine or Come Insecurity

18 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in death, dementia, humor, music, sip and paint studio, Uncategorized

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I’m sad, guys. I don’t know why I’m sad now. I just know that I’m grieving my dad HARD right now. I know grief comes in waves. I think partly that this is because I’m in a period of real transition now that I’ve closed the paint and sip studio and things have stalled with the next adventure. Insecurity in my life isn’t helping. I think it’s also because it’s the time of year that I tend to get a depression flare. It happens just about every year around this time: my depression kicks it up a notch and my brain starts telling me I’m a giant loser and a miserable person who makes terrible, cowardly choices, and the future is very, very bleak. Again, insecurity in my life isn’t helping.

I’ve been having nightmares about my dad again. I say “nightmares,” but they’re not really scary – just really, really sad. I’ve woken up crying several times. And my dreams always share one feature: he always has dementia. He’ll be in different stages, but he’s never just him. In a dream a couple days ago, I was dancing to “Come Rain or Come Shine” with him, and for a split second, he was dancing and interacting with me like he was normal and healthy, and I thought, “This is a dream, but it’s a fantastic dream. I’ve got to keep this going.” I very rarely am aware that I’m  dreaming, but I knew it this time and I was desperate for it to continue. And then, in an instant, he changed and I kept grabbing his arms and trying to force him and my dream to come back. I woke up so bloody angry that I couldn’t even remember him as my fully functioning father in a dream. Why can’t I think of him that way? Why is it always him in some stage of dementia?

Two nights ago, I had a flashback. I was feeling really tired and a little nauseated and lay down, and suddenly I was convinced that I was crumpled up, crying, in the hallway outside of the room where my dad was dying. I could hear the oxygen machine going and smell the nursing home stink. I could feel the carpet underneath me and the wallpaper at my back. PTSD, anyone? Ugh. I just want to forget those final three, pain-filled days.

So yeah, it’s been a hard couple weeks. And Wednesday is my 40th birthday. How can I celebrate it without including my dad? How can he not be here for it? He’s supposed to be here for it. I miss him so damn much all the damn time.

But there’s nothing I can do about it. And since I’m in a depressive cycle, I need to focus on the good things. I’ll share one with you.  This is the pit I discovered when I cut open an avocado for lunch today:

avocado pit

How cool is that? It looks like a tree. Or Audrey II (there was that total eclipse of the sun a little while back…). Or brains. There is an excellent possibility that I chased the cats around the house with it chanting, “braaaaaaaains.” I may have also tried to chase S around the house with it and he may have taken it from me and thrown it out when I wouldn’t stop. It may also have attracted fruit flies and I may also being currently trying to get them drunk/kill them on cheap white wine and dish soap. Hey, it’s not the worst way to go.

Life goes on, come rain or come shine.

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I Have a Face For Radio, So Tune In!

06 Thursday Apr 2017

Posted by in book, dementia, Fractured Memories, humor, interview, kindness, Uncategorized

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Hey there, shiny, happy people! On Saturday (4/8/17) at noon (EST), I’m going to be on Choice Radio Network being interviewed by Linda Burhans of Linda’s Caregiver Connections. You can read about her show here and listen live here. I believe you can listen to archived shows on her site (http://www.connectingcaregiversradio.com/), so if you’re not able to listen live, hopefully you can listen later.

As you listen, imagine me prettier and thinner than I am in real life. And imagine that I smell like I took a shower sometime in the last week.  God, I love radio. And imagine me sipping a bourbon martini glamorously while we chat. Okay, maybe a bourbon martini wasn’t a thing until now, but I trust you kickass people to make it happen.

I used to host a radio show in Virginia with my dad, and generally, this is what happened each show:

me and dad dancing at WTJU

And this is without bourbon martinis…

So expect good things. Hope you can tune in!

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Thanks so much for reading my ridiculous thoughts! If you’d like to see my ridiculous thoughts translated into art, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here or here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).

Your Face In My Hands

07 Tuesday Mar 2017

Posted by in art, death, dementia, family, gratitude, kindness, painting, Uncategorized

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Have you all been watching This Is Us? If not, stop everything and go binge watch it. Now. I’ll wait…See??!!! It’s the best show on TV right now. In the most recent episode, a couple of the characters hold each others’ faces to help soothe them in a moment of distress. I was thinking about what an intimate and loving thing it is to touch someone’s face. We do it to our parents, our children, our spouses. It’s like we’re embracing the thing that most tells the world who we are – the physical manifestation of our identity. Even if we don’t normally consider ourselves beautiful, when someone touches our face lovingly, we feel lovely in that moment. It makes us feel seen, accepted, valued. Allowing someone to hold our face takes trust and an acceptance of vulnerability. And holding someone’s face in our own hands makes us feel tender toward them. It makes us generous and protective. It’s a true act of love, probably even more than kissing.

Let’s call it a face hug.

Even more than a year after my dad died, I can still feel his face in my hands. That thought, while sad because I miss it, does bring a quiet joy. And it reminds me of how much love there was between us.

Face in My Hands

Hopefully, I’ll be able to get this up on Etsy soon and post a link for purchase. Until then, you can get prints and other merch here and here.

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Thanks so much for reading my ridiculous thoughts! If you’d like to see my ridiculous thoughts translated into art, visit my website, or follow me on Facebook and Twitter. Know a caregiver, or someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone with dementia, or someone who knows someone who knows someone else who’s a caregiver? Or heck, do you know a person? Well, you should tell them about my book, Fractured Memories: Because Demented People Need Love, Too. Part memoir and part coffee table art book, I recount my family’s heartbreaking and hilarious journey through my father’s dementia. Available to purchase here (this is my favorite way if you live in the U.S.), here or here if you’d rather get the eBook than a print copy, and here (especially if you want a hard cover copy).

book-cover-1

 

Buddha

04 Saturday Feb 2017

Posted by in art, culture, death, dementia, family, Fractured Memories, humor, painting, Uncategorized

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It’s been a tough few days for me. Tomorrow is the first anniversary of my dad’s death, and I’m missing him somethin’ fierce. Images from his final, painful days keep creeping into my head and stealing my breath, even though I thought I was past that trauma. I’ve been in duck and cover mode as a result, and wanting to just hide under a rock somewhere far, far away from the world. But that’s not how life works, so I’m turning to paint. With brush in hand, I’ve been tapping and dabbing and flicking my way through the pain, trying to find a more meditative state. It’s been hard, so I took the whole meditative, zen thing a little more literally, this time focusing on the Buddha.

My dad had loved yoga in the years prior to the dementia hitting, and he still practiced it for awhile after we moved him to a dementia care facility. There was a statue of the Virgin Mary in the courtyard of the facility, and every morning, my dad would go outside, bow to the statue and say, “Namaste.” Thinking of that now, even in the midst of all this sadness, brings a quiet smile. Namaste, papa.

Buddha.jpg

Buddha 7″ x 5″ oil on board $150

Original available here. Prints here.

Last Painting For the Book

13 Tuesday Sep 2016

Posted by in art, Fractured Memories, gratitude, mental health, painting, Uncategorized

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I wasn’t happy with the final image I’d created for my book about my family’s journey through dementia. We’re in the print layout phase of Fractured Memories, and it was irking me that the final painting was one that didn’t really fit with the others. This is the last chance to make changes to the content of the book, so I had to act fast. So this weekend between classes, I knocked out a new one that I think is much more in keeping with the rest of the paintings being featured.

It was a good reminder for myself that each day will be different as we grieve. We’ll have days where we’re fine, where the joy of the world surrounds us, where we’re at peace with the journey we’ve been through. We embrace those days as they come. But there will be harder days, too: days where it doesn’t feel like we can hang on, where we ache with grief, where we shake our fists at the injustices we’ve been handed. And we accept those days as they come, too, knowing that they are necessary in order for us to process the pain and move forward. We need to acknowledge both sides in life and not feel guilty either when we let go of the pain for a bit or when we feel like we just can’t cope and the pain comes crashing down on us. Both are necessary if we are to truly live and love in this brief span of time we get on earth.

we-laugh-we-cry

We Laugh, We Cry 20″ x 16″ acrylic on canvas

 

Stoopid University Magazine

11 Saturday Jun 2016

Posted by in culture, death, dementia, Fractured Memories, Uncategorized, writing

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Flipping through my alma mater’s alumni magazine (titled this time, “The Writer’s Issue”), I was searching for possible future contacts once my book is ready to promote. When I was done, I did what I always do: flip to the Class Notes in the back. I generally skip over the older people and see if I know anyone from the years I attended that are having babies, or getting married, or dying, or changing the world. While flipping to the back, my eye caught the bottom right corner that had my dad’s obituary. I remember submitting it to the university when we sent the obit out to the world, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to me to look for it, so it caught me totally by surprise. I hate that. I hate when it knocks the breath out of you for that second. I hate the tears that come unexpectedly. I hate reading the date of his death. 

I’ve been trying so hard to insulate myself from the onslaught of Father’s Day promotions, protecting myself in the bubble of my home. I avoid movies where people die. I distract myself with paint and stupid tv shows, my husband and the cats. It felt like a betrayal for the reminder to barge into my living room like that. 

24 hours later, I’m still catching my breath. Repairing the bubble. Caulking the seams. Hoping the next surprise will hurt ever so slightly less.

There’s No Crying in Baseball…Or Writing?

20 Wednesday Apr 2016

Posted by in art, death, dementia, Fractured Memories, gratitude, Uncategorized, writing

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I’m down a finger as I type this because I have a blood blister on the tip of my ring finger from framing a painting today. Try typing without using that finger. I double dog dare you. It’s rough. Do you see how I suffer for my art?!!! But I’m fighting through the pain (which really barely hurts but with which I plan to milk sympathy out of my husband when he gets home tonight) because I have to let you know that I’m 10 pre-orders away from hitting the 500 mark. Fer rillz. I was so worried that I wouldn’t even be able to hit the 250 mark, and we busted right through that goal in about 3 days. I could cry, but I won’t, because apparently when I start I don’t stop. On Monday, I watched Grey’s Anatomy and started crying. Then I kept crying through 2 episodes of Dance Mom’s. And kept crying while I fixed dinner and checked some emails. I’m not even kidding, you guys, I cried for almost 4 hours and I didn’t even know why. I cried so long I got dehydrated and basically had a hangover the next day. So I have resolved not to cry for the next several days. If I’m going to have a hangover, it should be from too much bourbon, not too much crying. But the real point of all of that was to say thank you to everyone who has pre-ordered the book and/or shared the link to the campaign on their own blogs and other social media pages. You’re helping me make a pile of shit into lemonade (the spiked kind). You make a girl feel loved.

For anyone stumbling across the blog over the next few days who doesn’t know what I’m talking about, you can read my book proposal at https://publishizer.com/fractured-memories/. Then order a copy and tell your friends!

Drive-by Pennies

05 Tuesday Apr 2016

Posted by in gratitude, humor, karma, Uncategorized

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So, you know the whole deal with my dad and pennies, right? Well, for the last few weeks, I’ve been finding lucky pennies in the road on my walks around the neighborhood. I’ve probably found about 15 pennies so far. The front yard of one of the houses I pass is adorable. Very whimsical, complete with a pink flamingo. These are definitely people with a sense of humor. So when I found the first penny, I left it heads-up on the post that holds up their mailbox as I walked past, and said, “This is going to make someone verrrrry happy!” The following day, I did it again. Before long, I had run out of room for them, so I started lining them up on top of the mailbox itself. I wasn’t sure if they just hadn’t noticed them or were choosing to leave them there. A couple days ago, as I went to leave another penny, I found them all gathered in a pile on the back of the post, which means they definitely know they’re there, but have chosen not to remove them. Which means I love these people. I can only imagine what they must have thought when they first discovered them. I picture them counting them and scratching their heads. I’m betting they think it’s a kid leaving them there. When I walked past today, one of the residents, a man, was about to climb in his car, so I had to walk past the house and then circle back around and walk slowly so he’d be gone by the time I got there to plant the next penny. I felt so sneaky. It reminded me of the bit Dane Cook did about breaking down a door, only less angry and violent:

 

The Memorial Celebration Video

01 Tuesday Mar 2016

Posted by in death, dementia, family, gratitude, kindness, music, singing, Uncategorized

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Because we were trying to pick a date that local musician friends could attend, we had to choose a Sunday, which made traveling for the memorial celebration difficult for many of our other friends. For those of you who had wanted to attend but weren’t able, our good friend, Sandy Snyder, taped and compiled the following footage. Again, we can’t thank everyone enough for the outpouring of love we experienced. It was truly wonderful and we are truly grateful.