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The Perks of Being an Artist

Tag Archives: death

Engine #25

03 Thursday Jan 2019

Posted by emilypageart in art, death, dementia, family, painting, Uncategorized

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

acrylic painting, art, dad, death, dementia, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, grief, painting, painting of train, train buff, train painting, what to give a train lover

I started 2019 off the correct way: in the art studio. And it felt so good. I’ve been so busy and exhausted that I haven’t been painting much lately. But I took Tuesday off and just painted what I wanted to paint. And it was a good thing. And it was a bad thing. Because what I chose to paint was this:

engine #25_compressed

Engine #25 acrylic on canvas 24″ x 30″ $750  *links for purchasing the original and for prints and such at the end of the post

You know, ’cause my dad was a train freak. Next month will be the third anniversary of my dad’s death, and between that knowledge and the holidays, I’ve been missing him something fierce. About a month ago, S poppped in some of my old home movies, and I got to watch my dad in his 30’s – younger than I am now. And, for the first time since he was diagnosed with dementia, it made me actually feel happy to watch. I really enjoyed it. And then I started having nightmares about him again. WTF is that? I wasn’t sad watching those videos, so why did they spark a new round of “Dadmares?”

And now I’m struggling again. Every time I feel like I’m getting back to normal, thinking about him a little less and with less pain, I get thrown back in. And what I’m thrown into, more than anything, is those final, horrible days with him, when he was hurting so much and my mom and I couldn’t make it better for him. It just fucking haunts me. I worked so hard to make sure that I had as few regrets as possible as we cared for him following his diagnosis. I’ve dealt with enough death to know that regret that can’t ever be remedied is not something I want to deal with again. So I set out to do things right with my dad. And I did. I’m proud of how fiercely I worked to love him and advocate for him. But there wasn’t anything we could do at the end.

It’s not so much regret, I suppose, as just grief that I was so helpless to make his pain stop. Watching someone you love suffer for that long…it just stays with you. And most of the time, when I think of him, that’s what I think of. I flashback to sitting in the hallway outside of his room after about 48 hours of watching him writhe and moan, and just losing my shit while a CNA watched helplessly. I flashback to lying on his bed and whispering soothing things in his ear to try to distract him from the pain. I flashback to feeling so tired it made me queasy, and ignoring the death rattle for close to an hour because I just couldn’t make myself open my eyes and get out of the recliner one more time to check on him.

Here I am, three years later, still desperate to make his pain stop, even though he’s already long gone. I don’t know how to let it go. So for now, I’m just painting something that made him happy in the hopes that it’ll make me happy.

*Original available here. Prints and stickers and phone cases and t-shirts and such available here, here, and here.

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RIP Dizzy

03 Saturday Nov 2018

Posted by emilypageart in cats, Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

cats, death, dizzy, pet death, silly cats

I came home last night to discover that, Dizzy, the weirdest kitty that ever was, had died while I was at work. He’s was only 5 years old and had appeared totally healthy, so the vet suggested that he might have had an undiscovered heart condition and had had a heart attack. We’re not doing an autopsy, so we’ll never really know. But I’m so sad that I wasn’t there for him in his final moments.

A cat with that much personality deserves a fitting send-off, so I’m reposting my past posts about him. Please wear a belt today in his honor, and strut around confidently showing it off.

The Uni-baller

The Pitten Strikes Again

My Cat Is Defective

The Terror Within

He’ll Lick the Sick Right Out of You

Seriously, This Cat is Defective

My Cats Are Broken

Auf Wiedersehen

Someone Really Likes My Book

Dizzybutt

And one more video from a few days ago:

I’m gonna miss you, little boy. If there’s a heaven, I hope it’s full of wires and hair to chew on, and all the belts you could ever want to wear.

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Drunken Black Whirligig

05 Thursday Apr 2018

Posted by emilypageart in art, death, dementia, health, mental health, Uncategorized

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

absence of color, coping, death, dementia, depression, grief, mental illness, pinwheel

It hasn’t been the easiest of weeks. I’ve had a little too much down time. Appointments at the tattoo studio are few and far between since I’m still so new and haven’t developed a big customer base yet (hint hint: tell everyone you know to come see me!). So I’ve had a lot of time to think. That’s not always a good thing for me, because it leads to negative, cyclical swirling in my brain. It’s like my brain is a drunken whirligig of black and gray and more black and more gray. There’s an absense of color in my head sometimes.

I’ve had too much time to look at photos of the tattoos I’ve done and pick them apart and get mad at myself for them not being perfect. I’ve had too much time to worry about the probability that I’ll have to get a job soon since I’m not bringing in much money at the tattoo studio yet. When I’m not constantly distracted, I have too much time to focus on my body, which spends most of its time complaining about its own mere existence and threatening to quit. And when I get tired (which is always) and achy (which is always) and nauseated (which is often), and don’t have a decent distraction, I get little mini flashbacks of those final couple days by my dad’s bedside when I was so utterly drained and exhausted and ill and grief-stricken. And then, of course, I am again grief-stricken.

For some reason, the universe always chooses these moments to give me little nudges to keep me thinking about my dad. Lucky pennies left in the grocery store parking lot, dementia reminders all over the news, tv shows and movies where a parent dies, radio shows about grief…millions of little things that become an onslaught at a moment when I’m already fragile. I’ve cried. A lot. Which is embarrassing when I’m sitting in my tattoo studio room. Not the most professional. Thank god we have doors to close so I can hide for a minute or two and compose myself.

The thing that really gets me is that I’m still not missing my dad. I’m missing my demented dad, my sick dad. And I’m replaying his final days and trying to figure out how I could have spared him that pain somehow. I’m not thinking about him napping happily on the sofa with the cat, or hiking down the train tracks with him, or how he had a very particular way of eating yogurt. I remember those things, sure, but I can’t make myself focus on them. Instead, my brain goes to the hardest, most painful moments with him and replays them over and over. Those painful memories have become syndicated reruns, invading seemingly innocuous moments and leveling me.

I don’t know how to change my focus. I don’t know how to slow the whirligig down and add a little color. I keep trying to will my attention to happier things, like throwing colorful chalk dust onto all the ugliness, but the whirligig just blows the color all away again. I wish there was a way to scrub my memory clean of the dark stuff, because I know there’s color underneath. It’s there. It peeks out periodically. Sometimes it bursts forth and the blackness cracks and shatters and I can sweep it up and toss it out. But the black always comes back. And I’m okay with a little darkness; it’s familiar and makes the good stuff seem that much better. But lately it’s been overwhelming. I wish I could find some balance. Or maybe still have it not be balanced, but have the color on the winning team.

whirligig pinwheel

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Come Rain or Come Shine or Come Insecurity

18 Monday Sep 2017

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

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

anxiety, audrey ii, avocado, dad, death, dementia, depression, dreams, nightmares, PTSD

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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They’ll Never Have To, But They’ll Never Get To

07 Wednesday Jun 2017

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, karma, kindness, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alzheimer's, caregiving, caring for someone with dementia, coping with dementia, death, dementia, frontotemporal dementia

Last night, I found out that someone from my hometown who had dementia died. I had posted about him about a year and a half ago. I never did meet him myself, but I had some contact with his wife and daughter recently as they were making decisions about placing him in a dementia care community. Today, as they were moving him into the facility they’d chosen, he had a heart attack and died. And I don’t know what to feel for them.

I’m devasted for his family. It’s so sudden and so shocking. After agonizing over the decision about how to move forward with his care, it’s all just been undone.

I’m relieved for his family. They won’t have to watch him continue to decline, to lose himself. They won’t spend a fortune on a dementia care facility and worry that the money might run out.

I’m devasted for his family. They don’t get anymore sweet moments with him. No more hugs or holding hands. They don’t have the privilege of caring for him and protecting him. They don’t get to tell him they love him.

I’m relieved for his family. They’ll never have to tell him they love him and have him look back at them blankly, not knowing who they are. They won’t have to fight for him to get the care he deserves, or deal with dirty diapers or disappearing hearing aids or choking incidents.

I’m devasted for his family – especially his daughter, who wasn’t there when it happened and so didn’t get to say goodbye.

I’m relieved for his family. His death was quick – no nights spent in recliners by his deathbed, waiting for his pain to finally end.

There’s no good way for this whole journey to go. There’s no easy path. Dementia sucks, plain and simple. So maybe send a little love out to the universe for his family – and all the other families coping with dementia – today, in the hopes that it will ease some tiny piece of their pain.

Dad and Em at Bodos 10-27-14 2

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It’s Been a Year

14 Tuesday Feb 2017

Posted by emilypageart in culture, death, dementia, family, gratitude, kindness, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

anniversary traditions, ashes, cemetery, cemetery bench, cremains, death, dementia, interring ashes, moving on, pennies, penniesfornick, penny, pennyfornick, railroad, scattering ashes, terabithia, train

Sorry to have been missing for awhile, peeps. February 5th was the anniversary of my dad’s death, and I’ve kind of been hiding a bit. It was both harder and easier to deal with than I thought it’d be. It doesn’t feel like a year. A year. It still feels pretty damn fresh. To mark the anniversary, I went up to VA and met my mom out at the property we used to own. We’d okayed it with the current owner, who’s a really nice guy. We took some of my dad’s ashes down to the railroad tracks and scattered some there.

ashes-on-tracks

Then we headed into the flatwoods that have a lot of meaning to me, and were pleased to discover that the current owner also thinks it’s a special place. He left the jars there, undisturbed, set up some chairs facing the creek and added a little fire pit. Mom and I scattered more ashes into the creek and hid a couple pennies.

ashes-terebithia
penny-in-terebithia

The next day, my mom and S and I went out to the cemetery to inter the rest of the cremains. They installed a nice bench under a huge old tree, and we put the box of ashes in and placed a penny with the word “thanks” written on it. When they put the top of the bench back on, we said a few words of thanks and placed a couple more pennies, then, since it was an absolutely gorgeous day, we wandered the cemetery and visited the graves of some friends and family that also reside there.

penny-for-nick-thankscemetery-bench

Was it hard? Yes. I miss my dad’s hugs so much – even the ones he gave towards the end of his life when he was a little stinky. There’s a finality to interring those ashes – the nail in the coffin, as it were. But there was also something healing in finally closing that chapter. There is nothing left to do now. There’s nothing hanging over our heads that needs to be done to take care of him. That’s a weird feeling, after so many years of making him our lives. There’s also some comfort in having somewhere to go if I desperately need to visit, though I doubt I’ll do that much. It’s time to move on.

So now it’s time to focus on the book. More on that soon. For now, though, thank you to everyone who helped us get through the last year since his death. It’s appreciated more than you know.

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Scattering Ashes

19 Wednesday Oct 2016

Posted by emilypageart in culture, death, dementia, family, Fractured Memories, gratitude, kindness, Uncategorized

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

choose joy, death, death ritual, dementia, finding the hope, looking for the light, miracles, overcoming obstacles, scattering ashes, unexpected gifts

I just got back from a 10 day trip to New England and back with my mom and S. As part of our trip, Mom and I decided that we were going to scatter some of my dad’s ashes in the same waters that we had scattered his parents in. My aunt and uncle and cousin (and her family) all live in Hyannis Port, MA just down the street from the pier, so we asked them to join us.

They didn’t currently have any boats in the water, so we just headed down to the end of the pier with our little baggie o’ Dad. My aunt had very sweetly picked up some roses so that we could sprinkle petals, too, and I love that she chose red – vibrant and cheerful like my dad had been.

ashes-1

ashes-3

We said a few words about who he had been, and I was blown away by something my uncle said. He said that, growing up, he had viewed the world as kind of a hostile place, and he’d battled through it accordingly. He said that it wasn’t until a few years ago that he’d realized what an act of courage it had been for my dad to remain so kind and loving. It was an excellent reminder to me that I want to be brave like that; to forgive the world for its cruelties and look for the joy and hope where it can be found. There’s so much beauty calling to us if we just pay attention. The trail of ashes and flowers washing away from us was so appropriate: life’s most painful and beautiful experiences mixing and mingling and leading us forward.

ashes-2

After we scattered some ashes at the pier, we walked down to the breakwater where we used to hide pennies when I was a kid. My mom and dad and I would walk as far down as we could manage over the haphazardly strewn rocks to hide the pennies, and when we’d return the next year, we’d hunt for the ones we’d left the year before in the unlikely event that they hadn’t been washed away by storms. And then we’d leave some more pennies in hopes that we’d either find them next year or give an unexpected surprise to fellow beach goers.

break-water-2

break-water-3

We sprinkled a few more ashes there, and hid a few more pennies, and, again, it reminded me to look for the unexpected joys hiding in plain sight.

ashes-4

ashes-5

Life will throw all kinds of obstacles our way. It’s our job to scramble over them and hunt for the little miracles tucked away, then leave some reminders for the people that follow behind us.

break-water-4

Dad, I wish you were still here so I could tell you that I’m paying attention and choosing to look for the light. #penniesfornick

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All The Muches

21 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in family, gratitude, humor, Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

birthday, birthday cake, bourbon, death, dementia, gratitude, loss

As you may have guessed from yesterday’s post, it was my birthday, or, as I like to call it, my bourbon day. Normally, I’m am ALL about birthdays. Love them. Mine or yours, doesn’t matter because CAKE. But this was the first one without my dad. Not that he was exactly “present” for the last few, but this year I couldn’t even get the bittersweet call from my mom with him sitting next to her and her prompting him into the happy birthday song. I felt his absence so completely. I spent most of the night before and most of the day of bawling my eyes out and pulling cat hairs off of my face because I kept burrowing into my cats for comfort with a wet face. Smart. But last night, I put on my big girl pants and went to dinner with friends. I love my tribe, y’all, even more than I love my bourbon. And it’s growing, which makes me happy. I like accumulating people to love even more than accumulating cat hair on every piece of clothing I own. And say what you will about social media, you have to admit that it’s fun getting all those birthday wishes and love from friends near and far.

So to everyone who helped keep me afloat when I just wanted to sink in the swamp of sadness, thank you. I love you so much. In fact, I love you all the muches. You can even have some of my cake if you want…and, I suppose, some of my bourbon.

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Disconnecting From the Pain

06 Tuesday Sep 2016

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, gratitude, Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Alzheimer's, coping, death, dementia, frontotemporal dementia, grief, grieving, moving on, pain, Tamoxifen, uterine cancer

I’ve been feeling sort of…disconnected from my life for the last couple weeks. It’s like life doesn’t always feel real. It’s not a scary feeling. It’s not depression. It’s just a quiet disconnection. In examining it, I’ve decided that it’s a lack of grief that I’m experiencing, and that’s a little disconcerting. After the pain of losing my dad in February – and really, for the 7 years following his diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia – life has felt a little too real. I’ve become accustomed to grieving. And I think what I’ve been feeling lately is a lack of that pain. This is not to say that I don’t think about my dad or that I don’t miss him. But I’ve finally reached a phase where the grieving is less acute on a daily basis. I can think about him without losing my breathe and choking on tears. I even watched the video of his memorial service and only teared up a little, and those were mostly happy tears at the wonderful things people said about him.

I’ve dealt with death enough to know that there are still days ahead of me during which grieving will surprise me. It’ll blindside me and send me reeling back to those dark days. But I also know that the time between the blindsidings will stretch out longer and longer. And I’ve learned not to feel guilty about it. It’s okay to disconnect from that pain. The person we miss wouldn’t want it any other way.

Just before my mom and I went on our trip down the Danube, we had a scare. She’s a breast cancer survivor, and she’d been on Tamoxifen several years ago as treatment, a side effect of which can be uterine cancer. She had some symptoms consistent with that, so there was real concern.When we got back, she had more testing and it was determined that it wasn’t cancer. Following the non-diagnosis, my numbness increased, because I think I had prepared myself so thoroughly for bad news, and I had a hard time trusting that she was really okay. It just seemed better luck than we’ve had the last few years. But it’s been a couple weeks, and I think I’m just now starting to exhale and trust that the universe isn’t throwing us yet another curve ball (at least, not right now). Again, I’m distancing myself from the pain I was bracing for.

So now I’m moving forward with a slightly more secure feeling, a more connected feeling. I’m getting accustomed to the new normal, which, finally, isn’t just another decline in my dad that I have to adjust to. I’m adjusting, instead, to life without the daily ache and agony of grief. I’m learning to let go. I’m learning to disconnect from unnecessary pain without feeling guilty. I’m moving on and feeling grateful that I survived, I am surviving, I will survive.

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Polaroid Memories

05 Tuesday Jul 2016

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, family, Fractured Memories, mental health, Uncategorized

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

death, dementia, dementia care facility, father, FLD, frontal lobe dementia, frontotemporal dementia, FTD

Since my dad died 5 months ago, I’ve had dreams and nightmares about him almost nightly. In the dreams, he’s always in the early to middle stages of the dementia and either he’s wreaking havoc or I’m trying unsuccessfully to protect him from something. As a result, I have not really wanted to go to bed. When I do, I tend to lie there and start remembering him, which upsets me, because I’m never remembering good stuff. It’s never the stuff from before the disease took hold. I have crisp, clear memories of just about everything following putting him into the dementia care facility, but memories before that are hazy.

Except “hazy” isn’t the right word. I was trying to explain this to S a couple nights ago. Since as far back as I can remember (which isn’t as far back as you’d think, which I’ll explain in a minute), my memories have been dark, like when you’ve been outside on a really sunny day and then go inside, and you have those couple seconds before your eyes have adjusted and everything is just too dark to make out clearly. I have little snapshots of images or events, like old Polaroids that are dark around the edges (and like my peripheral vision is gone), but they seem like just that – photographs, not actual memories. When I was in 6th grade, I fell off a horse and got a really bad concussion that caused me to lose my memory. I still knew who I was and that kind of thing, but my short term memory was affected for awhile (which made school interesting) and I forgot much of my early childhood memories. I have no memory of the event itself that caused the concussion. We jokingly referred to my life before the fall as BC (before concussion). Eventually, over time, I recovered some memories. I’d be in class in college and suddenly remember that I had a trundle bed and call my parents all excited that I remembered something. I think I’ve also made up memories based on old home movies and photographs, which may account for the dark, photographic quality of so many of my “memories.”

The problem is that my memories of my dad before the dementia are like that, too, now. I can remember little snippets of who he was or what I loved about him, but they’re too dark to grab hold of and examine or take pleasure in. They’re a concept of who he was, not who he really was. And when I miss him, I’m less missing him as he was pre-dementia than I am missing the child he became to me. When I miss his hugs, it’s not the lean, fit dad I had had, it’s the huge-bellied, slightly stale smelling man-child wrapping me up in his arms. I guess it was just too long a time that we had to know him as not-him, and those are the memories and images that are seared into my brain. Maybe I was so busy committing them to memory in anticipation of losing him completely someday that it made me forget him.

And so, when I lie in bed, I have to fight those harder images – especially the ones from his last few days. I try to do everything I can to wear myself out enough that I can just go to sleep, staying up later than I should so that I can collapse into bed and not have too much time to think. I did that a couple nights ago, with the result being that I felt both nauseated and exhausted, which was how I felt over the couple days that Mom and I spent in his room waiting for him to die. And suddenly, I was in a flashback. I was back in that room, with the horrible sound of him moaning and the oxygen tank pumping away, with his arms and legs seizing and turning purple, and I felt so helpless again. So fucking helpless.

I’m brought down by the thought of how much he suffered and of how he wouldn’t leave us – how he moaned a little louder every time I told him it was time for him to let go, and how he waited until Mom and I finally both left the room at the same time to die. That agony he displayed haunts me.

I’ve been trying to do that thing where, when you have a really bad memory, you try to focus on something happier, but those happy memories of him from before the dementia…they’re just so damn dark. I can’t focus on them because they’re not solidly there. I can think of other vaguely happier or funnier memories of him when he was more alert and I could still make him laugh, but those memories are still sad ones, so they don’t help much.

So that’s what I’m doing right now. Sitting here waiting until I’m so tired I have to go to bed, but worrying that if I get too tired, I’ll put myself into another flashback. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

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