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The Perks of Being an Artist

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Kick You in the Crotch, Spit on Your Neck Fantastic

28 Tuesday Jul 2015

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, family

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

Alzheimer's, asshole nursing home administrators, cemetery, dad, deer, dementia, dementia care facilities, father, FLD, frontal lobe dementia, frontotemporal dementia, FTD, graves, hospice, interment, Monticello, Thomas Jefferson

So, life kicked my heart in the crotch again yesterday. And then it gave it a paper cut and poured Mike’s Hard Lemonade on it, which probably sterilized the wound with the alcohol, but still hurt like a sumbitch.

The dementia care facility where my dad lives announced to my mom this week that, because he’s staging down again, he’s about at the point where they’ll need to move him over to the nursing center. Whatthewhat? When we moved him in, there was no mention about having to totally disrupt and disorient him once he got to a certain point. We were under the impression that he could live out his remaining time where he was in order to make it as gentle and stress-free a process as possible. And we’ve seen other residents do that. Now, suddenly, we’re being told otherwise. To make matters worse, the nursing side of the home is DE-PRESS-ING. Not that it’s all rainbows and bunny kisses on the dementia care side, but we’re used to it, Dad can roam as he’s able, the staff knows him, he (mostly) knows the staff, and it’s now his home. The nursing wing is dark, with narrow halls, and residents lined up in those halls staring forlornly at the linoleum or moaning at anyone who goes past. The only activities are meals and a small TV with room for about 5 patients to watch. And what’s even more f*cked up, is that there are residents still in the dementia care unit that are way farther along in the disease progression, so I don’t understand why they can stay but he can’t. So we spent part of yesterday visiting other nursing care facilities to see if they’re all as depressing as the one they want to move him to (answer: no, there are others that are much more cheerful). But we also learned that skilled nursing centers may not be appropriate for him since he doesn’t require any rehab and we won’t be doing any life-prolonging measures so he won’t need things like iv’s. So now we’re thinking we need to call Hospice and ask their advice about what an appropriate facility for him might be. Then, our goal is to tell the powers-that-be where he is now that, if he is not allowed to stay in the dementia care facility, that he and his dollars will be taken elsewhere, and hopefully when they realize they’ll lose that income, they’ll allow him to remain in his current situation. So cross your fingers.

As if that whole adventure wasn’t delightful enough for the day, we also went to the cemetery where my mom just bought a plot and a bench for putting Dad’s (and, eventually, our) ashes when the time comes. It’s a lovely spot in the cemetery below Monticello, Thomas Jefferson’s home. It’s right beneath a tree and has mountain views on either side. And two fawns were playing in the pasture near us. We also have some distant cousins and some family friends buried there, so we figure my dad can have a rollicking party when he arrives. Good company for eternity and all that. Hopefully there will be Scotch on hand for him. For some reason, the fact that it was a lovely spot and quite peaceful made me lose it. Or maybe I would have lost it anyway (this is assuming, of course, that I ever had it). I’m not sure that I can articulate why. But I pictured myself sitting on that bench, staring at those mountains that have always brought me so much comfort and peace, and just aching with missing him. And I started aching in that moment, and did that really attractive thing where you do the shuttering-and-sucking-in-air gasps, trying not to cry. And then Mom said, “It’s okay to cry,” which is just the worst and best thing, because you do. Losing him while you haven’t lost him is so damn brutal. Trying to get this stuff out of the way now, while it’s less painful and there isn’t a hurry, is probably a really good thing to be doing, except it’s still really f*cking painful anyway. Sitting there designing the bench and figuring out what we want to say on it, and do we want a plaque for his military service, and do we want his full dates or just the years, and are there any little decorative things we want on it, and do we want vases for flowers, etc., was just too much, and will always be too much.

So anyway, my heart feels a bit like it sat on the couch for 20 years and then went for a 20 mile run – stiff and sore and in serious need of good soak in the tub and a large bottle of bourbon.

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Sasquatch

24 Sunday May 2015

Posted by emilypageart in death, dementia, Eerieville, Haunt, humor

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

bush hog, deer, dying pets, fawn, Sasquatch, sick pets, trauma

So, I’ve been in a bit of a funk, which is why I’ve been a little MIA this last week. Watching the world’s-greatest-cat-that-ever-was-in-all-the-land get older and sicker has been really weighing on me. He’s had several trips to the vet and is, most likely, on his 9th and final life. He’s really only eating when I give him an appetite stimulant, which isn’t good. I find myself down on my hands and knees by his food saying, “Look Satch, Mommy likes the food. Don’t you want to eat the food? Mmmm, you would really love this chicken stew,” and trying not to gag at the smell. While this would be incredibly hard on its own, for some reason I’m linking all this with my dad, because we’ll most likely end up having to coax my dad to eat as the dementia progresses. We’ve watched the staff do that with other residents as they neared the end. I feel like this whole not eating thing is a taste of things to come (A “taste?” Did you see what I did there? See how I laugh in the face of pain? Cough.)

Today between teaching classes, I went down to the haunted attraction we’re building to bush hog the parking pasture. In case you’re not familiar with bush hogging, it’s like mowing with a tractor in really high grass. And you bounce a lot, which is really hard on your boobs. You could film it with close-ups of bouncing boobage and market it as farmer porn and call it Haywatch. All was going fine, I was inhaling large quantities of bugs and grass seed and pollen and such, bouncing around getting whiplash and choking on my own breasteses, and silently gloating that I was squishing all the fire ant hills, when suddenly I looked down in front of the tractor and saw that on my last pass, I’d uncovered a dead baby fawn. It was the tiniest, cutest little deer I’d ever seen, about the size of a cat, which immediately made me think of how I’m probably going to have to bury Satch soon. And I thought I’d killed the poor little thing (that was way cuter than Bambi, by the way) and immediately started bawling. Upon closer examination, it was not squished or cut up in any way, and I would have seen any parental adult deer bolt out of the grass, so I think it was already dead and I’d just uncovered it. But it was still awful. Especially when I had to dispose of it. It did not make for a pleasant afternoon.

On the plus side, though, on my way home from teaching tonight’s class, I’m pretty sure I saw Sasquatch entering Dollar General. I guess even Sasquatch likes a good bargain on his q-tips. I swear, I haven’t even touched the bourbon…yet.

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Crochet Shorts, an Epilogue

26 Monday Jan 2015

Posted by emilypageart in humor

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Tags

crochet deer, crochet shorts, deer

You know that post I did about crochet shorts? I passed a storefront tonight that had a deer covered in crochet/knit yarn. I’m pretty sure it needed some crochet shorts to go with it. It’s clearly cold without the shorts. Someone let the owner of the store know. Please and thank you.

Crotchet deer

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Emily Page

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