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~ Because demented people need love, too.

The Perks of Being an Artist

Tag Archives: dementia care facilities

Dementia Care Book Recommendation

31 Friday Mar 2017

Posted by emilypageart in dementia, health, Uncategorized

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book about dementia, book review, dementia, dementia care, dementia care facilities, Rachael Wonderlin

I swapped books with an author of a dementia care book recently, and I’m relieved to be able to say that it’s great! It’s always a risky endeavor because you never know if you’ll like the other author’s book. Luckily, Rachael Wonderlin’s book, When Someone You Know Is Living in a Dementia Community, is well-written and she definitely “gets it.” It’s full of tips about how to have good visits with someone in a dementia care facility, how to deal with staff, how to keep someone with dementia happy and reduce their anxiety, and how to make interactions with them rewarding for you, too. Rachael has worked at several dementia care units and clearly loves working with this population. She’s a good problem solver and has a lot of patience and empathy. I highly recommend picking up a copy if you know someone with dementia or know a caregiver of someone with dementia. She also has a blog called Dementia by Day. You can buy a copy of her book on Amazon here.

Rachael Wonderlin book

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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).

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Buddha

04 Saturday Feb 2017

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

≈ 6 Comments

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Alzheimer's, art, artist, Buddha, dad, dementia, dementia care facilities, Emily Page, Emily Page Art, father, Fractured Memories, frontal lobe dementia, frontotemporal dementia, FTD, oil on board, oil painting, paint, painter, painting, Raleigh artist, statue

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.

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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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Emily Page

Emily Page

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