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Tag Archives: grief

Engine #25

03 Thursday Jan 2019

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

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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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Drunken Black Whirligig

05 Thursday Apr 2018

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

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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

A Train For Dad

05 Monday Feb 2018

Posted by in art, death, dementia, family, gratitude, mental health, painting, sip and paint studio, tattooing, Uncategorized

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Today is the 2nd anniversary of my dad’s death. I still think about him every day. I still go through bouts of serious grief. I still picture those final, horrible, painful days with him as we sat by his bedside and watched him die. I still have nightmares. But, very slowly, I’m also starting to remember some small things from before his dementia, or at least in the very early phases of it. They’re not huge things, and there aren’t as many of those memories as I’d like compared to memories post-diagnosis. But they’re there.

I’m not going to lie and say that time has made this all easier to bear. It hasn’t. Life without my dad in it is lonelier. It’s a little less colorful. I feel less confident without him there to cheer me on. And I go through periods where the world seems bound and determined to remind me of him and make me cry. I want him back. Now. I want him to stop by and check on me, though I don’t even know if that’s possible. It’s hard not being a person of faith. Sometimes I think that his soul might be floating around out there, still tethered to mine somehow, like some big, transparent, elephant-shaped balloon. Other times that seems ridiculous. It feels like I’m looking for signs that aren’t really there. Or maybe they are.

In this time of transition in my life, I need him more desperately than ever to help confirm that I’m on the right path. Closing the paint and sip studio was hard, because it was a huge chapter of my life that he never got to see. And closing it reminds me of how many more chapters I’ll begin and end that he won’t be here to witness. But even if those chapters can’t be ours, they’ll still happen.

As we gear up to open the tattoo studio, I’m so sad that he’s not here to hug me and tell me how proud he is of me. I still need that paternal affirmation. So, I find myself doing little things to make him a part of things there. And that’s where this painting comes in. Long time readers know my dad was a huge train buff, so I created this painting for the tattoo studio lobby in hopes that I’ll feel like he’s taking part in this next phase of my life.

Steam Engine Wheels.JPG

Steam Engine Wheels 36″ x 46″ oil on canvas

Prints and other merchandise available here and here.

And in case you don’t already know: 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

I’m Still Here, Sort Of

11 Monday Sep 2017

Posted by in death, dementia, mental health, sip and paint studio, Uncategorized

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It’s been a long time since I last posted. This is partly due to laziness, partly due to being totally overwhelmed by life, partly because it’s the time of year when my depression usually kicks things up a notch, and partly due to the hurricane coverage that has sucked me in. A LOT has happened over the last almost-month that I’ve been an absentee blogger. And as I got farther and farther behind on posting, the harder it’s been to make myself sit down and actually write. So, because I’m out of practice, this post may be total shit. Apologies in advance for shitblogging.

As you may or may not recall, our landlord for our sip and paint studio decided to be a total douchefuck and double our rent. If you missed that post, go back and read it to catch up before you come back and finish this post. I’ll wait (I won’t really wait. I’m not typing this live, as you read it. I shouldn’t have to explain this to you people.).

So, now that you’re caught up, you’ve probably figured out that we did, in fact, close the brick and mortar location. I taught my last in-studio class on the 19th, and then we had 2 weeks to clean the space out, during which I also had to travel to Colorado to train artists for a new sip and paint studio for which we were doing some consulting. ‘Cause there was so much time for THAT. Aaaaaaaagggghhhh! Cleaning the studio out to close down the business completely wouldn’t have been that big a deal, because we could toss, donate, or sell most of the stuff filling the 1400 square foot space. But because we’re still doing mobile events and offering consulting services, we had to keep a lot of it, which means that we had to find storage for it all. Double-aaaaaaaaaaaggggghhhh!

We had to go from this (which doesn’t even show the back rooms which were also choking on art supplies):

full AA class

To this:

empty AA studio.JPG

The room where-art-goes-to-die was already packed to the gills, and we need the space we have in the buildings at the haunt to make more fun things like the creepy trees. So we had to spend a few days emptying everything out of the already packed spaces so that we could put shelving from the studio into them and re-pack them even more. I had to throw out some old art, which isn’t a happy thing to do, but, realizing that they hadn’t sold since college and aren’t really representative of the work I now do, I said “fuck it” and tossed the paintings out. I also renamed the room from “the room where-art-goes-to-die” to “clusterfucklandia.” (I think maybe I’m German or Dutch. I keep combining words to make a newer, longer words. I must have germandutchitis.) A local friend also generously allowed us to store a solid crapton of stuff in the space above his garage, which saved us a whole heap o’ trouble. So we worked it out.

the room where art goes to die

Except for the desk. My dad’s desk. We’d brought it down to serve as our check-in desk at the studio after we put my dad into the dementia care facility. Try as we might, we couldn’t figure out a place to keep it now that the studio is closing, and it was insanely heavy and damn near impossible to get into the back of the pick-up truck for easy moving. It shouldn’t have been a big deal, but for some reason, I got really, really sad at the thought of giving it up. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think that maybe, on a subconscious level, it was a way of having my dad still be a part of a chapter of my life that he’d never see in person. He was contributing to the studio, in a way. And now here I am closing that chapter, and it feels weird that there’s an entire chunk of my life that he never knew, and as I move forward into the next chapter, I won’t even have his desk along for the ride to make him a part of it. It’s silly. I know. It’s just a desk, not my dad. But I just can’t help feeling really sad that I had to let it go.

And then, suddenly, everything was sold or donated or in storage, and I had nothing to do. Except think about that damn desk. And my dad. And now I’m grieving hard again. And, of course, things keep popping up to ensure that I continue to think about it: References on TV; lucky pennies; someone he knew, while growing up, contacting me out of the blue because they read my book; going to a friend’s wedding at which her father said to me, “You know, your dad’s band was supposed to be playing for this,” and at which she and her father danced the father-daughter dance to “What a Wonderful World,” which is what my dad and I danced to at my wedding; cleaning out old emails and discovering a bunch from my dad from his early days with dementia; and on and on. You get the idea. And now I’m reeling a bit and have kind of shut down and hidden from the world for the last little while.

But, as we all know and sometimes like to pretend we don’t, life goes on. And we have plans. All the plans. The best plans. But those plans are for another post. For now, we have bourbon. All the bourbon. The best bourbon. And right about now I’d really like to get all the drunk. But I won’t. I need to save some of the drunk for you, dear reader, because I’m generous like that.

Let the Lames Begin

29 Thursday Sep 2016

Posted by in family, kindness, Uncategorized

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It’s that time of year, people, when my depression tends to take hold and turn me into this:

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This years seems to be no different. Partly, I’m sad. I just had my first birthday without my dad. Today is my parents’ anniversary. Next month will be his birthday followed by the holidays. So some of my inertia is grief related, but I need to be honest that some of what I’m feeling is my crankypants brain being crankypants for the sake of crankypantsness. Fun fun fun for everyone!

While I do need to be careful to take steps to stop the negative cyclical thinking so that it doesn’t turn into another long term depression, I’m also going to be a little more gentle on myself this year. When the mental fog hits, the funny doesn’t come as easily. The creative goes into hiding. The social takes a vacation. This year, I accept that. I will be kinder to myself. I will not beat myself up for slacking off a little. So I’m still going to make an effort to post semi-regularly, I’m going to make myself keep painting, I’m going to try to see friends, but I’m also going to let myself take some down time. So please forgive me if the posts are a little less frequent over the next couple months until I emerge from the cycle. If you’re a blogging buddy, please forgive me for not reading as many of your posts as I usually do. I promise that I still love you and wish you were here to hang out eating junk food on the sofa with me. If you feel like stopping by with some bourbon, I won’t stop you.

Disconnecting From the Pain

06 Tuesday Sep 2016

Posted by in death, dementia, gratitude, Uncategorized

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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.

Mondays With Muddy

20 Monday Apr 2015

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It’s still National Poetry Month, so I’m sticking with poems by my grandmother and will return to “Landscape With Figures” in May. Today, I give you one of my favorite poems. I love the line “Grief is more durable than stone.” I think that line influenced falling in love with the book, “Fugitive Pieces,” by Anne Michaels.  If you haven’t read it, you need to. The first half is exquisite and when I read it, my grandmother’s line reverberates in my head in waves.

So here is Beatrice Allen Page’s “DELPHI.”

Emptiness broods on the amphitheatre.

Time has gnawed at the stone tiers.

Weeds and moss grow in the chinks.

Furtive salamanders scribble

cryptograms in ancient dust.

Throngs no longer gather here

to have their heartstrings played upon

by Attic tragedies.

Yet, a somber chorus of women

circles mutely in time’s shadow,

their invisible hands linked in common woe.

The scuffle of their worn sandals

makes a sound like autumn wind

sighing through the age-old memory.

Masks conceal their faces.

Grief is more durable than stone.

Long before the theatre was built,

the moving choir had begun

in hollows of cypress-dotted hills,

on wind-swept plains, inside walls

and towns. And still goes on

down through the ages, throughout the earth

an ever-widening circle of women

mourning the death of warriors:

fathers…brothers…husbands…sons.

And children not yet born.