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~ Because demented people need love, too.

The Perks of Being an Artist

Tag Archives: train painting

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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A Train For Dad

05 Monday Feb 2018

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

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

anniversary of death, art, Emily Page Art, Emily Page artist, faith, grief, loss, oil painting, painting, painting of train, tattoo, train painting, trains

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

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Emily Page

Emily Page

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