Category Archives: Dementiaville

mother is losing her memory.

Dementiaville_24

“Where’s Joan?” Mom’s Residence is a locked home, but, given some 25 odd resident rooms and handful of lounges and dining rooms, it’s not surprising that someone with dementia can “disappear.” Rather than bother the shorthanded staff, I glance into … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_23

Through the 1980s, my mom painted portraits of Indian stereotypes. Most of the time she copied their faces from reproductions, aiming for expressive features, wisdom behind the eyes, capturing a somber stereotypical dignity in an Indian’s face, like that featured … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_22

There has to be something funny about dementia, and here it is: first thing when I arrived at my mom’s facility last weekend, my mother tried to sell me her french fries. “How much?” she asked me, displaying a cupped … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_21

Dementiaville_21 I’ve given up calling, as it seems to serve no purpose. Her aperture on the real world is the size of a pinhole. Inverted images, memories, might still be imprinted on the back of her mind, but she’s distracted … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_20

My mother was an anonymous artist.  Beginning when I was in grade school, school, mom got a part-time seasonal job as a hand-colorist of black and white portrait photographs. Most of her work consisted of high school graduation photographs—which she … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_19

Killing Her Softly Quetiapine. Alprazolam. Trazodone. Benadryl. Ambien. In six months in the facility, mom’s medication dosage has ballooned. Even in better-care facilities, adjustment to group living is a six-month benchmark. It’s a firm necessity, and, at times, a deal-breaker. … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_18

Back in Wisconsin for July 4th, t has been a difficult few days. Mom wiped herself and got poo on her hand again today. At the doctor’s office, she had a fit and called everyone a bitch and said ‘lets … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_17

June 25th. I unconsciously dialed mom’s phone number tonight, six months after we’ve disconnected her line. Drenched by end-of-day fatigue, I let my fingers hijack the touch-tone and punch 226-5946. Even though it’s been half a year, I haven’t memorized … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_16

The symbolism of cracked marbles woke me in the middle of the night. Mom’s years nurturing us as Cub Scouts, Brownies, and Girl Scouts rushed in, as a recollection of our Saturday afternoon crafts sessions. My brother, my friends, and … Continue reading

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Dementiaville_15

#dementiaville 15 I’ve had this recurring dream in which I discover an auditorium-sized room in my apartment or house. In last night’s dream, my kitchen (which was a compilation of several kitchens throughout my life) morphed into a concrete warehouse … Continue reading

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