rest in peace

Recently, an episode of the radio program This American Life told the story of a son who knows of his mother's plan of suicide. She slipped into the grips of dementia and after caring for her own mother who also had dementia, she decided that she did not want to get to that awful point and wanted to commit suicide before that happened. She told her son and asked for his support, though not his active involvement to save him from committing a crime. The son tells of the whole process.

Believe me, I've felt the same way as his mom, I don't want to die that way. But would I be able to take my own life? First of all, once I noticed the signs of dementia, would I even have the ability to do it? It seems so, going by this woman's experience. But could I?

We don't choose the diseases or injuries that befall us, but we figure out how live with them and if lucky, become a better person by learning from the difficulties of coping with them. There are all kinds of inspirational stories out there. I guess I'm an optimist at heart,and I feel like at a core level, I could survive about anything that came my way. I might be miserable and depressed, but I can usually see a flicker of goodness and beauty in almost anything.

I'm struggling to see this with my mother's battle with dementia. I have gained so much by caring for her but I see nothing gained for her. She clearing wants to die and tells me on a regular basis. There are moments of comfort and happiness for her but no ability to savor all the joyful moments in her life. Her cognizant self is but a whisper. What is left is her corporal self and her soul and is cared for in the best, kindest way.

But I'm haunted by her verbal wish to die. Is it the dementia speaking, or a moment of clarity. I, of course, can not make that choice for her. But as dementia takes hold of my brain, and the odds are that it will, will I choose to succumb to this awful disease, that robs one of their humanity? I try not to think of it very often.

Here is the link to the This American Life episode, titled: "How to Rest in Peace".
There are two parts, and a warning: the first act is rather gruesome and tells about a son coming to terms with his mother's murder. Act two is the one I've referred to and it titled: "The Good Son".



This American Life, Episode 342

floated away

Forgetfulness

by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

identity

On a day where folks get to try on someone else's (or thing's) identity, I realize that I've been living my life like Halloween for quite some time. By drawing Mom, I've almost stepped into the aged skin of one who is wasting away. I understand how the thin skin collapses and settles into crevices around bones, joints and veins.

Lately, I've been working long hours to meet my design deadline of Nov. 1st. The designs are for ski wear geared towards teen-aged girls, to be sold starting in fall, 2009. To get into the mindset of the people I'm designing for, I try to immerse myself in the appropriate culture and life. The ski slopes aren't open yet, but I do have my daughter, Chloe, age: almost 13, to help. Music is inspiring and reading the teen magazines and shopping the stores help.

At 54, sadly I identify with Mom's age more. But I do know all the top 10 groups on the music charts and who Zack Efron is dating. Tomorrow, as I email my designs into the ski wear company, I'll be able to take off this mental costume for another year.

gossamer veils

The Museum of Modern Art is having an exhibit of Georges Seurat's drawings, which I read about this morning. With conte crayon in hand I attempted to draw with no success. But it was enjoyable and I'll continue trying. When I showed Mom the drawing, she said, "I have no idea who that man is". I think that means she wasn't thrilled with my attempt. We're in agreement on that.

Below are some exceptional drawings by Seurat. From the New York Times: The quickness and the command of form, human and otherwise, that emerges from the sketchbooks dazzle in part because so little is known about Seurat. He died in diphtheria in 1891, after barely a decade of mature work. He was only 31. Even artists as famously transient as Raphael, Caravaggio and van Gogh made it to their late 30s. One who died younger is worth noting here: Masaccio, the 15th-century Florentine master credited with nailing down the vanishing point of one-point perspective, thus getting the High Renaissance rolling. Western painting’s ensuing exploration of pictorial space lasted more than three centuries, and Seurat’s art stands as one of its conclusions.

But as this exhibition emphasizes, Seurat first formulated his ideas about color and atmosphere on paper, in drawing, working in black and white. Applying his beloved black conté crayon to the specially textured Michallet paper that he almost always used, he created an impressive tonal range of velvety blacks, gossamer veils, crazy all-over scribbles, porous grids, methodical cross hatchings and uncrossed hatchings.

It could be argued that the future that Seurat helped create for pictorial space and figurative art did not really flower until near the end of the 20th century, when Conceptual art interrupted the linear march of abstraction and reopened all mediums to narrative. It is now more widely accepted that representation and abstraction can coexist within a work of art. Really, they can’t live without each other, and never have, as Seurat so sublimely affirms.



Seurat, Drawing His Way To the Grande Jatte, New York Times, 10-26-07

patchwork

Getting Mom sitting up in a wheelchair is becoming less of an option. Her neck muscles are weakened and she detests being moved in any way. We'll try from time to time, but for now, she will stay in bed.

With this in mind, I rearranged her room so that she is able to look out her window, which she seems to enjoy. And now there is a family friendship quilt hanging on the wall that faces directly in front of her. She soaked it in and spent a considerable amount of time studying it. The love that went into making it (by family and friends in 1939) is pouring out to her, I believe.

make it real

A quick sketch. We're meeting this morning with the nurse from Hospice to readmit Mom. I've learned a lot with this whole on/off process with hospice. With the philosophy of care for Mom to provide comfort, not to drag her to the emergency room once again if she gets an infection of something worse, hospice is the appropriate service. It's a bit unclear why she was taken off but I'm thankful for this wonderful service provided by caring people.

Here's a real treat, so if time allows check out this amazing blog by Richard Johnson. He's a Canadian artist that traveled to Afghanistan for the National Post newspaper. Sometimes it seems like we've forgotten about all the people serving in this war zone and his blog and gorgeous drawings make it real for me. The drawings bring me closer to the people of Afghanistan and the soldiers than photos would.




Here is a link to the blog:

Kandahar Journal

fresh perspective

There is something off in this drawing. I can't figure it out. Usually, if I put the drawing away for a few weeks and look at it with fresh eyes, it becomes obvious. That's true with problems in general. Ah, nothing like fresh perspective.

Last night, Mom lay with her hands clenched, crossed at the wrist on her chest. Like an Egyptian mummy. She's been perspiring quite a bit but running an average temperature. She doesn't look good. I'm worried. But she continues to amaze me with her ability to pull through. If she hadn't smoked a gazillion cigarettes a day, she would have probably lived to be 150. One good thing about dementia, it makes quitting smoking easy. She tried for years to quit, then finally gave up and enjoyed smoking. When she moved in with me, I slapped on a patch and she didn't remember that she'd ever smoked.