Tag Archives: writing

How To Center Care on Story

Storybook Image

This month, Pauletta Hansel and I will offer a Cincinnati-based workshop for professional caregivers in the dementia field. While attendees will earn CEUs, they will also earn something else. Respect for not just the person in their care, but also for the stories surrounding that person. The narratives that have kept that person afloat these many years. The love inside each of those arcs.

In the past, we have offered writing workshops for caregivers and for individuals experiencing dementia.

This workshop will allow individuals to observe at the person in their care as in the whole, what is seen and unseen.

Read more about past workshops or read Pauletta’s writings on “why write about dementia.”

We look forward to seeing you at any of our workshops. If you would like more information on offering workshops where you live, email me at amjwick@gmail.com.

 

Writing Workshop for Pros 2018 FINAL-page-001

 

 

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In Her (Virtual) Shoes

IMG-5963Rubbing hands in the drafty Roh’s Café, my fellow writers scribbled across blank pages, responding to a prompt related to Connor Oberst’s Desert Island Questionnaire song.

I wrote down shoes.

My answer is always shoes. A byproduct of the trade, leftover from the family’s days in the business.

I would abscond with the perfect pair of sensible, but fashionable shoes. Flip flops I could sew out of animal skins. Boots, too. But those fuchsia suede ankle booties? I would escape with them.

A new writer to our circle offered a vastly different response. Russell wrote, “I’ve been thinking about VR in geriatric care…..how you experience reality….how deep can someone be immersed.”

And there we sat, awed by the magical nature of writing prompts. Magical in that his words didn’t surprise me. I too had been thinking about virtual reality, in particular, Mom’s, after observing her earlier in the day. Stranded as she was on another shore, I imagine Mom would carry only memories to a deserted isle.

I had been researching VR in the dementia field for a while, ordering Google Cardboard goggles to play around with the notion. In digging around through various site visits, I discovered the way back. Actually, The Wayback.

In the dementia field, social workers believe triggering memories of joy in one’s life can translate to a sense of peace in the present moment. Many care homes and family members already use various props and pictures to do so. Virtual reality extends that practice.

According to The Wayback website, the project’s mission “will be a series of virtual reality films that faithfully recreate popular, positive moments from our collective past – taking the viewer back to a familiar time and immersing them fully for a few minutes using Virtual Reality.”

Based in England, where most dementia work has been breaking ground, the first Wayback film was developed around the Queen’s coronation in 1953. Exact scenes have been recreated and a viewer can explore the entire experience, complete with graphics and sounds, from various angles using VR technology.

Any viewer can watch this film via Youtube on a mobile phone, or through the use of Google Cardboard goggles.

According to one expert, Dr. David Shearer, an expert on Dementia Care Matters and host of a TV series, Dementiaville,”We are all made up of our emotional memories. As we experience dementia our world seems to shrink – holding on to who we were is a way to hold on to who we are now. Anything that offers the opportunity to connect and be reached is strongly welcomed.”

The overall aim of the project is to create a series of films from various decades that speak to the lifetimes of those experiencing dementia.

When Russell read his words in the café, my world of shoes and his of VR collided across the community table. Long after our writing circle departed for our warmer cars, I reached out to Russell and shared with him about The Wayback.

Russell responded, “WOW. That article encapsulates a lot of my curiosities and hopes about VR. The idea of reliving something to jog memories, etc. I have a more morbid fascination with it too — this idea of losing oneself in VR…what weird psychological issues could arise if someone who is wheelchair-bound or something spent 12 hours completely mobile in VR, then had to come back to their not-so-spry body in reality? Would it be overall beneficial for end of life care? Or would it be depressing to have the option of VR but with the requirement of coming back to your real body?”

In my head, I too often shuffled through other sensational salves for dementia, such as The Wayback or Russell’s notions of losing oneself.

Through the Youtube app, I had watched the Wayback film and a few frolicking dolphin clips all with the Google Cardboard. I grasped the fascination. And I struck upon an idea that expanded on the vision of The Wayback.

When my husband and I toured Havana, Cuba, our itinerary included a social program visit to the Art and Film Institute. We learned how a stop-motion film was made. It was a dreary, but pointed, film about domestic abuse and the film won several awards. A stop-motion film is created via the building of a set comprised of objects and characters, animating the objects and characters one frame at time, and moving and filming them again. It is a long, pain-staking process.

That process tied into The Wayback. And to Mom.

Could I reconstruct a life from scraps of my mother’s belongings? I possessed Mom’s Dumas cashmere coat and her black purse with gold clasp, some old broaches and Christmas tree earrings, several of her Christmas decorations. I also retained her crème ceramic bowl in which she mixed her cookie dough, her flour sifter that still has a speck of flour from 2010 on it, and her cook book collection that ranged from the Joy of Cooking to The New Zucchini Cookbook (she had two). To that end, in my pantry, I stored several of her metal cake molds. Who doesn’t remember Mom’s bunny cakes? She baked shaped cakes for all of us, mine without the coconut fur. She baked a cake every year for Davis, in shapes ranging from Scooby Doo to Bob the Tomato and Larry the Cucumber (Veggie Tales).

With Mom’s personal pictures and objects, could I recreate an hour out of a day in 1975, when my mother would relish the quiet while all were at school and she turned out cookies by the dozen?

Or a significant Christmas, one in which Dad engineered his trains to run beneath the ping pong table or hung the Christmas lights in a straight line, or all Mom’s kids were at her home, having schlepped their bags from the far corners of Ohio or Oregon. Or an evening with all the grandchildren present and superimposed.

Could I reconstruct the two-story colonial home on Lincoln Street, the home that filled Mom with pride? Would she wilt under the weight of the expectation of having to clean it? Through graphics, could I rebuild the ranch on Ridgeland Drive complete with flooded basement, where Mom always proclaimed, as a family, we were happier because we were closer together if happiness meant three girls housed in one bedroom? Would she wait at the back door with Swiss Miss hot chocolate, after we sledded down the hills of the sanitarium?

Through the charmed viewfinder, Mom would be encapsulated in the life she lived. Would she find comfort there? Could she return from that moment to the one right in front of her, where she does not recognize those around her, and still find joy? How long would that joy last? And what would three minutes of stop-motion animation be worth?

Playing that line of thinking out to its bitter end, would the project travel back further in time before Mom chose Dad, or chose marriage over work. Would she have chosen otherwise? Would this leave her with a pang of regret to transport into the present? Would that be considered mind manipulation and who then becomes the POA for a mother’s memory?

Imagine an app where I could view that film of Mom’s time, as personal as a pair of worn shoes, form fitting, evidence of her life and style choices, maybe a chipped heel in a nod to journeys taken. A film that responded to a memory Mom would have carried to a desert isle, more precious than a pair of shoes.

Say that you were stranded on a desert island…

Shoes would still be my answer only because I’d name the VR app InMyShoes. But I would skip the fuchsia booties, maybe kill a rabbit or snake and sew myself a pair of sandals. And replay over and over Mom’s memories stowed away on that sandy shore.

 

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Filed under alzheimer's, arden courts, dementia, mom, Uncategorized

Organizing a Mind – Writing Our Lives as Caregivers Workshop

Writing Our Lives as Caregivers 8-2017 (1) (1)-page-001When my mother began her slow waltz with dementia, I was living in southern Ohio, dancing in new love and blending families. Mom still resided up north, near Cleveland. Each time I visited, I had witnessed various versions of a mom I didn’t recognize. Each time I drove back to Cincinnati, I was steeped in the shadows of what was soon becoming, or had already become, the darkening of her memory.

The story of how she got from there to here has been the subject of poems, blogs and novels. But the narrative of writing as a tool to forge a new relationship with my mother is a story that is boundless.

Not long after I accepted (maybe not really) Mom’s stage in life, I had been listening to a podcast about an Alzheimer’s writing circle, begun by a well-known psychologist, Dr. Alan Dienstag, and famous novelist/playwright, Don DeLillo. I was prompted to undertake the same.

One day, sipping coffee with Leigh, a good friend from Loveland, I mentioned the prospect. She dropped a hint into our conversation.” If you ever do that, let me know. I might have some time to help.”

Thus was born Found Voices, a writing circle for individuals with mild to moderate cognitive loss who lived at the Alois Alzheimer’s Center in Cincinnati, a facility renowned for their approach in caring for residents, and also renowned for their costs.

The program director not only welcomed my pilot program. She connected us to the executive director, who promptly paid us well for such work. Little did either know, at the time, I had proposed the program to alleviate guilt I was accumulating, while not traveling the miles to see Mom.

For three years, Leigh and I plotted and planned out themes for our circle: Flying and planes. Summer. School. Baseball. Home. Love.

The participants who were with us those three years became dear to us. Mary Lou, Willhemma, Betty. Dotti. We embraced their lives and their hearts. Whatever life those residents had left to give, they gave their all.

That work that propelled me forward to write about my own mother. (www.findyouinthesun.com) That work became the seed in a relationship with Pauletta Hansel, Cincinnati’s Poet Laureate, whose own mother experienced dementia. And the two of us arrived simultaneously at the intersection of art and life. We have decided to stay there a while.

Last summer and winter, through the Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati, we offered sessions for caregivers to write and share their musings and mutterings about their loved one experiencing Alzheimer’s or dementia. Or to write and share about the struggle in their own lives, as they contemplate a future without their loved one or a future that might closely resemble that of their mother’s, like I often do.

The poem below was excerpted from Pauletta’s blog, from our summer workshop.

The Alzheimer’s Association of Cincinnati has been enthusiastic in their support of our work. We will offer three caregiver workshops, two in coordination with the Memories in the Making program, and one trial run with professional caregivers, because they too have stories to tell, especially when they sit in for a family who can’t or won’t.

FullSizeRender (34)I have made a life out of my mother’s life. Not her past one, or ones, though I don’t know if she has nine or not. But the life I made has been created from her present one. It’s not the life I planned for either of us. My mother was the extraordinary organizer. She would have never tolerated an unorganized mind. But she tolerates me. And in the interim, I help others organize their mind and their love.

FREE workshops August 12, October 21 & February 10th. Sessions begin at 9 a.m. Each session is hosted at a different venue. Check the website for details.

 

This poem is a weaving together of snippets of writing from the participants of Cincinnati Poet Laureate Pauletta Hansel’s workshop at the Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati on July 16, 2016. Innumerable residents of Cincinnati are caring for loved ones with dementia —mothers, fathers, husbands, wives. Their experiences of tenderness and loss are all too often untold. Credit to Pauletta Hansel for the weaving. Read more.
For As Long As We Can: Writing our Lives as Caregivers

There is much more hurting than healing
in our lives right now.
An incredible sadness.
Robbed of all this time,
many years, with my mother.
I let go of the colorful gal I once knew;
now her words cut through me like a machete,
leave a hemorrhage like no other.
All this before I even sit down.
I want so desperately to believe
God has a miracle for my dad,
for my beautiful Gina, in beautiful Bermuda—
how I would love to take her again,
away from the tiny world she knows
—and the bitterness of that impossibility.

I hold to every word, to every syllable,
to every streak of black
remaining in Mom’s soft white hair.
I know I am still her baby girl.
I cling to my old memories.
I don’t want it to change, but it does.
But then, a conversation—mother and daughter.
Mom hunched her shoulders
and walked in a silly way, making me laugh.
She doesn’t need that jacket on,
but she’ll wear it anyway,
singing “76 Trombones” and I join in.
It takes her a moment to connect
my place in her room
with my place in her life.
I know she is in there.
She looked in my eyes; I let her love me.
Mom was back,
but not for long.
The touch of your hand—unnerving,
unbounded by time.
At Mirror Lake in Eden Park
the air had cleared,
the colors of sunset filled the western sky.
Tiny blue gills swirled alone in lazy Van Gogh circles.
Heads together, giggling like conspirators
and wishing for more.
I am still comforted by your touch.
Moments—come and gone—
that would not have been
had we not been present.
Engulfing moments unborn, unknown by us.
A salve to put on the wounds part—
the baggage of the day
and my beat-up body,
the parts that broke,
under the pressure of loneliness.
I breathe deep until the next time;
I sink into the car
and think about doing it again tomorrow.
The contrast—the leaving,
the spent memories so different,
so contrary, so final.
Or maybe not final,
maybe this too will change.
I hold her strength, yet I cannot find her.
The joy we had, the hope
and promise of things to come.
I want to believe.
I cling to these prayerful words:
Relax, you are safe.
I will be here for you—not forever,
but for as long as I can.

From participants in Writing Our Lives as Caregivers
with Pauletta Hansel, Cincinnati Poet Laureate, and Annette Januzzi Wick
Alzheimer’s Association of Greater Cincinnati

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The Dog Ate Pot (and Other Excuses)

fullsizerender-65Dear Mom,

As you know, Italians ingest a healthy dose of guilt. When I was a baby, you offered me biscotti for my teeth and guilt for my soul.

Now, as you have aged, I justify my actions based on a sense of loyalty – and guilt.

After your rash of infections and hospital rounds, I found myself rather inattentive to your needs. I wanted to write and tell you why.

  1. My dog ate some pot. No, really, he did. Enzo licked at a patch of grass in a little pocket park in the city. Later, his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He spent the night in the Veterinary ER and rebounded the next day.
  1. The dog’s stomach did not rebound. For two weeks, I cooked more meals for the dog than for Mark and me. I kept him on a tight leash or in his crate. I worked less when your grandson, Davis, was born premature.
  1. I visited while you slept and I cleaned your closets. You might answer, “That doesn’t count, because I didn’t get to tell you, ‘No, no, no,’ or crush your hands in a death grip while we walked around the hallways, or just throw cookies at you.” Yes, we shared a beautiful moment where I could just love you while Sinatra crooned on the CD player.
  1. I went to Washington to march. We, as a country, elected a president who likes to tweet about random things not related to his actual job of governing. “Tweel,” you asked once when you heard it on TV. “Tweel,” you asked again. Finally, I spoke into your good ear, corrected the mispronunciation, and moved you off the topic.
  1. I participated in boot camp. No, it’s wasn’t a military maneuver. Actually, I didn’t go away, just participated in online discussions about my manuscript, the one mostly about you. Did you know there’s a boot camp for everything these days? Boot camp opening scenes, boot camp how to ride a bike on city streets, boot camp baby food production, which I could have applied that knowledge for the dog.
  1. I stood up to speak out against sexual violence, and essentially, women’s rights. “But, we did that already,” you might question. Yes, but we should have been doing it every DAMN day until the violence ended, and its still here.
  1. I walked a few neighborhoods because I promised something stupid like, ‘I’m going to walk, then blog about all of Cincinnati’s 52 neighborhoods (www.gettinmycityon.wordpress.com) before the next mayoral and council elections. The math worked out to one neighborhood per week. However, I started four weeks late. And winter. And the dog.
  1. I visited you on a Saturday, though I usually visit on Sundays, and my timing messed with your biorhythms. You slept then too, and didn’t yell at me. The timing messed with my biorhythms too.
  1. I traveled to Florida to see your granddaughter, my niece. She needed connection to our family whether she liked it or not. Plus, she was adorable and her moon face and her, well, bossiness, reminded me of you.
  1. One day, I quit working on my manuscript to grocery shop. After shopping, I returned home. Later, I discovered your supplies of Gatorade and Lorna Dunes in the back of my car. I was horrified. I had wanted to see you that day. However, you, the thought of you, had slipped my mind.

I’ll return to our regularly scheduled programming soon. However, in missing you, I learned guilt was quite the motivator.

But you already knew that.

Love,

Me

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Writing as Daughters, Healing as Writers

Pauletta Hansel and I sat as facilitators, at the front of the conference room in the Cincinnati’s offices of the Alzheimer’s Association, facing participants for a workshop titled, Writing Our Lives as Caregivers. Both of us were grown daughters of mothers experiencing dementia.

But Pauletta and I had first known each other from a different life. One grounded in writing. I was new to writing then. And new to an organization called Women Writing for (a) Change. I was also new to grief. And single motherhood. And the arts, as my previous training had originated from a technical background and multiple cancer floors.

But I needed something to sink my teeth (or pen into) and found how much I not only relished the writing process, but speaking and sharing with others about writing brought about healing for myself.

It was by some surprise then, that I found myself nominated for the board at WWfaC, with Pauletta at the helm. I was even more surprised that she nominated me as an “energetic volunteer of the arts”, profiled in the newspaper. I felt rewarded, not necessarily for something I did, but for something I felt.

Years later, she and I were grounded by our mothers. But we were still writers. In fact, Pauletta as the Poet Laureate of Cincinnati. And I, a blogger on the topic of dementia, with a few smaller publishing feats under my belt.

In recent years, our individual work had evolved. The work was from us, but not always about us. However, as we began plotting out our circle, Pauletta had suggested we use our own writing as prompts to move participants towards their inside words. I was surprised. I had never used any of my work as a model for others to emulate. But I knew, as a writer, we must know when to show the way.

What was the best way to demonstrate writing about loved ones with dementia, instead of telling them? Yes, showing them.

Thus two of our poems acted as the impetus for many, many words in that workshop. Ironically, my best writing that summer day originated from one of Pauletta’s poems.

In the best of Mom’s moments now, she smiles. A broad, I know you because I have loved you, smile. It is that smile I always carry with me, for those “other” days, of which there are plenty.

I don’t recall her smile so much when I was younger. In the grainy photographs of Mom, images have melted back into the ink. A regular utterance on any family vacation was, “Ette, do you have the camera?” Or “Ette, did you get a picture of that?”

While she demanded my father carry the camera, change the film, and snap the picture, she never wanted to be the subject of his frame. She would duck away from the lens or out of sight.

If she became the subject, her smile often appeared forced, painted on like lipstick. Those were my memories of her in black and white, and Polaroids.

IMG_7217Ironic now, a shift in media has brought more vivid colors, more clarity as I capture her. In tandem, she smiles more. She has let go of a certain consciousness about her appearance – her hair, her nails, her style of dress. Mom’s smile now comes from a place deep within. When she first sees me, she lights up, even if in the next moment, she begins to yell again.

I experience my mother as joyful (not happy, that emotion seems fleeting). Her pudginess gives way to the youthfulness of a four- or five-year-old. This is how and when I remember to love.

As we closed the writing circle that day, more tears had been put to paper and more joy had replaced the tears. The workshop also brought a demand for more workshops like it.

In the interim, each participant was asked to contribute two lines to a group poem. Gifted with an ability to see patterns in others’ words, Pauletta crafted this touching group poem.

For As Long As We Can: Writing our Lives as Caregivers

There is much more hurting than healing
in our lives right now.
An incredible sadness.
Robbed of all this time,
many years, with my mother.
I let go of the colorful gal I once knew;
now her words cut through me like a machete,
leave a hemorrhage like no other.
All this before I even sit down.

I want so desperately to believe
God has a miracle for my dad,
for my beautiful Gina, in beautiful Bermuda—
how I would love to take her again,
away from the tiny world she knows
—and the bitterness of that impossibility.

I hold to every word, to every syllable,
to every streak of black
remaining in Mom’s soft white hair.
I know I am still her baby girl.
I cling to my old memories.
I don’t want it to change, but it does.

But then, a conversation—mother and daughter.
Mom hunched her shoulders
and walked in a silly way, making me laugh.
She doesn’t need that jacket on,
but she’ll wear it anyway,
singing “76 Trombones” and I join in.
It takes her a moment to connect
my place in her room
with my place in her life.
I know she is in there.
She looked in my eyes; I let her love me.
Mom was back,
but not for long.

The touch of your hand—unnerving,
unbounded by time.
At Mirror Lake in Eden Park
the air had cleared,
the colors of sunset filled the western sky.
Tiny blue gills swirled alone in lazy Van Gogh circles.
Heads together, giggling like conspirators
and wishing for more.
I am still comforted by your touch.

Moments—come and gone—
that would not have been
had we not been present.
Engulfing moments unborn, unknown by us.
A salve to put on the wounds part—
the baggage of the day
and my beat-up body,
the parts that broke,
under the pressure of loneliness.
I breathe deep until the next time;
I sink into the car
and think about doing it again tomorrow.

The contrast—the leaving,
the spent memories so different,
so contrary, so final.
Or maybe not final,
maybe this too will change.
I hold her strength, yet I cannot find her.
The joy we had, the hope
and promise of things to come.
I want to believe.
I cling to these prayerful words:
Relax, you are safe.
I will be here for you—not forever,
but for as long as I can.

I have high hopes the Alzheimer’s Association, and other organizations, will continue to sponsor similar programs that use writing as a tool to mend. As a society, we don’t need more pills, just a few more pens and poets who can lead the way through the heart, even if the mind has already let go.

I can’t speak for Pauletta, but in that workshop, we sent the participants off on their day not as spouses, or siblings, or adult children. Not even as caregivers. We sent them off as writers, in hopes they could mine with their words what the mind could not grasp.

Send an email to Annette Januzzi Wick for more information on writing workshops for caregivers, individuals experiencing dementia and other related topics. Information on her upcoming workshop held in September – From Moments to Memories can be found at Women Writing for a Change.

Visit Pauletta Hansel for more information on Cincinnati’s 2016 Poet Laureate.

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Filed under alzheimer's, dementia, healing, Uncategorized, writing

Writing and Healing as Daughters and Writers

Pauletta Hansel and I sat as facilitators, at the front of the conference room in the Cincinnati’s offices of the Alzheimer’s Association, facing participants for a workshop titled, Writing Our Lives as Caregivers. Both of us were grown daughters of mothers experiencing dementia.

But Pauletta and I had first known each other from a different life. One grounded in writing. I was new to writing then. And new to an organization called Women Writing for (a) Change. I was also new to grief. And single motherhood. And the arts, as my previous training had originated from a technical background and multiple cancer floors.

But I needed something to sink my teeth (or pen into) and found how much I not only relished the writing process, but speaking and sharing with others about writing brought about healing for myself.

It was by some surprise then, that I found myself nominated for the board at WWfaC, with Pauletta at the helm. I was even more surprised that she nominated me as an “energetic volunteer of the arts”, profiled in the newspaper. I felt rewarded, not necessarily for something I did, but for something I felt.

Years later, she and I were grounded by our mothers. But we were still writers. In fact, Pauletta as the Poet Laureate of Cincinnati. And I, a blogger on the topic of dementia, with a few smaller publishing feats under my belt.

In recent years, our individual work had evolved. The work was from us, but not always about us. However, as we began plotting out our circle, Pauletta had suggested we use our own writing as prompts to move participants towards their inside words. I was surprised. I had never used any of my work as a model for others to emulate. But I knew, as a writer, we must know when to show the way.

What was the best way to demonstrate writing about loved ones with dementia, instead of telling them? Yes, showing them.

Thus two of our poems acted as the impetus for many, many words in that workshop. Ironically, my best writing that summer day originated from one of Pauletta’s poems.

In the best of Mom’s moments now, she smiles. A broad, I know you because I have loved you, smile. It is that smile I always carry with me, for those “other” days, of which there are plenty.

I don’t recall her smile so much when I was younger. In the grainy photographs of Mom, images have melted back into the ink. A regular utterance on any family vacation was, “Ette, do you have the camera?” Or “Ette, did you get a picture of that?”

While she demanded my father carry the camera, change the film, and snap the picture, she never wanted to be the subject of his frame. She would duck away from the lens or out of sight.

If she became the subject, her smile often appeared forced, painted on like lipstick. Those were my memories of her in black and white, and Polaroids.

Ironic now, a shift in media has brought more vivid colors, more clarity as I capture her. In tandem, she smiles more. She has let go of a certain consciousness about her appearance – her hair, her nails, her style of dress. Mom’s smile now comes from a place deep within. When she first sees me, she lights up, even if in the next moment, she begins to yell again.

IMG_7217I experience my mother as joyful (not happy, that emotion seems fleeting). Her pudginess gives way to the youthfulness of a four- or five-year-old. This is how and when I remember to love.

As we closed the writing circle that day, more tears had been put to paper and more joy had replaced the tears. The workshop also brought a demand for more workshops like it.

In the interim, each participant was asked to contribute two lines to a group poem. Gifted with an ability to see patterns in others’ words, Pauletta crafted this touching group poem.

 

For As Long As We Can: Writing our Lives as Caregivers

There is much more hurting than healing
in our lives right now.
An incredible sadness.
Robbed of all this time,
many years, with my mother.
I let go of the colorful gal I once knew;
now her words cut through me like a machete,
leave a hemorrhage like no other.
All this before I even sit down.

I want so desperately to believe
God has a miracle for my dad,
for my beautiful Gina, in beautiful Bermuda—
how I would love to take her again,
away from the tiny world she knows
—and the bitterness of that impossibility.

I hold to every word, to every syllable,
to every streak of black
remaining in Mom’s soft white hair.
I know I am still her baby girl.
I cling to my old memories.
I don’t want it to change, but it does.

But then, a conversation—mother and daughter.
Mom hunched her shoulders
and walked in a silly way, making me laugh.
She doesn’t need that jacket on,
but she’ll wear it anyway,
singing “76 Trombones” and I join in.
It takes her a moment to connect
my place in her room
with my place in her life.
I know she is in there.
She looked in my eyes; I let her love me.
Mom was back,
but not for long.

The touch of your hand—unnerving,
unbounded by time.
At Mirror Lake in Eden Park
the air had cleared,
the colors of sunset filled the western sky.
Tiny blue gills swirled alone in lazy Van Gogh circles.
Heads together, giggling like conspirators
and wishing for more.
I am still comforted by your touch.

Moments—come and gone—
that would not have been
had we not been present.
Engulfing moments unborn, unknown by us.
A salve to put on the wounds part—
the baggage of the day
and my beat-up body,
the parts that broke,
under the pressure of loneliness.
I breathe deep until the next time;
I sink into the car
and think about doing it again tomorrow.

The contrast—the leaving,
the spent memories so different,
so contrary, so final.
Or maybe not final,
maybe this too will change.
I hold her strength, yet I cannot find her.
The joy we had, the hope
and promise of things to come.
I want to believe.
I cling to these prayerful words:
Relax, you are safe.
I will be here for you—not forever,
but for as long as I can.

 

I have high hopes the Alzheimer’s Association, and other organizations, will continue to sponsor similar programs that use writing as a tool to mend. As a society, we don’t need more pills, just a few more pens and poets who can lead the way through the heart, even if the mind has already let go.

I can’t speak for Pauletta, but in that workshop, we sent the participants off on their day not as spouses, or siblings, or adult children. Not even as caregivers. We sent them off as writers, in hopes they could mine with their words what the mind could not grasp.

2016 From Memories to Moments-FINAL-3-page-001Send an email to Annette Januzzi Wick for more information on writing workshops for caregivers, individuals experiencing dementia and other related topics. Information on her upcoming workshop held in September – From Moments to Memories can be found at Women Writing for a Change.

Visit Pauletta Hansel for more information on Cincinnati’s 2016 Poet Laureate.

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The Courtship of Writing

relationship-3(With apologies to my readers, as this piece was written as a distraction from Mom’s current hospitalization, and not about it)

 

First, you are met with a warm sensation as words wash down your arm, through your pen, then leak everywhere onto the page. Forget the runner’s high. There is a writer’s high that mimics the rush of dopamine, adrenaline and norepinephrine from falling for words. Writing from your insides spills out. You scribble furiously. You have finally found what your soul wants to say.

So, you write. At all hours. You eschew affordable housing workshops and Argentinian happy hours and sometimes, even your faithful, yet always pouting, Cavalier. You only want to be with your words. You have unleashed an ardor onto the page that no man or woman has ever before been known to capture. You cannot sleep because these words sprint instead of dance in your head. You rise, and inhale the morning’s first cup of burnt beans, rush to the door and gulp in the morning dew, energized despite so very little sleep. Your thoughts immediately turn to streams of sentences that must be imprisoned that very instant. Everything is RIGHT NOW.

The fever has you in its grips, infects every part of your being. You write about three dimes accumulated in the fountain you will collect in a mason jar, about your mother and how she clutches her rosary as if holding onto to heaven, about dahlias that dance in the northwest wind. There is not one part of your life that has not now been touched by the way you are in love with words.

All too soon comes the reckoning. You share your words, perhaps online or an opinion page. Your friend remarks, “I don’t get it. Why would you say that about an onion, stripping off years of the garden’s stink?” And you fight, ten rounds with your conscience. Doubts and regrets are suddenly keeping vigil with you at night. You wanted validation, not criticism. You wanted inspiration not condemnation. You wanted a soul mate.

You are in pain and thus perform an entire scan on your body of work. You look for bumps and bruises, or some internal bleeding. Anything that would have indicated writing had consumed all of you. You turn away from the Italian Ladies desk, the yellowed, torn page. You switch off the words that have been running like a spigot through your senses. Your synapses cease snapping. You stop receiving the long-distance appeals that originated from your desk. You will no longer be accepting those calls. You disconnect.

But there comes a time, when you are pulled back. The tug comes on a night when your friends are drinking margaritas with salt or listening to a Pulitzer Prize novelist read at an ancient library. You are entombed elsewhere. You cannot breathe. You can no longer say, “No.”

You return to your love, fall in and begin the long slow waltz with words again, more committed than ever. You begin to notice your writing has plunged into the deep end. You can mine a body for aches you didn’t know were there. You write about breaths last encountered and hearing by heart, not by ear.

Finally, you are ready to accept that long-held belief. You have secured something obligatory. This is the engagement you have been waiting to happen. The life you almost walked away from.

You are pronounced woman and writer.

But then, the anticipation grows greater, the commitment more difficult to endure. You are expected now to tend with compassion and craft with care. There are others involved now. You must think of them, and what they will think. You reflect on the days when you didn’t have to care what others thought. You knew, you just knew.

But this, this is the beacon you have followed, the elusive beam emanating from a lighthouse reachable only by rowboat or swim, neither of which you will attempt on a dark and stormy night as you once did when young. And yet, you gunnel and stroke, then paddle and butterfly.

And after ten years, your pace slowed, you find comfort in a bulging waistline rounded by poetry, prose, blogs and musings. You forget how thirsty you once were for words, forget how parched you once felt when you had gone days without words swirling round. Something else has satisfied a thirst once only quenched by words pulsing through veins.

In the long stretches of winter, you roll up in a cocoon of quilts, reach for your beloved, warmed by the routine rivulet of writing that is no longer frantic or frenetic. Words that no longer poke at you in the nighttime, but carry peace to you like a cup of lapsang souchong tea. Words that rock you to sleep.

 

*Note: While not about my mother, this piece was written as a distraction from her current hospitalization, so…..

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