Family, Poetry, Real life

alone: a heartbreaking poem by 89-year-old lilly who lives with dementia

September 8, 2019: “Do you want me to read you the really sad poem I wrote last week?” Lilly* asks.

“Gee Lilly, I don’t know,” I say. “Not if it’s really sad.” I’m feeling a little melancholy myself.

“I’m gonna read it to you anyway.” Lilly has a mind of her own, no doubt about that! She and I have been playing Scrabble on Sunday nights for about year. I go to her place sometime between 7 and 8 p.m. and we play for an hour and a bit. She tells me the same stories over and over as we play, and I listen like it’s the first time every time.

Lilly is a fine Scrabble player, and I lose about as often as I win. She also has a great sense of humour, and is generally pretty positive despite her many physical challenges including spinal stenosis, which keeps her hunched over, in pain and using a walker.

I’ve come to learn quite a lot about Lilly, who will turn ninety on Valentine’s Day 2020. She has six children (a seventh died a few years ago), and ten grandchildren. Great grand twins are expected in November, and Lillly is determined to live until they’re born.

Lilly’s family members call and visit often, and although I’m not there to witness it, I’m certain at least one of them is in touch each and every day. She has other regular visitors, including me, and she goes to a full day adult program (which she adores), on Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays. She has LOTS of contact with family, friends, and support workers. But sometimes, because of her dementia, Lilly forgets about the abundance of social interactions she enjoys, and she feels lonely as we all do from time to time. When that happened last week, Lilly, who is a great poet and writer, put pen to paper.

As she read me the poem she had written, tears came to my eyes, and at the end, my heart broke with despair. Lilly gave me permission to share her poem (with a few tiny tweaks by yours truly):

alone

©2019 Lilly & Susan Macaulay

alone

i haven’t had a visit
i haven’t had a call
it really seems my family
doesn’t care at all

this is a special weekend
too bad that they don’t see
i’m lonely and I feel
that no one cares for me

i’m old now and I guess
i’m a bother to them all
but oh! how I am wishing
that one of them would call

i do not like the message
their silence seems to send
it comes through loud and clear:
they wish my life would end

Please don’t forget people who live with dementia, even though they may forget you. Call often. Visit often. Hold their hands in yours. Hold their hearts in yours. Tell them you love them over and over and over again, especially when they may not remember what you have said. It means the world to every one of us, young and old, living with a disease or not, to feel we are loved. 

* Not her real name.

©2019 Lilly & Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely via this post, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media or blogs. Thank you.

30 powerful things you could say to reduce anxiety and anger, and connect with people who live with alzheimer disease

don’t mourn me long

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Death & Dying, Poetry, Real life

euthanasia

Pia Roma sitting on my VariDesk in 2017. She was an excellent catssisstant ❤

June 26, 2019: I wrote this a month or two before I had to put little Pia Roma to sleep on June 29, 2018. I was in anguish for months, hoping she would die a natural death before I had to euthanize her so she wouldn’t suffer. Pia had been Mom’s beloved companion for about eight years, and then mine for seven after Mom went to #DementiaJail.

I still miss her by my side.

euthanasia

This poem is dedicated to everyone who has had to put a beloved animal member of their family to sleep.

©2018 punkie

euthanasia

your heart beats strong
as the hours grow long
softly you do stride
through this life
with all its strife
and troubles to abide

a feline muse
clothed in silver hews
with golden eyes moon-wide
you helped me write
through days and nights
lay patient by my side

and we played with string
ran around in rings
laughed until i cried
while disease within
like original sin
consumed, then health denied

though it’s humane
to ease the pain
when everything’s been tried
that you must leave
me here to grieve
sickens me inside

friends say i’ll know
when it’s time you should go
but how shall i decide
to cause you to sleep
in the eternal deep
as if god’s hands were mine

 

©2018 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

after i put them in prison, mom’s bff became mine

one little kitty’s top dementia care tip

7-part palliative care plan works (for people AND cats)

the paws that refreshes

 

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Image copyright: robeo / 123RF Stock Photo

Death & Dying, Life & Living, Poetry

eternal anguish

At some point in most dementia care partners’ experience they will find themselves on this battleground: wishing for their loved one the peace that comes with death, while feeling immense grief at the prospect of losing them. The resulting mix of emotions — compassion, guilt, longing, regret, sorrow and more — is exceedingly difficult to cope with.

This poem is about the heart-wrenching conversations one has with self and the powers that be at those times. It’s the second version of a poem i called “a daughter’s prayer to god,” which I first wrote in 2014, after Mom came “this close” to dying.

eternal anguish

©2019 punkie

eternal anguish

please take her lord,
oh no not yet!
i’m afraid
i might forget

how she smiles
and laughs and cries,
it’s not the time
to say goodbye

but I can’t bear
to see her so
perhaps today
is when she should go

is it selfish
when i wonder
how long before
she’s six feet under?

oh my god
don’t take her now
no, this can’t be
her final bow

let us play
another scene
in which she doesn’t
lay serene

a corpse upon
a broken bed
that’s not my mom
she can’t be dead

she’s the one
who gave me life
who saw me through
both joy and strife

don’t take her god
i need her here,
by my side
forever near

i promise lord
that I’ll be good
and do exactly
as I should

i won’t lie
or kill or loot
or disrespect
an older coot

i’ll love my neighbour
guaranteed
if only you will
set her free

to dance and sing
like we once did
when I was no more
than a kid

please don’t take her
oh no please don’t
i wish you would,
and that you won’t

i know deep down
it’s peace she seeks,
every day
week after week

she craves her home
amidst the stars
her life beyond
these prison bars

but when she breathes
in fits and starts
who will call
the funeral cart?

in this game
where life’s at stake
we’re helpless
to decisions make

it’s in your hands, god,
you call the shots:
undo this heart
tied up in knots

around the rosie
we will sing
lord have mercy
you are the king

 

©2019 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

a daughter’s prayer to god

don’t mourn me long

dying with my mom

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Advocacy, Life & Living, Poetry

a daughter’s rendering and remembering

November 16, 2018: I doubt I will ever get over the deep grief I feel each November 16, the day my mother was relocated to #DementiaJail in 2012. All I can do is try to process it in whatever way I can. This year, once again, it’s with poetry.

the rendering

©2018 punkie

the rendering

nothing more
could be done
all fault lay with
the setting sun

whose will it was
to force imprison
the one from whom
we’d both arisen

a deal had been struck
the year before
when no one knew
what lay in store

then came time
to pay the piper
fate took aim
fired like a sniper

shot her, then me
but not to death
left us bleeding
drained of breath

we struggled hard
for four more years
held hands amidst
the joys and tears

until the day that
she surrendered
with untold truth
for me to render

now i fight on
to right the wrong
of stolen voices
and silent songs

 

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

November 16, 2017:

when you’re put behind bars

November 16, 2016:

the day our best wasn’t good enough

November 16, 2015:

joys and tears throughout the years

November 16, 2012:

moving day

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Advocacy, Life & Living, Poetry

ascendants: awakening to where and whom we came from

Some days I miss my home and my mom more than others. I think about her, and my grandmothers, and my grandmothers’ mothers and grandmothers, and their grandmothers and so on.

Ascendants: those from whom a person is descended, or from whom she derives her birth, however remote they may be. Everyone has two ascendants at the first level, her mother and father; four at the second level, her maternal grandmother and grandfather, and her paternal grandmother and grandfather; eight at the third etc. Thus, as we ascend the various lines of our ancestry which fork at every generation, sixteen ascendants are found at the fourth level; thirty-two at the fifth; sixty-four at the six; one hundred and twenty-eight at the seventh; and so on. By this progressive increase, we have, at the twenty-fifth generation, 33,554,432 ascendants. 

And, ascendant:

“Thus, astrologers believe that the ascendant signifies a person’s awakening consciousness, in the same way that the sun’s appearance on the eastern horizon signifies the dawn of a new day

 

ascendants

This poem is dedicated to all those who went before us.

©2018 punkie

ascendants

the memory of you
sits by my side
like my own shadow
from which i can’t hide

you whisper in morning
sing soft through the night
everywhere, all the time,
and yet just out of sight

it’s strange how we leave
our flesh in the dust
while our essence lives on
in those whom we trust

each one of us comes
from the millions before us
ancestors who lived
on the plains, in the forests

they sailed on the seas
and travelled on trains,
to find a home in the wild
and give it a name

they carved livings from nothing
cried tears in the rain,
prayed for more sunshine,
sang life’s dark refrain

there’s no letting go
of those in the past
i’ll join them at sunrise
when i leave here at last

then we’ll be one
as we were once before
together in peace
in the vast evermore

 

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

i see you, i love you, i miss you

dying with my mom

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Advocacy, Care Partnering, Poetry

hail mary i need to pee

In March 2017, I wrote an open letter to Québec’s Minister of Health regarding the rationing of incontinence products in the province’s long-term care facilities. The letter includes a two-minute video, which demonstrates the amount of fluid required to fill an incontinence brief to overflowing, as I found my mother’s to be on numerous occasions. So far, a year later, I’ve not received a reply.

I’ve also written a short vignette on incontinence (based on my mom’s real life experience), in the voice of my fictionalized character Alzheimer’s Annie. Meanwhile, care workers in Ontario held a news conference and talked about how they had no choice but to force residents into incontinence. This poem is about that.

hail mary i need to pee

This poem is dedicated to older adults forced into incontinence. The shame belongs to someone else.

©2018 punkie

hail mary i need to pee

which way to the bathroom?
how and where should I go?
there’s no one to tell me
and no stopping the flow

I really am desperate
can’t afford to delay
“help me, please help me,”
to a young woman I say

“there’s not a minute to take you,”
she replies with a sigh
“i’ve got twenty more like you,
some near ready to die

“you’ll just have to wait
or go in your pants,
stop your complaining,
give up with your rants

“can’t you see we’re all busy
we’re run off our feet
that’s why we can’t let you
get out of your seat.”

“oh my goodness,” i say
“i’m in such a state,
to pee in my pants
is a shame that’s too great.”

“don’t worry my dear,
you’ll get used to it soon.
here the rule to obey
is you sing to our tune”

my bladder releases
it’s wet on my thighs
my cheeks turn red hot
my eyes start to cry

i want to go home
get me out this place
hail mary please save me
with your heart full of grace.”

©2018 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

understaffed nursing homes force residents into incontinence

20 questions to ask yourself about dementia-related incontinence

crazy daughter weighs mom’s wet “nappy” and writes open letter to minister of health about it

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Image copyright: robeo / 123RF Stock Photo

Advocacy, Life & Living, Poetry

dementia caregivers: a poem

I didn’t want to leave my comfortable life in Dubai to come back to Canada to care for my mom. It was a role I wasn’t trained for, hadn’t expected and was comletely ill-equipped to perform. But, like many care partners, I felt I had no choice. In the end, it became one of the most rewarding things I could have done at that point in my life. The hardest thing, and the best thing. A paradox.

dementia caregivers

This poem is dedicated to dementia care partners everywhere.

©2017 punkie

dementia caregivers

like frogs in a saucepan
they don’t notice the heat
they run round in circles
without skipping a beat

wake up early morning
don’t sleep well at night
cook, clean and cajole
and fight the good fight

few make the choice
they’re drafted instead
into roles that everyone
can’t help but dread

a loved one is helpless
what else can they do?
but dive in the water
despite having the flu

are you my daughter?
where is my friend?
i want to go home
let me out of this pen!

continual questions
impossible pleas
cause dementia caregivers
to fall on their knees

day after day
then year after year
they pray for a break
and then shift into gear

why? you might ask
do they do what they do?
this unending work
which may involve poo!

when you ask you will get
the same answer from many
it’s not for the money
’cause they don’t earn a penny

love is the reason
they give up their lives
for mothers and fathers
and husbands and wives

they couldn’t abandon
someone that they love
anymore than the sun
could stop shining above

then one day comes
when loved ones must go
rescued too fast from
a death that is slow

and so they are left
with hearts full of holes
grieving the loss
of their caregiving roles

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

https://myalzheimersstory.com/2014/07/13/an-open-letter-to-everyone-who-knows-what-i-should-do-before-i-ask-them/

https://myalzheimersstory.com/2016/02/18/dont-give-advice-to-people-who-are-drowning/

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Advocacy, Life & Living, Poetry

when you’re put behind bars

November 16, 2017: In a strange moment of foreshadowing, I took this picture of Mom and I staring into the mirror in the hallway of her big red brick house on the hill on November 14, 2012 . It wasn’t at all planned to feel like this, but whenever I see this picture I’m shocked at how it looks like we’re in a prison of sorts. Two days later, we kidnapped Mom and took her to #DementiaJail, where we both ended up behind invisible bars in a very real prison of sorts.

behind bars

©2017 punkie

behind bars

there we stood
between the bars
before our hearts
got jailed in jars

we didn’t know
what fate had planned
we thought it was
the promised land

but one blind eye
the gods then turned
and caused our world
to crash and burn

it’s hard to know
how love survived
as evil plotted
our souls to deprive

we fought each day
with all we had
but things got worse
that started bad

they gave you drugs
against your will
to make you sleep
and keep you still

when your gait
became unsteady
they had excuses
at the ready

“that’s what happens
as things progress,
we can’t do more
we should do less!”

you tripped and fell
were black and blue
begged and cried
please save me sue

i tried my best
from morn ‘til night
vowed to not
give up the fight

but thirsty power
craves control
demands a price
exacts its toll

with legal ropes
my hands were tied
they stole our hope
in court they lied

but greed will
never win the day
we laughed, we sang
and music played

too soon you left
for better places
where flowers bloom
in open spaces

now you dance
on heads of pins
no earthly body
no fear, no sin

death has freed you
from the night
it gifted you
eternal light

here’s to no more
bars or jails
or nursing homes
that #epic #fail

 

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

November 16, 2016:

https://myalzheimersstory.com/2016/11/16/the-day-our-best-wasnt-good-enough/

November 16, 2015:

https://myalzheimersstory.com/2015/11/16/joys-and-tears-these-last-three-years/

November 16, 2012:

https://myalzheimersstory.com/2012/11/16/moving-day/

#mc_embed_signup{background:#fff; clear:left; font:14px Helvetica,Arial,sans-serif; }
/* Add your own MailChimp form style overrides in your site stylesheet or in this style block.
We recommend moving this block and the preceding CSS link to the HEAD of your HTML file. */

Subscribe to MAS now & get 5 free PDFs & a page of welcome links:

Email Address

Take my short survey on behaviour here.

Inspiration, Life & Living, Love, Poetry

all fixed up: a lighthearted ode to our broken bits

The problem with overvaluing perfection is it sometimes leads us to want to fix things that don’t need repair, or to think that people and things are broken when in fact they’re not.  I believe people who live with dementia remain whole in their souls. So do the rest of use even as we change and evolve. This poem is about that. Just for fun.

all fixed up

Dedicated to the broken bits that needn’t be repaired.

all fixed up

©2017 punkie  

our stories lie in fragments
like our fractured selves
could they be assembled
by santa’s little elves?

or maybe fairies in the spring
will put us back together
like a cobbler works boot magic
with italian leather

perchance a layer of red bricks
would stack up all the blocks
slather mortar in between
while antique clocks tick tock

a seamstress would repair the tears
with thread and crossing stitches
lay them smooth upon a board
then iron out the glitches

a surgeon she could operate
cut, excise and sew
transplant better body parts
and hey, we’re good to go!

perhaps a quilter with a needle
should join up all the patches
in a crazy random pattern
where nothing ever matches

a coach might tell us how to do
say rah rah what’s your plan?
don’t worry if you trip and fall
god knows you’re greater than

yo we could go for therapy
pay it by the hour
turn bittersweet the notes we thought
only tasted sour

mechanics they could change our oil
while we lie high on lifts
tinker with our underbelly
tune us up in shifts

docs and nurses dole out pills
we could take our pick
problem is, the medicine
makes us feel more sick

teams of techies we might hire
divide them into crews
nothing but the cream of the crop
a fixer-up who’s who

or maybe we’ll just stay broken
it’s really not that wrong
to be a little cracked and bent
what matters is our song

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

Subscribe to my free updates here.

Image copyright: akinshin / 123RF Stock Photo

Death & Dying, Life & Living, Memories, Poetry

the day i gave away mom’s clothes

October 8, 2017: Mom’s faux fur coat has been hanging in an upstairs closet for five years. I’ve never worn it. I’ve had several boxes of her clothes under my bed for about 18 months.

Last week, the daughter of a friend called to say she is collecting household goods and clothing for a Syrian family arriving in Canada at the end of the month. She could pick up anything I might want to pass along to them on Thanksgiving weekend, she said.

What good are Mom’s clothes doing anyone under my bed? That heavy coat could be keeping someone warm instead of hanging useless in a closet.

It seemed like the right time to do the right thing. As always, the right thing is not the easy thing. This poem is about that, and the fabric of our lives.

stitches & threads

©2017 punkie

Remembering my mom, Patty, September 27, 1928 – August 17, 2016.

today I gave away your clothes
things you wore in shades of rose

skies were grey, the rain it poured
i found myself upon the floor

my eyes became the clouds above
spilled over with both grief and love

why are we so attached to things?
corduroys, capris with strings

perhaps because they seem infused
with memories and times confused

each weave, each fold a story tells
a piece of heaven, a slice of hell

with some stuff i could not part
for fear that it should break my heart

a set of pearls, six pair of shoes
i simply could not bear to lose

bits and pieces are not you retained
your fuller self is my life’s refrain

like the stitches and the threads
we all live on after we’re dead

©2017 Susan Macaulay. I invite you to share my poetry widely, but please do not reblog or copy and paste my poems into other social media without my permission. Thank you.

Subscribe to my free updates here.