Hi. I promised I would post the poetry that I submitted to a writing contest this past summer so without any further ado:
Deal with Dementia
Who will answer the phone today?
Will it be the woman who remembers,
the one who interacts?
Or will it be the woman who doesn’t remember,
the one who talks in circles, repeating the same questions?
So sometimes I avoid calling,
then guilt sets in.
Face to face isn't much easier,
sitting in uncomfortable silence,
worrying about what she is thinking,
or feeling.
Knowing the conversation may frustrate her,
may be hard to follow.
Then the anxiety of the "what ifs" enter my mind.
"What if” this is my future?
"What if " that little struggle to find the right word
is an indicator of future struggles?
“What if" I should be seeking early
interventions now.
What if, what it, what if...
Losing a parent is hard
and I often feel like I'm losing Mom,
over and over.
Pieces of her die
in circular conversations.
A reminder of a long hard process
without a predictable end point.
Losing a parent is hard.
Losing a parent over and over is taxing.
Still there is no choice but to
deal with dementia.
*The formatting was weird on that. What I would do now to still be dealing with dementia. I miss her like mad. I am very good at trying to ignore grief but something a family member said the other day really has brought it back to the surface the past few days: "The holidays are especially hard." I think that is 100% true compounded with the fact that I don't have routine to distract me for the next two weeks. I am very excited for the rest but will miss distraction.
Here is the next poem I submitted:
Dementia is a Thief
Stealing moments that should be monumental,
birthdays once recollected with precision,
now only recalled with reminders.
Names once salient,
now faded,
replaced by relationship tags:
Your husband,
Your daughter,
Your sister.
Physical death still distant
yet mental death is imminent.
Close connection
ripped away like a shoplifter
and their five finger discounts.
Dementia is a thief.
*To any of you associated with dementia my heart goes to you. It is not easy. Just try to be okay with just sitting in silence at times and. holding hands. You will be glad you had those sweet moments.
Here is my favorite of the three poems I submitted. There are more poems to be written about grief, but my brain still needs to just be in silent and process the whole entity that grief truly is.
Grief is a Bastard
Alone and abandoned,
you leave it unattended,
packed far down in the darkest
forgotten corners of your brain.
But like a 3-year-old begging for attention,
in a crowded department store,
grief tantrums.
Raging,
punching,
tearing up from
long dried ducts.
Crying alone feels right.
In the dark isolation of a cold room,
under warm covers.
Crying feels like a necessary solo act.
Unlike a musician,
who solos surrounded by a crowd,
and more like a pilot
trying to transatlantic in solitude.
Yet like Amelia,
solo proves fatal,
extending the life of grief,
keeping you alone and abandoned.
Grief truly is a bastard.
