I’ve been running a program for men in the early stages of dementia (alk about a job for a hostage negotiator). This poem brought more men to the program than all my spruiking, brochures and referrals.
How could I have studied gerontology all these years and yet retained “a purely abstract notion” about aging?
The new dementia story is brewing, it is ripening, and it is ready to be heard. If we take the time to listen, we may hear a story overflowing with hope, a story not of decline, but a story in which people living with dementia are “on the rise.” This is Roger’s story.
I should have done this long ago but I kept hoping that things would work out; praying that I wouldn’t have to humble myself with an apology. However, it has reached a point where the inevitable is, well, inevitable.
It’s an old song. Georgia liked to shuffle about to it in the Common Room, which was what they call the area next to the Dining Room. Georgia called that one the PeePee Room and the other the Slops Room. So you can guess she wasn’t wild about being at Sunny Meadows.
There is little if anything in our culture that would lead me to believe I would feel this good about being an old woman.
Okay everyone, are you listening to me?? STOP! Just…stop. If there were a “Hitchhiker’s Guide to Dementia”, the first words would still be: “Don’t panic.”
It’s been six months since my last epistle but I have now reached the point where I feel as if I have recovered enough to jump back into the world of dementia advocacy.
When an elder is without offspring and they have tons of family photos, what should they do (in a pre-planning way) with the photos? Any ideas?
I’ve noticed when boomers dance the fear of social judgment is refreshingly absent—there’s a sense of youthful freeness my millennial counterparts lack.
I don’t understand mid-life orphans. They complain about caregiving responsibilities, and then, when their parents pass away, they lament about being orphans.
When older people muse about the past, turning memories over and over repeatedly, others often find it worrisome. But it turns out this bias is ageist.
After more than a decade living in Baltimore, I’m embarking on a great American cross-country road trip with my family this summer and moving into a new home in Seattle.
Anyone seriously involved with care giving for a loved one knows how deeply involved one has to get in the medical world; hospitals, doctors and medical treatments.
New York City celebrated the 114th birthday of its oldest resident today — Susannah Mushatte Jones, a.k.a. Miss Susie, of Brooklyn.
I am unwilling to accept the toxic, unreal stereotypes about aging and older adults that pervade media, healthcare, the workplace and community.
I know in my “role” as caregiver and more than that, in my role in life, I feel how important it is to keep reaching for a higher possibility.
The poet May Sarton wrote: “The trouble is, old age is not interesting until one gets there. It’s a foreign country with an unknown language.”
When people hit major milestones in their age they should celebrate it with fun and exuberance rather than dismay.
Many years ago, as a new nursing home administrator, I was quite taken with myself for teaching my staff how important it was to find out who our residents were.