If you’re like me, you weren’t surprised to read about the recent study finding that two-thirds of retirees now say they are living in “the best home of their life.”
Sometimes we need to be reminded we are on a journey and an illness does not define who we truly are.
Most older adults, I suspect, are yearning to share their life stories with others. The tragedy in our society (a disgrace, really) is that we often deny them opportunities to do so.
Last night I was reminded about how much can go RIGHT with caregiving.
It’s 11:00 PM and I write these words on my iPad while sitting in my bed at the Phoebe Ministries nursing home/rehab complex in Allentown, Penn.
Martin Bayne called me from the hospital today asking if ChangingAging would help him chronicle his journey of recovery as he transitions to a nursing home to regain adequate health and mobility to return to his home at Sacred Heart Assisted Living.
I am wrestling with something that seems to be counter-intuitive, paradoxical and miraculous. Something that I have experienced personally, and something that it turns out is a part of the human experience. I’m talking about diminishment.
We can’t help but change the music, just because of who we are and how we play, and the chemistry of this particular combination of musicians. It just happens. Like magic… but with no magician!
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.
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.