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.