Reading | Harvesting The Heart

This is my mom's copy of the book. 

The first ten pages were lovingly wrinkled and worn;

 the rest of the pages were untouched.

Harvesting The Heart | Jodi Picoult 

If you've dabbled in the world of adult fiction in the past three decades,  you've surely heard her name. 

Jodi Picoult, rapid-fire author of family saga-style stories that shoot straight to the top of the best seller lists, without fail. 

Though occasionally and thoughtlessly attributed to the genre of "chick lit," whatever that might mean, her novels routinely target morally complex issues like abortion, autism, the Holocaust, the death penalty, school shootings, race issues, fertility issues, LGBTQ issues, and so forth. Picout writes a mean procedural plot and often weaves banging courtroom dramas into her story lines. She's funny, she's smart, she's a master of the unexpected plot twist. More than once, she's taken my breath away. 

Harvesting The Heart is the second on Picoult's long list of written works. Paige is a new mom and wife of a cardiac surgeon and - most likely because her mom abandoned Paige when she was five - has deep doubts about her ability to mother. So she runs away from her own family to reconnect with her dad and track down her long lost mom. Along the way, Paige draws on her extraordinary gift for drawing to make sense of herself, and eventually makes peace with her husband and child. 

This is a perfectly fine book. But it doesn't hold a candle to the rich complexity and shining beauty of Picoult's later works. If you start here, keep going. Picoult has grown considerably as an author and has much more to offer than Harvesting the Heart.

* * * * * 

All her life a voracious reader, my mom enjoyed a good book even more during the early days of her dementia. As the rest of her world slowly closed down, Mom fell further and deeper into the magic of a well-crafted story. The local librarians understood her journey and took to steering Mom toward novels they thought she would like. They even held back new releases from the shelves to put directly into her hands, saying, "Here, Grace. You're going to love this one."

"I was starting to see that the past might color the future, but it didn't determine it."

And Jodi Picoult's novels Mom especially loved. More than once, she'd ask me, "Have you read Jodi Picoult's latest? Oh, she's so good." 

But I never did.

It was after one of her falls that my increasingly confused mom ended up staying in a rehab facility, and lamented to me that she couldn't find anything good to read. Without even attempting to explain the magic powers of Amazon, I told her I'd take care of the problem. Shortly after my shipment of books arrived - one of them being Harvesting The Heart - I paid a visit to my mom. 

She literally beamed with delight as she thanked me for sending her the books. Every single person who passed into her room got a dose of her sunshine; "Look what my daughter sent me! My favorite author!" Mom held the book on her lap as we chatted in her room, as she was wheeled to the dining room, as she rolled in for physical therapy. "Look what my daughter sent me!" She said it a dozen times a day.

And a dozen times a day, Mom would open the book to read it. But I noticed that she always turned to the same page, near the front of the book. And no matter how long she sat in front of that page, she never turned it. After my week-long visit, she was still opening her book to the exact same page. 

"I can stand on my own in a world that is falling apart. I can stand so well, I realize, that I can support someone else."

I'm quite sure that Mom never did finish reading that book. When it came time to pack up her home, I took it with me, knowing in my bones that someday, this book deserved a read. 

It sat on my bookshelf for a long time.

This summer, I decided to read not only Harvesting The Heart but the whole Picoult catalog. 

It's hard to say 

how warm and moving I found her books to be, 

how much I enjoyed reading them one after another, 

how deeply I appreciated the gift of her work, 

how close I felt my mother's presence as I read them.

"Perhaps he'd always known that the truth of a person lies in the heart."

And now that I've finished, I can say this with certainty.

Mom, you're right. Jodi Picoult really is so good.

* * * * *

More stories about books I've read in 2024:

Books By Anthony Doerr

What My Bones Know

Books By Emily Henry

The Poisonwood Bible

Harvesting The Heart

Joanna's Caregiving Team

 "I do believe we're all connected. 

I do believe in positive energy. 

I do believe in the power of prayer. 

I do believe in putting good out into the world. 

And I believe in taking care of each other."

-Harvey Fierstein

My mom and me, at the beginning.

As human beings, we all know what it’s like to worry about our parents’ well-being as they age. Particularly unnerving are the concerns that dementia may one day make them unable to care for themselves. And then, we worry one step further, the day may come when even our help is not enough to keep them safe. Who will we turn to, we wonder, when we need help?

For some of us, these concerns become a reality and the day does indeed come when we find ourselves in desperate need of help.

For me, that day came on a rainy October morning at the Detroit airport car rental return. I was about to board a plane flying me back home to Seattle, but from the week we’d just spent together, I knew my mom could not possibly care for herself any longer. Not one more day.

Raindrops beat on the windshield as I fought back tears and struggled to find options. Suddenly I remembered the handful of flyers from dementia care specialists that my mom’s doctor had handed me a few days earlier, still folded and tucked into my purse. I pulled them out, picked up my phone, and called the first name I saw: Joanna LeFleur at Memory Lane Assisted Living. 

And that was the moment when everything changed.

Joanna listened to my fumbled attempts to explain my mother’s desperate need, and then she calmly and confidently moved into action. That very same afternoon, by the time my plane landed in Seattle, my mom was already in Joanna’s competent care.

Dementia, as it so often does, had changed my mother’s temperament. As the disease progressed, her easy-going intelligence and dry wit gave way to bouts of negativity and bad temper. To be honest, most of her friends and family did not understand how to deal with Mom’s changing behavior so they spent less time with her. My mom noticed their absence, and over the years had become understandably hurt and undeniably lonely.

But Joanna’s staff understood dementia. Thanks to the training they received at Memory Lane, they knew how to work past Mom’s symptoms and connect with her true self. They offered my mom endless activities to celebrate everyday life and opportunities to engage with others, and when my mom stubbornly declined them, as she often did, her caregivers graciously changed gears. With Memory Lane's incredibly generous 1:3 staffing ratios, Joanna’s team was able to pivot and spend time talking one-on-one with my mom, as a friend would do. In fact, Joanna’s staff became my mom’s friends; they valued my mom as a human being, and they showed her genuine compassion and care. Mom's rough edges softened as she felt respected and loved. 

As I look back on the dark and difficult years that my mom spent living with dementia, her time with Joanna at Memory Lane, and especially with Joanna’s staff, were bright and shining moments in the darkness. Joanna and her caregiving team provided exactly the help I so desperately needed on that rainy day when I sat in my rental car and cried.

* * * *

I have deep respect and compassion for the beautiful human beings who learn to care for those who struggle with dementia - our parents, our elders. If you live in the Ann Arbor/Ypsilanti area and would like to make a real and meaningful difference in the world today, please consider joining Joanna's caregiving team; you can give her a call, just as I did, at Memory Lane Assisted Living, 734-707-4039.

My Mother's Voice

"Trust in dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity." -Khalil Gibran

^ My mother was almost six feet tall with curly red hair. 

Even as a tiny little girl, if I ever got separated from her, it was easy enough to look up and find her. And that was a very comforting thing about my childhood. 

I'm riding on a bus.

An extremely crowded bus with humans packed in like sardines, filling each seat and jamming every inch of the center aisle.

Lucky me, I've somehow scored a seat - an aisle seat near the back - so that as we lurch and heave our way down the streets, stopping here and there to pick up even more passengers, I am able to maintain my equilibrium better than most. I seem to be traveling by myself but I have no idea where I'm going. 

Suddenly, the person sitting across the aisle turns to me and speaks in a gentle, confidential tone.

"Your mother is getting on at the next stop."

The words should 

startle me, 

shock me, 

stand me up out of my seat, 

but I am unmoved. I notice only a calm wave of awareness spreading through me, and I wonder what will happen next.

Soon enough, the bus groans to another stop. I hear the automatic doors whoosh open to let the exiting passengers out the back door, and the newcomers in at the front. The throng of standing travelers pushes toward me as their numbers increase, but I can't see beyond the two or three people wedged in the aisle directly in front of me.

I can't see. But I can listen.

And suddenly, unmistakably, like the ringing of a familiar bell, I hear my mother's voice. 

She's talking to a companion, and she's happy. Her voice is upbeat and gay; I can't make out her words but she's clearly having a good time. 

Trapped in my seat, I lean this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the crowd. But I can't.

And then I wake up.

* * * * *

This is the very first dream I've had about my mother since she died, five years ago this week.

I have no idea what this dream means or what I am to take from it. 

But it sure was nice to hear her voice. 

* * * * *

More dreams that I've dared to describe in detail. Who knows? You may just find them interesting. 

Three Dreams

My Mother's Voice

A Dream {About Ranger}

Be Careful What You Wish For

A Gift From My Mom

I know for certain that we never lose the people we love, even to death. 

They continue to participate in every act, thought, and decision we make.

-Leo Buscaglia

For Mother's Day this year, my mom bought me this plant.

Oh, I know. She's been gone almost five years now. 

Gone in a physical sense, that is.

But her voice inside of me is alive and well, thank you very much, and speaks out to me more clearly than ever.

Of course, it would be nice to communicate with her on human terms, but I'm not complaining. To be honest, I feel closer to my mom now that she's an eternal being, as if the static from a poorly tuned radio has finally been adjusted and the reception is crystal clear. 

And while I feel, in an indistinct, hazy, spiritual kind of way, that she and I are still very much connected and moving along together, there are times when I'd like to cement that sensation in a tangible, physical kind of way.

Now some people report that their dearly beloved ones leave them dimes or feathers, lead them to butterflies, or even appear as visions. And I believe that all those manifestations are real, though my mom has never chosen to communicate with me that way.

Instead, my mom buys me gifts. 

Oh yes, she does. 

It happened again this past week, just a few days before Mother's Day.

As my third and fourth daughters and I wandered around the indoor plant displays at Sky Nursery, I saw a hundred leafy lovelies and pretty planters that I wouldn't be mad about getting, but nothing really caught my eye. Shocked - and thankful to be getting out of there without spending a fortune for once -I sidelined myself into an alcove crammed with basic, boring terracotta pots to wait for my daughters to finish their shopping. I figured I was safe there from any further temptation. 

But what I didn't know was that tucked back behind the predictable rows of conventionally-shaped orangey-brown numbers was a vision waiting for me to happen upon it.

White,

textured,

patterned with circles and ovals, 

dancing around a happy shape,

the most beautifully perfect pot I've seen in quite some time. 

Picking it up and turning it round in my hands, I read a satisfying seventies vibe, and caught a flash of those years of growing power and success in my mom's life. 

I felt my mom's presence.

Carrying the pot in my arms, I headed back toward my daughters, who were still browsing, and asked their opinion. 

"Yes," my fourth born confirmed. "It's very you."

Now my attention tuned to finding a plant that spoke to the pot. 

A plant that would also speak of my mom.

And again, my fourth-born readily tuned into my wavelength.

"What about this one?" she suggested, holding up a darling schefflera arboricola. I gasped. 

My daughter had no way of knowing that for many years, my mom grew a huge schefflera arboricola in our front entry way, one of the few spaces in our eccentric little lake house that gave her a genuine sense of pride. 

It was the perfect plant for the perfect pot, and when I set the two together to get a glimpse of the total effect, I fairly vibrated with certainty.

This was a gift from my mom.

And I love it, in so many ways. Thanks, Mom!

Luna Pub

 "Look at everything as though you were seeing it for the first time or the last time. 

Then your time on earth will be filled with glory". -Betty Smith

As evening approaches, this is a good place to be. 

Luna Pub.

That's what I've been thinking about all day today, this Mother's Day.

Luna Pub serves up pizza, pasta, and other authentic Italian cuisine on the hot streets of Danang, Vietnam. Nestled into the old center of the city, this lovely oasis just a few blocks from my third-born's then-home was a frequent stop on our excursions whenever my other daughters and I were in town to visit. 

The name of the street outside Luna Pub is Tran Phu, which sounds like music to my ears. 

Pull up your motorbike right onto the sidewalk, as one does, and park it any old where. The bantam weight gentlemen who keep tabs on the customers' bikes will rearrange it as it suits them, but also present your exact bike (which looks like a dozen other bikes under their management) with a flourish when you are ready to leave.

Sit down at a sleek wooden cafe table in the soaring indoor/outdoor space, preferably within range of one of the giant fans that crank out the gale force wind required to cool patrons during the summertime tropical heat.

Anticipate a delicious meal. We leaned heavily into the pizza and dessert sections of the menu, and once on her birthday, my daughter-in-residence ordered a chocolate lava cake that was to die for. While you wait, feast upon the tiny slices of homemade bread meant for dipping in balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Why not make an entire meal out of that?

I'm not always the biggest chocolate person, but this little morsel of chocolate lava cake was insanely delicious. And so rich that there was more than enough to share.

But oh, better than the food, the high point of the entire trip to Luna was always the same for me: chilled white washcloths scented with lemongrass, presented promptly as you arrive at the table, and perfect for wiping away the heat and grime of the city, and preparing one for a lovely repose.

Balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and of course, fish sauce. 

This may be Italian cuisine but we are in Vietnam after all. 

I have so many memories of evenings spent at Luna Pub: sharing a small table and dishes of Bailey's gelato with my daughters, or gathering with a dozen of my third-born's local friends and getting to know the names and faces of these people who kept her company in this exotic place.

But the sharpest, clearest, most poignant moments I spent at Luna Pub came one night in May 2016, while sitting at a mash-up of three or four tables with one of those big groups of friends, when my phone rang. 

My mom was calling me.

Can we please have a table near one of the fans? 

Sorry, my Northern European body cannot handle this heat. 

These were the darkening days of my mother's battle with Lewy Body Dementia. Dutifully, and with a surprising ability to manage this level of detail, she checked in with me on a twice-daily schedule. Even as the disease had worsened and her cognitive skills slipped, my mom took this task very seriously, and rarely missed a call. 

Knowing that there was no way she could navigate international calls to me while I was on my trip, I'd arranged through my carrier for direct forwarding of my U.S. calls, so that for my mom, placing the call to me was exactly the same as usual. She had no idea I was sitting in Danang, Vietnam, at Luna Pub.

So when I saw her call light up my phone, I quickly slipped away from the table and stepped outside, hoping to find a quiet spot to talk with her. Locust trees lined the street near the broad steps leading up to the restaurant, and I settled for the sidewalk underneath them in the still-steamy evening breeze. 

I clicked into the call. 

Here, on the left side of this photo, near Tree Number 55, I took my mom's call. 

"Hi, Mom. How are you?"

I don't recall the details but she was upset. I listened to her describe the problem, pressing the phone to my right ear and covering my left ear with my hand as I desperately tried to block out the music streaming out of Luna and the unrelenting beepbeepbeep-ing horns of the motorbikes flowing past me on the busy street. I couldn't understand her well enough to offer any substantial conversation on the topic, but I murmured small words of acknowledgement and understanding as best I could. 

"Well, that's all I have to say," she abruptly changed course. 

"Alright," I said. "We can talk more about this next time you call, okay?"

"Sure, Goodbye."

 
I listened as my mom ended the call. 

Now, by all accounts, it was not a particularly memorable phone call.

But that was the last time my mom ever called me. 

During the remaining sixteen months of her life, we talked on the phone but only when someone else - my sister-in-law - was on hand to help Mom negotiate the call. And thankfully, my mom and I did have one last visit together in person.

But that phone call at Luna Pub, as I stood in the sweltering heat on the steps along Tran Phu, was the last of the hundreds - thousands - of times that my mom called me. 

The very last time.

And while this is in many ways a very sad story, and a heartbreaking chapter in the tragedy that is Lewy Body Dementia, the memory is very precious to me. 

We often know our firsts in life. 

First day of school.

First car.

First kiss.

But our lasts often slip by, unaware, unannounced, and we may have no way of knowing in the moment that something we've done hundreds - thousands - of times will never happen again. 

And while I didn't know in that exact moment that this phone call would be the last - I fully expected my mom to call me in another twelve hours, right on schedule - on this Mother's Day and every day, I am thankful with all my heart that this last call from my mother came in at such a special and memorable place. 

Luna Pub. 

* * * * *

All photos courtesy of Luna Pub Danang on Facebook. 

Reading | The Art Of Racing In The Rain

Hello, I am also an actual dog and I highly recommend this book. It's soooo good.

The Art of Racing in the Rain | Garth Stein 

Stories about the inherent wisdom of dogs and the way they use their intuitions and instincts to positively influence the lives of their humans are familiar beasts in the literary world (hello, James Herriott) but this is the first one I've ever read that is told by an actual dog. Enzo is a delightful Labrador who tells with dignity and style the ups and downs of his life with his human, Denny, and Denny's wife and daughter. Denny happens to be a professional race car driver, and Enzo takes a great interest in his career, building beautiful metaphors between the fine points of a Formula One race and the challenges of being alive. Anyone who has ever loved a dog will readily resonate with Enzo's profound wisdom and loving spirit, and if you also enjoy reading about fast cars, you're in for a real treat. 

* * * * *

Unlike me, my mom always had a soft spot for reading books about dogs.We both knew that virtually all good literary dogs die in the end, and while I find that plot point to be an agonizing heartbreak, she actually enjoyed the bittersweet tears. So it was that whenever she came after me with a new dog book, I ran away as fast as I could. 

And that's exactly what happened with this book. By the time she read it back in 2008 or so, my mom was already several years into her battle with Lewy Body Dementia, with enough damage to her memory that I tried to sidestep her recommendation and indirectly ignore her repeated question, "Have you read this book yet? It's soooo good." One of my few regrets about how I handled her illness is that I didn't read it. I wish I would have read this book back then and told her what I thought of it. That would have made her very happy.

Shortly after my mom died, I spotted this book on the shelf in a bookstore, and remembering how she loved it, I bought it. I'm sorry to say that I then left it sitting on my own bookshelf for years, wincing with remorse whenever the spine caught my attention. But this week, for reasons I can't explain, I suddenly felt inspired to pick it up and give it a read. And I'm so glad I did.

I wish I could call my mom and tell her that I took her advice and read this book. I wish I could say, "Hey, I read that book about the dog and you're right. It's soooo good." 

But she's gone now, so I will tell you instead. 

You should read this book. It's soooo good.

* * * * *

Hey, wanna read more reviews of books I've read in 2021? Here you go:

Magnificent Desolation

Moon Shot and Falling To Earth

A Man On The Moon and Apollo 13

First Man: The Life of Neil A. Armstrong

The Astronauts Wives Club

Rocket Men

Mission To Mars

The Right Stuff

Earth + Sky and In The Stream Of Stars

At Home In Joshua Tree and Abandoned Detroit

Carrying The Fire

See San Francisco and Corbis Royalty Free RF004

Space and Moondust 

Where The Crawdads Sing

A Million Little Pieces

The Art Of Racing In The Rain

Normal People

Centennial

Honey, I Love

Piano For Sale

Charming vintage piano for sale. 

This is a perfect instrument for family singalongs, a budget-minded maestro, or a youngster taking lessons. After many happy years in our home, it's ready to move on. Beautiful dark wood original  cabinetry. In need of a a tune but otherwise excellent condition. 

$150 OBO

* * * * *

Living inside me, I'm entirely convinced, is an as-yet undiscovered pianist of considerable competency and passion. 

How do I know this?

Because my mother possessed remarkable skill as a pianist, and I do believe she passed the gift on to me.

My mother's early training focused on the classics, and she cut her teeth on all the masters. In the later years of her life, Chopin brought her great peace. 

Now to be sure, her journey played out a bit differently than mine. She was born, like me, as the daughter of a passionate pianist, but her mother - my grandmother, Clara - took up her daughter's burgeoning musical aptitude at an early age. 

By the time she was three years old, my mother was reading music and playing three-part pieces with her mom and older sister on the family piano. 

Yes. Three years old. 

My mom's childhood was a blur of piano lessons down in South Bend, Indiana, the closest cultural center to her sleepy southwest Michigan hometown. Thanks to her mother's urging and her father's hard work, my mom also studied the violin and later, the trombone. She was a prominent vocalist in the local churches, and along with her sister, gained admission to several prestigious summer music programs in Chicago. But it was the piano where my mom's musicality found its best expression. 

As a typical teenager, my mom's tastes turned to the avant garde and George Gerswin was at the top of her list. 

According to my father, she turned down a career as a professional pianist. 

And my mom told me more than once that, at my dad's urging, she'd used her savings toward a baby grand to provide the down payment on their first home. 

My father had a profoundly deleterious effect on my mother's musical expression, and stole it from her life for decades. 

And maybe all of those factors add up to an explanation as to why my mom didn't encourage me toward the piano. 

But in any case, that's how my story unfolded. Piano lessons were never an option for me.

When I hit middle school, Mom did suggest that I join the band. So I decided to try the B flat cornet. For three years, I enjoyed learning to read music and was only beginning to understand the process by which one coaxed true music from such an instrument when the social implications of my school's band culture cut against my carefully cultivated self-image. 

So I quit band and laid my cornet aside. My tenure as a musician came to an abrupt end. 

* * * * *

Years passed. Once her kids were raised and her discretionary income grew, my mom finally bought herself that long-awaited piano. For the first time, I witnessed her playing. Fascinated, I realized that my mom was one of those musicians who can sit down at a piano, poise her fingers above the keys, and simply begin to play.

If sheet music was at hand, she could sight read her way through pretty much anything, and make it look easy.

And from memory, she could pull up endless compositions, and play with flawless style. 

This came as quite a shock to me, and I was duly impressed. 

This is the music my mom played for her elders at the nursing home. 

To my eyes, this book reads hopelessly old-fashioned and laughably obsolete, 

but to her listeners, it was the soundtrack of their lives. 

My mom took her rejuvenated talents to work. 

As an elementary school teacher in an era of endless so-called extra curricular cut-backs, my mom became the music lady at Spencer Road Elementary and soon led generations of kids in all-school sings; annual productions of the 1970s anti-gender-stereotyping artistic movement, Free To Be...You and Me; and rousing choruses of the school fight song, which she had penned herself. 

A choral director friend who knew of her gifts recruited my mom to accompany her group's holiday performance of the Messiah, which jump-started a decade of church performances. Breezily tossing off cantatas right and left, my mom's classical foundations and technical gifts roared all the way back into life.

And in a sentimental turn of fate, during my grandmother's brief stint in a nursing home - she was 96 years old when she moved in but felt guilty about enjoying this life of leisure because surely someone else who was 'older' needed the help more than she did - my mom became the resident pianist for weekly singalongs. She took requests for all the old standards, and played back the happy memories of years gone by for the delighted residents. Even after my grandmother peacefully passed, Mom kept up her weekly song fests until her own battle with Lewy Body Dementia took away this joy.

* * * * *

When my own daughters came along, I was determined to open some musical doors for them.

We started out with the Kindermusik program, which introduces music appreciation, theory, basic instruments, and songs from around the world in a playful format to a handful of young children at a time. These were wonderful times, and the best way I could ever have imagined to introduce my girls to the joys of musicianship.

When my eldest was seven years old, she wanted to try piano. Happily, we tracked down a well-used and much-loved instrument and sent her to lessons. She enjoyed it for a time, as did two of the other three daughters, but in time, their passions faded and the piano fell into disuse.

We moved it to the garage. 

And we began to talk about selling the piano. 

The rationalizations filled my ears: What's the point of having a piano if no one plays it, right?  In order to make it fit back in the house, you'd have to rework the furniture in an entire room. Someone else would truly appreciate it. You should just let it go.

But whenever I seriously consider selling that piano, deep inside me, a powerful voice keeps rising up. 

Keep the piano and learn to play, it tells me. You were born to play. 

And so, for at least fifteen years, the piano has been waiting for me to make up my mind. 

* * * * *

Today, at long last, I struck a deal with myself and it goes like this:

I'm ready to pass the piano along to someone who can put it to immediate use. I'm putting it up for sale. 

When I'm ready, I'll buy a basic, portable, easy-to-store electronic keyboard and learn to play.

And then, if I really do locate and free my inner pianist, I 'll give myself full permission to buy her the lovely new piano that she deserves. 

The Life-Changing Magic Of The Orange Gingham Dish Towels

"Life should be chic, glamorous, and colorful, and so should your home." 

"Beautiful, playful art shows people the second that they come into your house that they're in the presence of a provocative funster."

-Jonathan Adler

It all began with the orange checked dish towels. 

Looking for a gift, I was browsing around the Crate & Barrel website when I stumbled upon these dish towels. 

Immediately, I was obsessed. 

Night after night, all week long, I went back to look at those towels, wondering if I still loved them as much as I had the night before. 

I did.

And I began to seriously consider buying them. 

But wait, I told myself. You don't buy orange dish towers. You buy white and black and grey dish towels. 

Hmm, that's true. But I used to buy orange dish towels. What has happened to me?

And it all came rushing back.

* * * * *

Seventeen years ago, I realized my mother had the early signs of dementia.

Eight years ago, I got involved in her daily care.

Four years ago, my mom died. 

Pick out any one of the countless events during those years that pulled us both deeper into the darkness that is Lewy Body Dementia, and I can draw a line to a corresponding change in my home.

I stripped the colors out of my rooms and left black, white, and shades of grey.

I pulled much of my art down off the walls and minimized what was on display.

I put away most everything that did not serve a useful function. 

I needed my home to be almost bare and tediously tidy. 

And it's been taking me a long time to work my way out of that dark place.

Wow, this is heavy stuff. Isn't this supposed to be a story about chic, glamorous, and colorful home decor and orange gingham dish towels?

Yes, hang on, I'm getting to that. 

* * * * *

In just the past few months, I've felt something stirring in me.

No, not an absence of grief. Losing your mom is not something from which one will ever fully recover.

But ever since I found those orange gingham dish towels, I've noticed the small and quiet awakenings of some things I have not felt in a long time.

Playfulness.

Fun.

A lightness of being. 

I realized that I'm ready to lighten the mood of my surroundings too. 

So I bought the orange gingham dish towels. They bring me a really ridiculous amount of joy. 

And they have inspired me to slowly and deliberately invite a few more things into my house, and I'm hoping they too will inject 

some color, 

some whimsy, 

some fun. 

Here's what I've done so far:

^ In my living room, which had been completely overrun by plants and neutral colors, a few new throw pillows from Society6 bring in splashes of orange, yellow, and green, and a vaguely sixties' retro vibe. Between the colors and the graphics, the pillows make me feel very connected to childhood me, and that is a lovely comfort. 

^ The coveted orange gingham dish towels have been granted a place of honor on my kitchen counter. I don't even use them; I just smile to see them folded neat and clean, each and every time I walk into the room. 

On the shelves are two orange bowls and a bright blue flowered plate, both of which I picked up at a thrift store years ago, and had stashed in the back of my overflow dish cupboard. To be honest, I'd forgotten completely about them until I got the dish towels, and then my brain connected the orange dots. They've all become great friends. 

^ As part of my use it or lose it adventure, I came across this orange painting stashed in the garage. It used to hang horizontally in my bedroom, back when my bedroom was colorful, but somehow when I looked at it now, my brain saw it in a vertical presentation and I knew that this long and narrow space would be a perfect new home. 

I tossed a new giant gold throw pillow on the couch in front of it, and felt intense pleasure. The coordinating candles on the side table were just a lucky find in my candle stash, and I took them as confirmation that this color story was meant to be. 

* * * * *

I didn't plan for orange to be the new coming-out color of my reinvigorated home. But I think it's more than a happy coincidence that this is the color I'm drawn to. Orange speaks to me 

of confidence

of sunshine

of fun.

Thanks to the magic of the gingham dish towels, orange is the color that is bringing out the provocative funster in me, and I am relieved to have her back. 

* * * * *

More stories about my reinvigorated home:

The Life-Changing Magic Of The Orange Gingham Dish Towels

Don't Let 'Em Push You Around

Saying Thank You

“Showing gratitude is one of the simplest yet most powerful things humans can do for each other.” 
-Randy Pausch

* * * * *

When my mother was sick with Lewy Body Dementia and desperately in need of competent and compassionate care, I reached out to a perfect stranger who stepped in, stepped up, and saved us both. 

Forever, I will be grateful to Joanna and her staff for the sensitive standards of safekeeping and gentle companionship they gave to my mom during her time of great need. 

These past few months, as Covid has swept the planet, I've thought of Joanna and her team caring for other people with dementia, people who can't possibly grasp the concept of a worldwide pandemic - the rest of us can barely make sense of it ourselves, people who must feel inexplicably cut off from their families and regular routines. And my heart has filled, over and again, with gratitude for dementia caregivers everywhere.

A few weeks ago, I realized that instead of just feeling gratitude, it was high time that I acted upon my feelings. So I reached out to Joanna and asked how I could help. She suggested that I write notes of appreciation to her staff, and so this project was born.

Inspired by famed children's book illustrator and collage artist, Lois Elhert, I created eight postcard-sized flower designs from watercolors. On the flip side, I added a little plaid pocket and tucked inside a note, each with the same message:

^ Morning glories,


^ daffodils,


^ Oriental poppies,


^ hyacinth,


^ delphinium,


^ more hyacinth,


^and pink and blue carnations. 

Hello!

Thank you. 

Thank you for caring for people with dementia.- people who have lived lives of dignity and value, people whose brains are ravaged by this terrible, invisible disease, people who can no longer care for themselves. I'm sure that they thank you, in their own sweet ways, for what you do. I trust that their families thank you too. But as a society who depends upon people like you to care for and love on our bewildered elders, we don't say thank you enough. And as Covid 19 devastates our world, making your work exponentially more difficult and also more important, it's my turn to speak up. 

Thank you

* * * * *

I know.

It's just a short note accompanied by some scraps of colored paper. Nothing I can do will ever compare to the demanding work these caregivers provide, the difficult conditions they face, the ever-uphill battle of emotional, physical,and spiritual care they pull from deep in their hearts..

My gifts to them are literally just words on a page.

But simply saying thank you is the best thing I can think of to do.

* * * * *

Here's the story of how I met Joanna

Seeing Stars

And here's a story about how Joanna helped me understand grief:

What Joanna Taught Me

To read more of the many stories I've written about my mom's long walk with dementia, go here.
The posts are shown in reverse order, from the most recent to the oldest, so if you want to start at the beginning, scroll down. 

Lightness

"Simplify, then add lightness." -Colin Chapman


My bedroom basks in sunshine while the bathroom sits in shadows. You'd never know from this photo that the walls are the exact same color. 

It's been six or seven years since I changed. 

Long a proponent of bold color and lots of action in my decor, my aesthetic abruptly switched to a starkly minimal streak. Suddenly I craved neutrals all day, simple black and white accents, and lots of big empty space on my walls.

To be honest, this timeline matches up with the decline of my mother's health. Her battle with Lewy Body Dementia took a toll on my state of mind as well as hers, and when she became seriously ill, I found that a calm, visually quiet home brought peace to my troubled soul. 

So I began to live, quite contentedly, with pale, neutral, empty spaces. 

If you look closely, you can see the last remaining 1980s pink and blue morning glories in the tile around my bathtub. My brain refuses to acknowledge them, but there they are in all their glory.

This was especially true in my bedroom and bathroom. I needed Zen-level calm in the place where I wound down at night for restful sleep, and geared myself up in the morning to face another day. So I stripped both rooms down to bare essentials and light beige walls, and just let everything be for years on end. 

A year and a half ago, I dreamed of four paintings on the then-completely blank wall of my bedroom. Inspired by my vision, I went out on a limb and brought this mini gallery to life. Though this felt like a huge step forward, these pieces were just what I needed to begin stepping out from my empty-wall phase, and hang exactly in the same spot to this day.

Many times over the past year, those paintings have caught my eye, and I am grateful that I made what felt like the very bold step to add them.

I'll admit that the grey background against the beige wall is hardly a cutting edge decor statement. But the low contrast combination is exactly what feels pleasing to my brain, and that is good enough for me. 

Last week, they inspired me further. 

Okay, I tell myself, enough with the big empty wall above the bathtub. It's time to admit that that space looks neglected and sad. I begin to mentally sort through my art stash to see if anything on hand could suit my purposes.

My family room in 2012. Pretty much everything has changed since then. 
I'm glad the flower lives on. 

With a jolt of surprise and a rush of certainty, I remember the big flower painting that used to hang in my family room. Somewhere around three in the morning - which is probably like ten p.m. to normal people - I dash out to the garage, pull it from storage, and hustle it upstairs to see if the proportions would work. 

Yes. Perfection. 

The bold colors of the original art still feel overwhelming to me but not to worry. Since I created the painting in the first place, I can easily rework it in different colors.

And that's what I do. A Saturday afternoon on the patio surrounded by a half dozen tubes of acrylic paint turns the bright red flower to pale pink, and dials the background back from blue to gray. 

Now this is the scene that greets me when I walk into my bathroom, and it feels not chaotic or overwhelming but cheerful. 

I hang the reinvented painting in place before dinner, and that night - again around three in the morning - as I bring in a trio of plants for their monthly watering session, I take in the scene and realize they are the perfect finishing touch. 

I realize that my bathroom - and my bedroom too, for that matter - is still subdued and a far cry from the old days of orange polka dots and rainbow rugs. 

But times have changed me, for better or for worse, and this still-neutral room now set off by a big bold flower expresses exactly who I am today.

The flower adds the touch of lightness that I am finally ready to embrace. 

A Wild Goose Chase

Yesterday, I was on a mission. 

My goal was to track down some hardware for an old picture frame. Here, let me show you what I mean. 

^ This is a watercolor I bought at the Ann Arbor Street Art Fair when I was a brand new teenager back in, oh, probably 1974. My mom bought one by the same artist, and this was the first of many paintings and accessories that we bought in matching pairs. 

Though we were two different people in many ways, especially during those rebellious days of my youth, my mom and I found common ground in these bright watercolor birds. 

Sadly, though, over the years, my art fell into disrepair.

^ To be more precise, it's the frame that has gone kablooey See these two white plastic corner pieces? Their job is to snap into the back of  the DIY metal frame to hold the sides at perfect ninety degree angles. 

^ Alas, two of the four corner pieces of my frame have gone missing. I still have the smaller metal pieces that align the front side of the frame. But the plastic pieces that anchor the back side of the frame are long gone. 

I discussed my quandary with my frame shop guy who gave me the bad news. This frame is seriously old school and the component parts are no longer readily available. Try a craft store like Michael's or Hobby Lobby, he suggested, or maybe search online. 

Done, done and done. But to no avail. 

It was later that evening when inspiration struck.

Thrift stores!

If I could stumble upon another DIY metal frame from the same era, I could salvage the parts I need and bring a happy ending to my conundrum.

That was a great idea. But three hours and four thrift stores later, my patience ran out. Inspired though my plan may have been, the thought ran through my head that the entire afternoon had turned into nothing but a wild goose chase. 

As that phrase echoed in my mind, I couldn't help but smile.

I remembered a story from the middle days of my mom's journey through Lewy Body Dementia. Despite her best efforts to mask her growing confusion, people who knew Mom well could see that she was struggling and some began to lose confidence in her ability to reason. 

One day, my mom was on a mission of her own. She had a silver teapot that needed repair and had tracked down a craftsman who could do the work. With his address in hand and a lifetime of familiarity with the roads in his neck of the woods, she summoned her driver, Amy, and together they set out to find him.

Well, let me say this. Despite the progression of that horrible disease, my mom had a keen sense of direction and an uncanny ability to find her way around. But poor Amy had lost faith in Mom's navigation skills, and apparently decided to disregard her instructions.

Which led to a long, protracted series of wrong turns, retraced steps, and driving in circles. Mom was infuriated by this nonsense and was eventually proved right when Amy finally listened to her directions and soon pulled into the craftsman's driveway. 

Mom conducted her business and  in short order, she and Amy were back in the car headed for home.

"Well," the endlessly cheerful Amy chirped, "that turned out to be quite a wild goose chase, didn't it, Grace?!"

And at this point in the narrative, which Mom had on repeat for at least a week, she interjected, "Amy doesn't even know what she's talking about. A 'wild goose chase' means that you never find what you're looking for, but once she stopped her foolishness and did what I told her, we found the address right away.  That was NOT a wild goose chase at all."

I'm smiling again to think of Mom's unshakable confidence in herself and, even in the midst of that terrible disease, how right she actually was. 

Her confidence lives on in me. I know I'll eventually figure out a way to secure the corners of my frame. Soon enough, it'll be hanging on the wall once again. 

Every time I see it, I'll be reminded over and over again of that day when, much to our surprise, my mom and I bought matching paintings of watercolor birds. 

And I will always smile to remember how she taught me the true meaning of a wild goose chase. 

* * * * *

To read more stories about my mom's journey through Lewy Body Dementia, go here.

Fighting Back

My mom spent countless hours playing cards with with my girls as they were growing up. 

She and my second-born (whose face is hidden behind the tree) particularly loved Five Crowns, 

and even though my mom groaned when my daughters won, I know she was secretly proud of her sharp-witted grandkids. 

My mom always had a sharp mind. 

She was quick.

She was clever.

She was usually one step ahead of everyone else. 

And even though Lewy Body Dementia eventually took much of her brain and eventually her life, she fought back long and well. 

* * * * *

Last night I stumbled across an article about how to get your loved one with dementia to go to a doctor's appointment. Oh yes, that was always a tricky maneuver with my mom. The article laid out a lot of good suggestions, ones that worked for my mom and me:

• Do not announce the appointment ahead of time. On the morning of the appointment, simply slip it into the conversation that you'll be going out together. My mom didn't necessarily mind seeing doctors, but the anticipation totally stressed her out. I came to see that my secrecy was a gift to my mom's peace of mind, and I stopped feeling guilty about my manipulation. 

• Make sure to schedule the appointment midday so there's lots of time to get ready. My mom did not like to accept help in her dressing routine, and it took a lot of patience to let her do things herself. I would sit on the couch and breathe deep. 

• Write down your biggest concerns and privately hand them to the doctor's staff before going in to the exam. Sly as I tried to be, my mom usually noticed and asked me what I had given them. "Paperwork," I would vaguely reply. And that seemed to work. 

• If the doctor or staff direct their attention only to you, redirect them to your loved one. When doctors talked exclusively to me - and I was shocked at how often they would - I would simply not reply, look at my mom, and let her answer. 

• After the appointment, if your loved one is mad, commiserate with them about that "awful" doctor. But stop short of undermining the doctor's instructions. I have so many memories of listening to my mom rant after doctor's appointments. All my years of mothering teenage daughters came into play as I remembered to acknowledge her feelings without getting too involved in the content of the conversation. These were helpful, healthy moments in our relationship and though I didn't always enjoy them as they were happening, I am grateful for them now. 

• Plan to do something super fun after the appointment, so your loved one's outing will end on a high note. My mom was all about that Olive Garden soup and salad combo, and a few warm bread sticks always, always cheered her up.

The full article here has many more nifty ideas. 

* * * * *

These tips brought back a lot of sweet memories of the times I had to maneuver my sick but still extremely clever mother into a doctor’s office. They really do work. 

And my mom developed her own tricks too. During one visit, as we sat in the waiting room, I noticed that she was repeatedly checking and rechecking the lock screen on her iPhone, so I asked her what she was doing. “Oh, this fool doctor never knows what day it is so he’s always asking me for the date. I memorize it before I go in.”

* * * * *

My mother has been gone two years now. My feelings about her passing are still mostly unprocessed; I'm still outraged at how she suffered, and I'm so strangely relieved that her battle is over.

But then I remember how her indelibly sharp mind fought back against that terrible disease, and I can't help but smile.