My Dementia Lessons | Four

My dad lived as an artist his whole life until one day he didn’t, and we didn’t know what to do.

When I say he lived as an artist, I really mean it: the guy was constantly drawing, painting, sketching, and looking at art. For his day job, he drew storyboards for an ad agency. Two nights a week, he taught figure drawing. On all the other nights, he was in his home studio, painting. He spent his weekends making landscape paintings out of neighboring forest preserves and other local spots. He also went on painting trips. He shared a studio with other artists where he did more painting. You can see his work here.

To think of my dad was to think about art. If you thought anything else, you didn’t know him.

Even with Alzheimer’s, my dad continued to paint, but it frustrated him. He began overpainting, unable to get things just right or maybe not aware that he’d just tried to fix a section. His even started reworking finished paintings, most often changing the light to a soft twilight glow.

Peeling the Onion Skin

And then one day, he stopped all together. Zip. Zero. No more art.

We asked him, “Why aren’t you painting anymore?”

He said he didn’t know. He just wasn’t.

This really shook us up. And by us I mean his wife and kids. We had a hard time seeing him not making art. It worried us. Who was he without his art? We didn’t know.

But he was perfectly fine not making art. It didn’t worry him at all. As far as he was concerned, he was still himself.

Each Ring Reveals a New Ring

It took a long time, but we adjusted to his new life apart from art. Then he forgot his mother.

That also shocked us. He was always talking about his mother. She was sweet. She had endured much, and to use his term, they were simpatico. How could he not remember his own mother? But that’s what happened. And again, it didn’t worry him at all. He was still himself.

Then the art came back. He was drawing again.

We rejoiced, and he had no idea what the fuss was about.

Then he forgot what the TV was. He forgot where the kitchen was. He forgot our names. He forgot our relationships. He forgot where he was or why he was.

We were through being shocked by this point. By this point, we were just sad.

But apart from some moments of anxiety, he was mostly unconcerned. There was nothing to be sad about. He wasn’t sad. He was himself.

From the Center Rises the Shoot

I know there will be a day when he can no longer talk or get out of bed, when my presence before him as his daughter will mean nothing to him. I know one day he’ll stop eating. I know one day the breath of life will cease. I know this day will come. I hope to God he has a gentle passing.

Until that day, he will always be who he always was. Just himself. Still himself. Free of all the ways of living that we insisted were essential to his identity. Turns out, none of it matters. Turns out that what’s essential rises up, if we will only see it for what it really is, as green and as perfect as an ever-growing shoot.