Family Stuff – Dayna J Collins

Janet’s Old Cedar Chest

I walked right by the old chest dozens of times over the years. Most likely it had things stacked on top of it and I never realized what was holding up all the stacks of magazines and old boxes. About a year ago, my father-in-law had a stroke and while he was recuperating in a rehab facility, Howard and I went to the basement of Howard’s childhood home in NE Portland. We’d been downstairs many times over the past forty years, but usually just to drop some stuff off for storage. This time, the chest caught my eye, probably because there was nothing stacked on top of it. I lifted the lid and my breath caught; it was filled with things Howard’s mom had saved. Janet passed away 13 years ago, but even all the years she was alive, we never realized she had saved her treasures in this old trunk. I didn’t pull much out, other than a few things on the top, but quickly realized this was an excavation to be savored.

Several months ago when our adult kids were home, we visited Grandpa Tom. I pulled Howard aside and said, “I’d sure like to get that old chest loaded into the car while we have healthy backs to help carry it up the stairs.” Howard told his dad we were taking the chest and lickety split it was in the car. We got it home and put it in the garage. For some reason I didn’t immediately tear into it. I wanted to wait for the right time, when I could enjoy the process of peeling back the layers.

That day happened a couple months ago when my friend Tory had dropped me off after one of our outings. She knew I had the chest, she wasn’t in a hurry, and it felt like the right time. We slowly began to remove the pieces that were important to Janet. A wedding dress that belonged to Janet’s mother, bundles of letters, an old shower curtain(!), baby outfits, photographs, newspaper clippings . . . . the detritus of a life well-lived.

As we neared the bottom of the chest, I spied a pair of eyes peeking out of loosely bound tissue paper. Could it be? Janet’s childhood doll? I could barely contain myself. I was so excited, I just climbed right into the chest and unwrapped the doll. She was stuffed with straw and had no hair and marked the perfect ending to a chest full of clues of how Janet lived and loved.

Later, after leisurely going through the stacks of ephemera, Howard pulled out what he wanted to keep and I took what was left to my art studio at Mission Mill to use in my mixed media project, What’s Your Story: Real or Imagined.

RIP Dad

Last year, I had a show at Guardino Gallery in Portland. The title was Beneath the Surface: Searching For Memory and the show was inspired by my dad’s battle with Alzheimer’s. My dad lost that battle on Saturday night.

As I sat with my dad on Saturday, I reflected on what a great dad he had been. He was silly, generous, funny, out-going, and at times tender and sentimental. He was diagnosed with dementia in 2009, so he fought through the haze for five years. I thought in a tribute to him, I would post a few of the paintings I did for the show since their titles reflect what he was experiencing.

Creating Memories That Won't Be Remembered — Creating Memories That Won’t Be Remembered

And finally, because it was one of his favorite songs:

Warren “Lefty” Davidson

May 24, 1931-May 17, 2014

Searching For Memory

I’ve written this blog post in my head a dozen times over the past couple of days. I’ve titled it (“They Call Me Lefty”), re-titled it (“Brokenhearted”), and settled on something entirely different. I’ve started the post with the events of the past week, then decided to begin with my show at Guardino Gallery last March because that show was inspired by him. Now that I am actually writing this post, I’ve decided to begin somewhere else entirely.

Note: This is a bit more of a personal post than my usual art post, although art is included, it is about my dad’s battle with Alzheimer’s.

My mom and dad soon after moving into a retirement facility at the beginning of the year.

My dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s in 2009, and as expected, he has slowly dissolved into the disease. It’s been a painful progression of lost and scrambled words, memory loss, and unfortunately, flares of anger. A couple of years ago when my dad was earlier in his disease, I made a small visual journal as a way to acknowledge the beginning of his long journey home.

Last March I had the privilege of a solo show at Guardino Gallery in Portland. The title, Beneath the Surface: Searching For Memory, was dedicated to my dad and chronicled his fading memory. The pieces were titled to reflect his mental decline. Here are a couple of photos of my dad looking at the old black and white family photos I had scattered in the window display and a few pieces of the art I created for the show.

Over the past six months my dad has significantly declined. He lost his driver’s license and my parents moved into a retirement community. I took my dad for drives during the summer and he always smiled and laughed during our country drives or stops for frozen yogurt.

A week ago, everything changed. My dad’s outbursts of rage escalated to the point that my mom became fearful. An event occurred that required that my family intervene. We had a family meeting with my mom and told her it was time we put dad in a memory care unit – it was the only way we could guarantee her safety. She agreed and made arrangements at the retirement community where they lived. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t have a bed in the memory care available for about 30 days. The retirement facility put an emergency alarm bracelet on my mom and said they could do some respite care with my dad – a few hours at a time in the memory care unit. She made arrangements on Friday to give it a try. That’s when it all fell apart. 9-1-1 was called, the police came, an ambulance arrived and my dad was taken to the emergency room. While there, my dad decided he had waited long enough. He unhooked his monitors, got up, put on his shoes, and started to leave. It took four security guards, two nurses, and a tech to put him back in the bed, this time with restraints. During this time, the hospital’s social services located a bed for my dad in a memory care unit across the river where my dad could stay until a bed opens up where my mom lives. On Friday night I rode in the medical transport with my dad as he was taken to memory care. He was silent the whole way. He was reluctant to go in, but he finally did. He pleaded in garbled and disconnected words to go home. I had to say good-bye and leave him. My heart broke. I hate this disease.