The experts I interviewed graciously shared real-life examples. I have changed the names of those living with dementia to protect their privacy. Also, to avoid excess wordiness, I will often refer to people living with dementia as “your partner.” Whether you are a family member, friend, or a healthcare professional, you’ll appreciate partnering for these creative projects and activities.
I’ve divided the book into topics. Each segment reveals the benefits and offers the reader succinct how-tos in the form of Creative Sparks. These activities are participatory and adaptable for people of varying physical and mental abilities. You can enjoy them one-on-one or in a group, either at home or in a care community setting. Some of these ideas may seem easy, while others may appear more challenging. I encourage you to sample them all.
Take a New Look at the Yellow Crayon
Take a New Look at the Yellow Crayon
“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” —Joseph Chilton Pierce
Before he leaves for his outing, my father beckons me out onto the ramshackle porch of the rental cottage. He solemnly hands me a tablet of thick, white artist’s paper and a pristine box of twenty-four crayons.
“I want you to get your mother interested in art again,” he says. “I believe she can still draw and paint, but she resists when I mention it. You’re the only one who can help her.”
My parents, my brother’s family, and my two daughters and I are on a family trip to Hot Springs, Arkansas. Mom has been struggling with forgetfulness and odd behaviors (or rather, Dad has been struggling with her forgetfulness and odd behaviors) for a couple of years. As long as Mom is near Dad, she seems happy enough, paddling around in the swimming pool, being near her young grandchildren, and reminiscing about her earlier life. But when Dad takes even a short break, Mom’s mouth tightens and her eyes search wildly. “Where is . . . ?” she asks, over and over again, twisting her hands.
Today, my father is joining my brother and the children for boating and tubing. Since Mom doesn’t like such heat and noise, I volunteer to spend the day with her.
I nod gravely when my father hands me the “art supplies.” I seriously believe I, Super Daughter and Muse, can fulfill my father’s request to reunite my mother and her passion for art.
I haven’t yet accepted Mom for who she is now. I’m still grieving the loss of the mom I’ve always known, and I earnestly believe that the best possible idea is to return her to the artist, mother, wife, and grandmother she used to be.
That afternoon, shortly after Dad leaves, I lure Mom to the small Formica kitchen table with coffee and chocolate chip cookies.
“Where is . . . ?” Mom asks, knotting together her fingers.
“He’s out with Dan and the kids. They’re going boating,” I tell her. “He won’t be gone too long.”
Mom stares at me accusingly.
“Where is Paul?” she says, her voice wobbly.
“He’s with the kids. He’ll be back soon.”
I hand her a sheet of paper and take one for myself. I spread the crayons out and say, “Let’s draw.”
“Why?” she says.
“Because it’s fun,” I say, touching her hand and looking into her eyes, just as I imagine a muse might do. “Because you enjoy making art. You’re good at it.”
After I left home for college, sketching and painting became Mom’s creative mainstays. She produced hundreds of paintings, often bringing to life old photographs that captured a snippet of family history: Dad’s father appearing wickedly self-confident in a game of poker; her own mother, before she immigrated to America, as a shy young woman with an upswept Gibson girl hairdo; her grandchildren dancing around my den in a mad-cap talent show. But she hasn’t touched a brush or pencil in several years, and Dad has mourned mightily over her abandoning this passion.
“Where is . . . ?” Mom asks.
“Let’s make a picture for Dad,” I say. “He’ll be thrilled.”
I hand Mom a yellow crayon and I pick up a purple one. I draw a series of squiggling lines. I add in a green, then a blue. I envision Dad’s beaming face when Mom hands him her sketch of yellow roses. I imagine his warm hug and his grateful, whispered words, “Thanks, Debbie. I knew you could do it. I feel like your mother’s come home.”
My wild, colorful lines fill the page. Finally, I glance up, ready to admire Mom’s work. But all I see is a blinding sheet of yellow. She has scrubbed the yellow crayon across the page. No flowers, no independent lines, no blending of colors. I bite my lip, tasting bitter failure, and imagining the look of despair on my father’s face.
That was before I had learned to let go of Mom as a representational artist and embrace her mellow yellow creation. That was before I accepted the challenge of journeying to my mom’s current world instead of struggling unsuccessfully to drag her back into mine. I finally did let go and embraced my mom as she was. Mom learned to laugh at her forgetfulness; she learned to communicate with smiles and gestures; she learned the art of living in the moment. And I learned along with her.
Today, if I could once again sit beside her and color, I would simply enjoy the process and not set myself up as a failed Super Muse. I might just say, “I love the brightness of that color,” and not yearn for a bouquet of roses that would prove Mom was the same as ever.
I might see if she and I could draw something together. We’d take turns making lines on the paper, sketching out a nonverbal dialogue. I’d play some of her favorite songs while we drew, and we’d sing along. I might include some soothing lavender tea, accompanied by decadent chocolate chip cookies. Whatever we did together, I would cherish that shared time.
“People with dementia are my best teachers, constantly offering me insights and giving me new ways of seeing, hearing, and experiencing things.” —Teepa Snow
Daily visits and interactions are a vital part of care partnering. “Our responsibility is to connect with and bring people out,” says Cameron Camp, PhD, coauthor of A Different Visit. “Activities allow us to rediscover the person who may be hiding behind his or her deficit.”
A good activity should be easy, mutually pleasurable, appropriate for ability, age, and gender, imbued with some meaning, and have no deadline and no pressure. You don’t need any special artistic talent to facilitate and enjoy these ideas. Here are some ways to get started.
“Activities allow us to rediscover the person who may be hiding behind his or her deficit.”
Ask Others to Join You
“Our basic instincts include discovery and invention, and thus creativity. These abilities are hard-wired, and people living with dementia can still draw on these skills.”
Though John Zeisel has a doctorate in sociology from Columbia University and has studied and taught in prestigious colleges and universities,