It's World Alzheimer's Day
Thinking about the ten year publication anniversary of "Leaving Tinkertown," Corpse Flowers and change -- oh, constant change.
My memory exists in my head and also, strangely, on the screens of my computer and phone. Every year at this time, the Social Media Overlords/Buddies put together a little scrapbook of my book events. I’m frankly a little shocked to find that a decade has passed.
At one tiny reading those in attendance were the bookstore owner, my mom, and author, John Nichols. (The nicest man.) In Los Angeles, thanks to some last minute venue wrangling by a dear pal, I shared the stage at Hollywood Forever Cemetery with my genius brother. The place was packed and felt a little like “This is Your Life.” Everywhere I turned, there was a familiar and beloved face: my Speech Team duet partner from high school, a guy with whom I waited tables in the 90s, my writing teacher from UCLA Extension, the director of my kids’ pre-school… I felt as if the world had drawn up around me like a cozy quilt. It was truly marvelous
Today is World Alzheimer’s Day. (In fact, September is World Alzheimer’s Month.) A lot has changed in the two decades since my dad succumbed to the disease. A pal of mine recently asked if I was still writing about dementia and caregiving. The answer is yes, but for me, the topic has expanded. I don’t always feel the need to begin with my own story. I’m grateful for the opportunity to follow new threads and hear other voices.
The very cool organization AlzAuthors has put together an upcoming panel called “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Living With Dementia,” featuring five authors talking about their own diagnoses and the experience of living with dementia. You can sign up here.
If you’d like to donate to the Alzheimer’s Association, you can click here.
The caregiver support and advocacy group HRC (formerly Hilarity for Charity) has grown from a scrappy t-shirt booth to a massive non-profit organization offering information, education, advocacy, respite, and outreach to young caregivers. You can donate to their efforts here.
Filmmaker Michelle Memran has made “The Rest I Make Up” free to watch for the month of September. I know many of you have heard me rave about this amazing documentary, which covers the last years in the life of playwright, Irene Fornes. It’s a gem.
Over the years, I’ve written advice columns, pondered Glen Campbell, and considered the way literature can be of help to caregivers.
Through The National Council of Dementia Minds, I’ve learned the phrase “nothing about me without me.”
Last week, I took a trip to the Huntington Library to greet the latest opening of the Corpse Flowers. One dubbed “Stinky” was ending its brief showing, and, the other, “Stinkosaurus Rex,” was in the process of unfurling. The legendary gruesome aroma was faint, but growing in intensity. Stinky’s scent was fading, while the full funk of Stinkosaurus Rex was a few days out. In the in-between, we had time to appreciate the ruddy edge of the magnificent spathe ruffle.
We learned that the otherworldly plant is not actually a flower, but rather, an inflorescence. The flowers (separated into male and female,) are tiny nubs at the base of the plant. The whole structure sprouts from an underground corm and when it really gets going, can grow up to six inches a day. The coolest thing I learned is that both the inflorescence and the leaf of the plant sprout from the same place. And you never know which one you’re going to get. The “leaf,” by the way, looks like a tree — all branches and leaves — and can grow to nearly 12 feet. It’s got creamy white spots and a smooth, almost buttery looking texture.
When we came upon it, this plant was mystery and magic. We had time to talk with the volunteer and lean close to inspect each wondrous part. A few days later, the stink might have pushed us out the door.
In November, it will be 21 years since my Dad died. It will also be my son’s birthday. They overlapped on this earth for one week. In this in-between time I held my memories of Dad’s diagnosis and the certainty of his death, but mostly I held my boy and watched the rain pour down on the hills of Los Angeles where, under the soil, spring grass was waiting to grow.
That overlapping is gorgeous.