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Michael Ciulla

S C H O O L Saint Ignatius High School

P R O G R A M Science

M E N T O R Kurt Karis, CTRS

D E PA R T M E N T Behavioral Medicine

C L E V E L A N D C L I N I C FA C I L I T Y Euclid Hospital

Research: Communication Methods with Patients with Dementia and Research on

Alzheimer’s Disease

Hypothesis: Patients with mild dementia will be able to respond to the method of com-

munication proposed by psychiatrists, while the patients with moderate dementia and

severe dementia will not be able to respond to such communication in the same way in

which the mild dementia patients respond.

Methodology: Using the Mini Mental State exams, the severity levels of patients’

dementia will be determined. Patients will be observed during a daily behavioral

therapy session as well as a dance and movement therapy session.

Outcomes: After observation in group therapy sessions, I expect patients with mild

dementia would be able to communicate cognitively, verbally and through creative

expression. The patients with moderate dementia would be able to communicate

verbally, but with a more narrow vocabulary than mild dementia patients. Also, they

would be able to show some degree of creative expression. The patients with severe

dementia would communicate verbally, but in short sentences followed by long pauses.

Considering the patients’ vocabulary is especially limited, few of these patients would

be able to show creative expression.

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AWARD Blue Ribbon

A R T I S T Michelle Chiu

S C H O O L Twinsburg High School

C I T Y Twinsburg, Ohio

T E A C H E R Sharon Misanko

I N T E R N Michael Ciulla

T I T L E Talk to Me

M E D I U M Mixed Media

A R T I S T ’ S S TAT E M E N T

My work, Talk To Me, is a reflection of how communi-cating with people with dementia and/or Alzheimer'smay be a bit of a challange, but through a bit of workand perserverance, it could all successfully cometogether, just like a jigsaw puzzle.

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Each New Day

Hopeful LoveEach day a new dayNever knowing how she’ll beWill she wake?Will she talk?Will she love?

Each day a new dayNever knowing what she’ll knowWill she knowWill she likeWill she loveMe?

Each day a new dayTo sit by her bedAnd hope that one dayShe will love again

Impossible SolutionsEach day a new dayOf frustration and woeOf seeing blank facesThat are unable to love

Each day a new dayOf chemicals and testsSearching desperately for a cureTo end this endless woe

Each day a new dayOf people saying it can’t be doneAnd wondering if they might be rightAnd hope is finally lost

Each day a new dayTo try and try againWond’ring if today’s the dayThey will remember how to love

ForgettingEach day new dayOf forgetting

ForgettingAnd wondering

Wondering…….Who sits by my bed?

Each day a dayOf no yesterday.

Or…..morning

Wait………who’s there by my bed?!

Each day new dayWanting to rememberWanting to know,Why this man loves me so

AWARD Blue Ribbon

W R I T E R Carly Parker

S C H O O L Westlake High School

C I T Y Westlake, Ohio

T E A C H E R Mindy Clark


T I T L E “Each New Day”

G E N R E Poem

W R I T E R ’ S S TAT E M E N T

This is a poem that focuses on the way that differentpeople are affected by dementia and Alzheimer's. Ittouches on the way it affects a doctor, a husband, andthe patient herself. The patient suffers from severedementia and has trouble stringing even a few wordsinto a comprehensible sentence.

An Elephant Never Forgets

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An Elephant Never Forgets

Every day seems like a struggle to remember yesterday. Or the days before.

I awake and look out my window and feel the sun shining right through me. The sky

is clear and the birds are chirping, which delights my ears. This day is one that I

hope to reminisce. One that I hope to remember, but minutes, hours, or days from

now, I may not have any recollection of this very moment. Will I only remember the

dark gloomy days, or those like today? It’s obvious that I am mentally and emotionally

frustrated. I have no control over this disease that causes memory loss. This illness

affects not only me, but all those around me. I can see their frustration. I wish I could

remember when they need me to, but I'm helpless and have no control or authority.

They ask, “What did you eat for breakfast?” I respond with a simple, “Eggs and

toast,” until my nurse comes in and reports otherwise. They must think I’m completely

insane that I cannot even remember my last breakfast. They must know because

they got me a private nurse, they being all my sons and daughters (although I cannot

remember all their names). I can see the frustration I cause them when I cannot

answer a simple question. They no longer come to me with questions or concerns.

They look at me with shame like I am lying to them. I hold no motherly authority

anymore; I am a stranger to my own children.

On certain days my memory is in full effect. I can remember my childhood, me

leaving Alabama and coming to New York to be with my one true love. I can remember

my photo being taken and published on a billboard in Times Square. I was so young

and naïve. I didn’t even know to ask for any money from the photographers. On these

days I write, I write, and I write whatever I can remember. Or whatever it is I believe

to be true. I have always been intrigued by elephants. Ironically, we’re on opposite

ends of the spectrum in terms of our memory. A large blue elephant was given to me

by my granddaughter. For Christmas? I think I hugged her for it. Maybe I did. I

hope I did. Anyhow, there is an opening on its back. I store my mementos in the elephant

for the days that I forget about my past. My elephant connects me to my past even if

I don’t know it’s my own. One day my memory will be fully gone. I have accepted

this reality. On my good days. Eventually, I will not be capable of remembering my

life or my family. When that day comes I only want to know and read of the days

worthwhile. I may forget about my elephant. I may forget about the letters written to

myself. But someone will tell me about my life. I’m sure of it. Perhaps the elephant’s

memory will become a part of me after so many recitals. I might get confused and

think my life belongs to someone else. Whatever the case may be, I will always keep

a link to my elephant. After all, an elephant never forgets.

AWARD Red Ribbon

W R I T E R Japera Benson

S C H O O L Cleveland Heights High School

C I T Y Cleveland Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Bridget Lambright


T I T L E “An Elephant Never Forgets”

G E N R E Reflection


I chose a personal reflection to represent this researchproject because I want people to become aware of theemotional effects of Alzheimer's disease. Patientsoften feel guilt and a sense of helplessness. Familymembers often unknowingly treat them as burdens. Iwrote in the voice of my grandmother who is sufferingfrom this disease so that family would have moreempathy towards her. I believe that there should be anincreased awareness about the toll that Alzheimer'stakes on the patient and the family.

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AWARD Red Ribbon

A R T I S T Emery Sirna

S C H O O L Brecksville-Broadview Heights High School

C I T Y Broadview Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Anne Jones


T I T L E Christina's Memories

M E D I U M Mixed Media


I focused my artwork on the studies of communicationmethods with patients having dementia andAlzheimer's disease. Reflecting on my grandmother,Christina, who suffered severely from Alzheimer's, Idemonstrated her selective memory, using squarepictures to represent clearer memories and shreddedpictures to represent faded recollections. The lightthat shines on the square pictures demonstrates theonly memories that Christina could converse about,showing her minimal communication. The holes in thebrain scan on top of the light box show the plaquebuildup from the dementia. My goal was to force theviewer to look past the brain into the vivid memoriesof my grandmother.

AWARD White Ribbon

A R T I S T Geoffrey Forney

S C H O O L Salem High School

C I T Y Salem, Ohio

T E A C H E R Lisa Frederick


T I T L E Fading Reality

M E D I U M Photography


My work, Fading Reality, focuses on two things: thelack of communication with a person who has demen-tia, and the loss of reality in the areas of person, place,and time. The person to the left is trying to communi-cate with the patient. The patient is non-responsiveand is focused on his colorful mesh of memories. Themeshed places above represent the loss of place; theclock represents loss of time; and the lady to the leftalso represents loss of person. The black and whiteportion shows the lack of focus on reality.

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Miss AngeliShe’s old, well into her nineties. She’s losing her snow white hair, but she

puts it right back on her head. I only know this when I wash her hair, and everyday more goes down the drain. After every bath, she cries and cries, clutchingher balding head. Her eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen, constantly star-ing at nothing. I’m not even sure why I’m making this, nobody will read it. Shehas a few kids, somewhere, but they don’t visit anymore. I guess it’s just myway of letting her know, whether she knows it or not, that I care about her.

I’ve been her nurse for 2 years now, but it’s not like she knows that. Everyday, I walk into the room, and she formally introduces herself: Francis NoraRuth Angeli. It’s always the full name, even though sometimes she switchesRuth and Nora. Then, she asks about her husband. “Where’s my Robbie?” sheasks. I never have the heart to tell her he died many years ago. I say that he’scoming over soon, and she quickly forgets about it.

Sometimes, when there are no tests, or activities, we just talk. It’s good forher, the doctors say. Soon, her disease will worsen, and we won’t be able to haveconversations anymore, so I cherish the small chitchat every day. We talk abouta lot, from the weather, to her exercise sessions, to what’s for lunch. However,she gets the most excited when she talks about elephants. She worked at a zoofor 35 years, taking care of the elephants. She loved them like family, she says. Ifyou get her started on the subject, she could go on for hours. It seems to be theonly thing she can stay focused on nowadays.

One day, I hope to take her out and take her to the zoo, but I’m sure thatwill never happen. I’m not family, and it would be impossible to convince herchildren to do it. They seem to have given up on their mother. Caroline, theyoungest, has never even taken her kids to see their grandmother. They all seemashamed. I find this crazy, but they don’t get to see her like I do. It’s like I’mthe only real family she has.

She’s completely out of hair. She cried for hours. I tried to calm her down,and take her to her exercise. I finally had to use drugs to get her to quiet down.She looks so peaceful when she sleeps.

I bought her a wig! It’s blonde, like it used to be when she was young. It’sshoulder-length, and it flips out at the bottom. I really hope that she will likeit. I can almost see the look on her face as she puts it on her head. I can’t wait!

She will never get it. I’ll never see that look. I’ll never talk to her again. I’llnever take her to the zoo. I’ll never see those stunning blue eyes. They’re noteven having a funeral. I hate her children. I hate them. She’s just gone, just atiny thought in the back of their minds. The wig is just sitting on my kitchentable, mocking me. What do I do now?

This is my last entry. I’ve decided to leave this on her grave. I hope herchildren see it. I hope they know how much I loved their mother, far more thanthey did. I hope she sees it, from heaven, and finally knows how much I caredabout her. It will be in a plastic bag, along with a flippy blonde wig that wasnever worn.

AWARD White Ribbon

W R I T E R Nicole Radish



T E A C H E R Amy Klenz


T I T L E “Miss Angeli”

G E N R E Diary


My project shows that even the simplest things, suchas your name or the ability to communicate, candiminish with this disease, even without you or anyoneelse realizing.

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If Only

Grandma,

Can you hear me? Oh you look so distressed. A smile lies upon your

face but confusion lies among your brow. You see my figure emerge into

the dusty, old hospital room.

You call out, “Oh child is that you? Is that my daughter?” If only

you could recall my name. How sweetly my name rolled off your tongue.

My mind flashes to the times when you played volleyball with me,

encouraging me each day that I could make it pro. The times when you

took me on walks through the colorful, sweet-smelling woods next to

your backyard, and when we went shopping, laughing and having “girl

talk” along the way. If only you could remember. Memories flood my

brain like a flowing sea of recollections. The swift, kind music that your

fragile hands used to play travels through my head. I would watch intently

as your fingers traveled smoothly up the scale playing each key with

perfection. Those memories are distant now. If only you could remember

how to play. Your loving, kind heart still remains, but it is now surrounded

by sorrow.

Your eyes gaze up at me, “Honey, tell me your name again?” you ask

ever so gently.

“Ella, I whisper quietly. I'm your granddaughter, remember me?”

You look up at me once again, as shimmering tears form in your crystal

blue eyes.

“Oh child, I wish I knew. It sounds so familiar. If only I could

remember.” Tears pierce my eyes and slowly run down my cheek. I force

a smile.

“Grandma, it’ll all be alright.” I grab your fragile hand and kiss your

forehead softly like you used to kiss mine. If only you could recall who

I am. If only you could remember my name.

AWARD White Ribbon

W R I T E R Allyson Pesta



T E A C H E R Mindy Clark


T I T L E “If Only”

G E N R E Narrative Essay


My piece is from a young girl's point of view as shewatches her grandma go through Alzheimer's disease,forgetting who her own granddaughter is. I wanted toshow the effect of Alzheimer's on family members andpatients and the joy it takes out of people's lives. Itdescribes how painful and sorrowful Alzheimer's canbe on patients and their families. I hope it affectsresearchers and scientists to keep trying to find a cure.

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Reflections

Looking into the iridescent flow of water,

Streaming into his past.

As he glances to see his reflection,

He sees

But all the familiar words she spoke to him.

He feels the emotion of

Their love together,

And how it was so easy to look at his yesterdays.

Years later he comes again to the water,

Back to the place where things were once easier.

As he gazes into his reflection again

He sees no more than his face,

Aged since his last visit.

He tries to see her,

He tries to remember her,

But everything in his mind is clouded

With words that aren't hers.

The wind is forming the water into ripples,

Fading his reflection away.

Months have passed and he looks into

The water once more,

To see his reflection one last time.

As he peers forward to see the expected

He sees a blurred vision of his face.

Nothing seems familiar anymore.

As a gust of wind rises forward,

Ripples of water erase his

Reflection completely.

It erases her,

And the sound of her voice.

It erases everything,

And replaces it with a blank screen.

He himself is gone.

AWARD Honorable Mention

W R I T E R Nicole Bogdanovic

S C H O O L Trinity High School

C I T Y Garfield Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Gina Muscatello


T I T L E “Reflections”

G E N R E Poem


This poem is inspired by Michael Ciulla's research,“Communication Methods with Patients withDementia and Research on Alzheimer's.” The firststanza of my poem starts with a young man lookinginto the water, seeing his reflection and past. Thewater is personified as his mind while the woman hethinks of is signified as his memory. When he looks athimself, he remembers his past and all the events thatformed him. His mind is healthy and he does not findit difficult when remembering his former years. Thesecond stanza leads to an abundant amount of timepassing by and his life becomes more difficult due tohis memory loss. The horrifying disease of dementia isslipping through his brain, but he is not aware of it.When he looks into the water, he only sees himself andnothing more. The wind described in the poem is sym-bolized as the dreadful disease of dementia. At thismoment in time it is slowly fading his memory away.The last stanza leads to his very last time turning to hismemory, and attempting to remember his past. Whenhe turns to his memory, everything is blurred. Hisdementia fully takes over his brain, erasing every lastounce of memory he has.

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Stage 7

I don’t know where my mom is taking me. All she said when she woke me up wasthat we needed to visit Mr. L.

“Who’s Mr. L?” I thought to myself. Mommy has never mentioned any Mr. L before,so I don’t know what to expect.

I look up from my coloring book when I hear the car turn off. My mommy unbucklesherself and tells me to do the same. When we get out of the car, we walk towards a large,unfamiliar building. I’m not sure what it is.

Before we walk in, my mommy tells me how to talk to Mr. L. “Katerina, you have totalk to Mr. L slowly, and make sure you are looking at him when you talk.”

The lady inside the building sits behind a desk. She is very nice, and she brings mymommy and I to a room. Besides for the small bed and a nightstand, the room is empty.There is an old man lying on the bed looking towards the ceiling. He isn’t moving.I don’t recognize him, but my mommy is talking to him like she has known him forever.

“Come say hi, Katerina,” my mom now turns towards me. I am scared to talk. I don’tknow him, and I then remember how I am supposed to speak with him. I wonder why Ihave to speak slowly. “Go on,” encourages my mother.

“H...hi, Mr. L,” I stutter out of nervousness. I think I spoke slow enough, but I’m notreally sure. At this time, my mom leaves the room to talk to the lady that greeted us.I overhear them talking about Mr. L’s “condition.”

“His cognitive level is that of an eleven-year-old, and his severity level is worseningday by day. There is not much time left until his severity peaks.” The lady was using bigwords that I couldn’t understand. What are they talking about?

“Katerina. That’s your name, right?” I turn towards the bed where Mr. L is; I nodand he understands.

“How old are you?”“I’m six. My birthday was yesterday!” I remember to talk slowly and directly, but Mr.

L seems to understand me perfectly well. Our conversation lasts until my mom finishesspeaking with the lady. We say our goodbyes and return home.

“Mommy,” I say once we get in the car. “What was that man at that place for?”“He has dementia, honey. Alzheimer’s disease is what it’s called. He has to be in that

home because he can’t take care of himself anymore.” My mommy’s voice cracked, butI’m not sure why.

“But he seemed normal.” I couldn’t see why he was too sick to take care of himself.He wasn’t anything like the other adults in the home. Actually, I thought he wasvery normal.

* * *

“Hi, Mr. L!” We are back visiting. It’s been two weeks since our last visit, but we’vebeen here about three other times this year since our first visit.

“I remember you…what’s your name again?”“Don’t you remember? It’s me, Katerina!” For some reason he didn’t know my name,

but he knew my face. I don’t think anything of it though. After all, I have the sameproblem sometimes.

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My mom goes to talk with Kara, the lady at the desk. Mr. L and I continue ourconversation.

“What is it that you got there?” He points to my coloring book. His words are slurredand he is speaking slower than last time. I remember to keep eye contact.

I explain my coloring book and show him my work. He’s very intrigued by it. Wespend our time flipping through the pages. We even colored together; it reminded meof my classroom at school.

* * *

It’s been four months since we’ve last visited, and I cannot wait to color more.I enter the empty room. When I ask him “What’s up?” he doesn’t look at me, he

continues to blankly stare at the ceiling. I move towards the bed and face him to repeatmy greeting.

“Mr. L? It’s me, Katerina! I brought my coloring book again…”Nothing. His eyes are glued to the ceiling. The color in his face is practically gone,

and he remains expressionless.“Mr. L!!!” He stares at me blankly, but then returns to the ceiling. I turn towards the

door, and I hear the lady in the hall talking to my mommy.“He’s reached high severity. Communication is minimal, and he doesn’t respond most

of the time. His Alzheimer’s is now at stage 7.” My mom’s tearing up. After thankingKara and attempting to say goodbye, we leave.

* * *

“Who is Mr. L?” My mom had still failed to tell me this, I was curious.“He is your grandpa, Katerina. His dementia developed a year before you were born.

I didn’t think you were ready until now.” She looked as if she were greatly relieved froma huge secret.

The news is shocking, and I don’t know what to think anymore. I wish my mommyhad told me before now, but I quickly forgive her. I am just glad I was given a chance toget to know him. I love Mr. L because we are alike in many ways. Even though I don’tunderstand what stage 7 means, I feel like it is the reason we get along. After all, I’mseven years old, and Mr. L is my friend.


W R I T E R Morgan Choe

S C H O O L Kirtland High School

C I T Y Kirtland, Ohio

T E A C H E R Meriah Duncan


T I T L E “Stage 7”

G E N R E Short Story


Based on the research of Michael Ciulla, my storydepicts the many misunderstandings of dementia thatoccur within the mind of a seven-year-old. Katerinaand her mom visit the nursing home many times tomeet with Mr. L, a patient with Alzheimer's disease.Through the progression of the story, Mr. L's andKaterina's cognitive levels meet in the middle. In thebeginning, his severity is mild, but it worsens as thestory progresses. Katerina mistakes Stage 7 with “Age7”: the age of Katerina herself, and she believes this isthe reason they got along well.

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Remember Me Never

As Lucy stood there, covered in her husband’s blood, she realized that this was a moment she would never forget.

“Good morning, Lucy. My name is Edie. This is your room at the Cleveland Clinic. You have been here for 2 years, 3months, and 6 days. You have a unique form of dementia in which your memories are erased by the time you wake upevery morning. When you wake up, your last memory is always sitting at dinner with your husband on his twenty-fourthbirthday. What you don’t remember is that a few hours later, he died in your arms. I know this is a lot to take in, but Ineed to continue on regardless.”

Lucy sat there motionless, looking at her hands, imagining them covered in her dead husband’s blood, but she justcouldn’t bring the memory back. It was gone. She felt completely fine and stretched her legs and arms to do a quick checkthat everything was intact. Lucy was perfectly healthy. She’s crazy, Lucy concluded, she has some other woman’s chart.

She retraced her actions of the day before. It was crystal clear that her husband had not died yesterday. There was nopossible way that she had become a widow 2 years, 3 months, and 6 days ago.

Edie, unaffected by the atomic bomb that just destroyed Lucy’s entire existence, carried on with the comings andgoings of her day. She wrote down the numbers on the beeping machine, took notes on Lucy’s reaction, shined a lightinto her eyes, and sat down.

She just sat there, chewing on the corner of her big thumb nail and staring at Lucy.“Every single day.” Edie sighed.Lucy turned to stare back at the nurse.“Every single day I’m here I hope for a miracle for you. Even on days that I don’t work I come here to watch you

wake up so I know that a day won’t go by where you don’t have a chance of remembering. It’s somewhere in your brain.I know it is. I just don’t know how to activate it.”

Lucy was too in shock to take in any of Edie’s words. Her eyes caressed every part of her room that she apparentlyhas been in for 2 years, 3 months, and 6 days. It was all foreign and strange to her. How could she possibly have spent somuch time here and not have a single inch of it seem familiar.

“Let me just cut to the chase. You’re going to continue to look around trying to recognize something. You will lookup and see your reflection in the glass of the TV. You will see your hair, grab it, pull it away from your head, and cry. Lou,I see you do this every day.”

“What did you just call me?” Lucy stammered as she stole a glance at her raggedy snipped bob haircut and held in ayelp in mourning of her flowing blonde locks.

“I called you Lou. It’s what your husband called you.” Edie was trying to give Lucy little memories to piece together.“I know. Do not call me that. Henry is the only person who can call me that.”Lucy closed her eyes to stifle her tears. All of a sudden a memory took over her mind as if she was watching it hap-

pen in real life. She felt the warm ooze of blood down her arms as she applied pressure to her husband’s chest. She feltthe cool breeze of that autumn night. She heard Henry moan, “Lou, I’ll always love you. Don’t forget me.”

An uncontrollable piercing scream escaped from Lucy. She had not even realized she had made any sound at all whensuddenly her room was flooded with different colored scrubs. They held her down. Someone pricked her with a needlewhile someone else put an oxygen mask on her face. She couldn’t help but feel uncontrollably calm.

Edie sat and watched. She had grown to love Lucy and couldn’t bear to treat her like a patient in situations likethese. A few hours later, Lucy regained consciousness. Edie was holding her hand before her eyes were even open.

“Edie, I remember. I felt that blood, and the wind. I heard his voice.”That was all it took to send Edie off in a full sprint. “This is it,” Edie thought, “this is what we’ve been waiting for.

She’s going to recover.”A few minutes later, Lucy’s room was flooded again. There were doctors, nurses, interns, research students, even

some patients who had gotten to know Lucy. She was flustered and couldn’t concentrate on any of their questions. It wasfar too much for her to handle.

By the time people had dispersed from her room, the sun was setting and Lucy was exhausted. She said goodnight toEdie and told her she’d see her in the morning. She laid her head on the over-stuffed pillow and went to sleep.

“Good morning, Lucy! How are you today?” said Edie in a chipper tone.“Who are you?” was all Lucy said.

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W R I T E R Laina Culley

S C H O O L Brecksville-Broadview Heights High School

C I T Y Broadview Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Todd Goodman


T I T L E “Remember Me Never”

G E N R E Short Story


I wanted to create a story of despair and hope all inone. I found this topic to be the most fitting and I feelthat I've captured the atmosphere.


W R I T E R Hallie Rasner

S C H O O L Trinity High School

C I T Y Garfield Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Gina Muscatello


T I T L E “Limitless”

G E N R E Poem


My poem is meant to expose the effects of Alzheimer'sand dementia. The first stanza shows that a personwith these diseases loses all sense of time. The secondstanza shows that while his memory is waning, he stillimagines that he is in different periods of his life. In thethird, he speaks of his hallucinations, and in the fourth,he is unsure if they are a reality. At this point, he real-izes that his memory might be failing.

Limitless

I am free –

Unrestricted by time

It surrounds me, engulfs me

But liberates me

I travel

But stay in one place

My mind takes me where I want

To go; sometimes I am forced

To enter its darkest corners

These visions around me

They slowly fade

Into the walls that define my

Cell, my chamber –

Are they real?

I try to recall, to recognize,

Their faces, but my mind,

Like a fresh sheet of

Paper, is blank, empty –

I cannot remember

Yet time goes on

Think of Me

May 3rd, 2011

Dear Diary,

I’ve been forgetful for as long as I can remember. As a child, I’d carelessly leave my

lunchbox at home and end up begging the lunch aids for a dollar so I could buy milk and

ham on sweet white bread. I’d forget my lines in the school plays occasionally, and as I

got older, I’d forget where I left my car keys or placed my pocket book. Common mistakes.

Now, I forget the name of my nephew, his birthday, even the color of his eyes. I know it

will come back to me, but at least for right now I have no memory of him. I know he

exists, truly I do. Anyway, soon I will forget everything and all that will be left of me are

the insignificant things that people probably won’t care to remember. My name is

Bethany Thompson, I’m 62 years old, and I have been diagnosed with dementia and

Alzheimer’s disease.

August 8th, 2011

Dear Diary,

I met with my sister today. We went out for breakfast and afterwards to the doctor’s

office. Slowly but surely, I am fading away: my memory, my personality, my reason for

existence. I can’t imagine lacking the ability to remember my own children, my own life,

not to mention my own name. Every so often, I have spurts of thoughtlessness. I forget

where I am, or what my purpose was in doing certain things. Last week, I visited my son

at his ranch for some tea. We were sitting in the kitchen when he got up to use the

restroom. When he returned, I had no idea who he was. I screamed and dashed for the

door, “Dear God, get away from me!” Imagine that. My very own son, an intruder in his

own home.

September 54th, 1906

Dear Diary,

I saw Michael today during lunch at the school house. He told me that I looked nice

today, and asked me to be his date to prom. We went and had a very nice time. I haven’t

talked to him since then, but hopefully I’ll see him tomorrow. Oh, I’m forgetting some-

thing. I lost something, I …I need to find it, whatever it is.

June 14th, 2012

Dear Diary,

They won’t remember. They won’t remember. If I can’t remember, how will they? No one

will remember. No one will care. I‘ll lose my dignity and my purpose. They won’t

remember. They won’t remember. I’m going to forget.

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Dear Diary,

I don’t know today’s date. I think it’s 2001, because I’m wearing my charm bracelet

that my sister gave me on my 52nd birthday. Mrs. Marshall from the UWA came over

today to discuss certain things that are going on with me. It’s difficult and frustrating to

communicate with that woman, or anyone for that matter. They don’t understand me,

and I don’t think they try to. I’m not asking for pity, but just look at things from my

perspective and be aware of what the hell I’m going through. Anyway, I explained to her

that I have too many important things in my life that I value and cherish to just, forget

them. I’m sad, alone. Clinically depressed, and I’ve got a prescription for antidepressants

to prove it. My daughter Cristina suggested that I use decorative sticky notes to help

myself throughout this Alzheimer’s. So I did. All around my household, 376 post-it notes

are there for me so that I can possibly remember things. “It’ll be OKAY,” is written on

eight of them. On my bathroom mirror I have five, reminding me of the pills that I must

take morning and evening. “You’re beautiful, Bethany,” appears on seven. Labeled pictures

of family and friends hang from my ceiling. The other 356 of them include words of love

and hope. Oh my. It’s really happening. I’m losing it. Darkness is slowly creeping up as

the depression consumes me. I think I’ll cancel my lunch with Kaysee for tomorrow.

November 4th, 2016

Dear Diary,

Bethany Yelsky-Thompson. She passed away at the age of 67. She was found alone in

the master bedroom of her apartment on October 24th, 2016. Scattered pills lay across the

floor as she sat there shaking and scared. The ambulance rushed her to the hospital at

3:17 that morning. She was recovering smoothly for about a week in the intensive care

unit at the Cleveland Clinic. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s took her life on November 1st,

2016, when she lost the ability to breathe. Alzheimer’s disease is an irreversible, progressive

brain disease that slowly terminates memory and thinking skills, and eventually even the

ability to carry out the simplest tasks, such as breathing. It is with great honor that I

finish the last entry in her diary, which she kept for nearly five years. Before she passed,

she shared with me her deepest concern. “I don’t want to be forgotten,” she explained,

“I want you to think of me. On Christmas, when your children leave milk and cookies out

for Saint Nicholas and you creep into the family room and eat them before they awaken,

think of me, and how I used to the same for you. When you take the little ones to Disney

Land and race to the lake with sand in your toes, think of me, because the same thing used

to put a beautiful smile on your face that stretched from ear to ear. Just remember to think

of me, baby, in everything that you do. I don’t want to be forgotten.” I love you, mother.

Forever yours,

Cristina.


W R I T E R Daria Redus

S C H O O L Orange High School

C I T Y Pepper Pike, Ohio

TEACHERS Kathy Frazier, Barbara Greenberg,Vikas Turakhia


T I T L E “Think of Me”

G E N R E Diary


My entries portray an elderly woman coping with herAlzheimer's disease and the various ways that sheresponds to things going on around her. A movie thatI recently saw impacted my choice selection due to theunlimited ways that I could have interpreted the topic.I felt that describing this situation in a diary formatwould provide great insight to the topic as well as reallife examples. In creating the entries, I wanted to stressthe challenges that patients with dementia andAlzheimer's disease go through on a personal level.

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A R T I S T Anupama Suresh

S C H O O L Shaker Heights High School

C I T Y Shaker Heights, Ohio

T E A C H E R Dan Whitely


T I T L E Ambiguous Patient

M E D I U M Charcoal Drawing


I chose to draw this piece in order to show the gradualdisorder that surrounds the patient and all around him.His eyes are closed, symbolizing the isolation fromreality, and my rough and chaotic charcoal marks helpto show his frustration by expressing his thoughts andthe inability of people around him to comprehend hisstruggle. I didn't add color to emphasize this strugglewith dementia and the restlessness felt through theprocess.


A R T I S T Sarah Wilson

S C H O O L Berea High School

C I T Y Berea, Ohio

T E A C H E R Jim Bycznski


T I T L E Untitled

M E D I U M Drawing


My project shows that even the most simple things,such as your name, or the ability to communicate, candiminish with this disease, even without you or anyoneelse realizing.

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