What abscission feels like

There’s a tree called the Gingko. Its leaves are gorgeous, simplistic, fan-shaped. I’ve loved them for a long time and used them over the years in things I’ve designed. They speak to me.

The last two years have been hard. No, I’m not talking about Covid, although that added a layer of complexity to things.

After a bout of pneumonia, a few days in the hospital due to a sudden drop in potassium, and a year full of medical appointments, we finally found out that my wonderful 63-year-old husband, Bill, has dementia. He can no longer work, drive, cook, and has difficulty performing simple tasks. The pneumonia and potassium drop, jump-started the dementia, and his symptoms and cognitive decline came on fast.

This diagnosis came into our lives following the deaths of both of my beloved parents.

I’m not looking for a pity party here. That’s not where I want my energy to land, so stay with me.

Back to the Gingko tree. The process of losing leaves is called abscission. A few years ago I read that this particular tree loses its leaves - goes through the abscission process - all at once, very quickly in comparison to other trees, sometimes even in one day. It's unknown what exact day it will happen because of varying temperatures and weather conditions. If you get to see the bed of leaves it sheds, it’s a gift.

That’s what life has felt like. All my leaves dropped all at once, those things that felt real, safe, that I cherished, all fell away from me, leaving the trunk and branches bare, exposed, vulnerable, scared. I’ve gone through an abscission.

The Gingko is resilient, and doesn’t just survive with age, it thrives. It’s durable and has an incredibly strong immune system.

I’ve taken some time to process my feelings, deal with paperwork, plan for a strange future, reach out for help, and pray to God to provide for our needs. Friends and family have been wonderful. Business associates have been supportive cheerleaders when I felt like curling up and shutting the world out.

Bill and I openly talk about what he’s experiencing, and how it’s impacting us, our children, our family. We feel it’s important to share, to help destigmatize this unkind disease and it’s symptoms, and to help others who don’t have the kind of support that we do.

Again, back to that glorious tree. Last year, November 6th, 2021, I was running errands and realized I was near a spot where a Gingko grew. And yes, it was the right day. I saw the bed of golden yellow on the ground, the branches stripped bare. I picked up a bunch of leaves and took them home. They give me hope. They inspire me to be durable, resilient, and strive to thrive through this.

My creativity has been my refuge throughout my life and I know it will be my sanity as I navigate this maze. I’m blessed to have talent that provides an outlet for my own pain and grief while providing some hope and visual inspiration for others.

As I spend time in my studio, those Gingko leaves are having a big presence. I’m working on new designs for “Positivity Panels” combining images with luscious encaustic, available very soon.

I need hope, I need to trust, I need to have faith things will work out. Maybe you do too. Maybe you know someone else who does too.

With gratitude,