TAKE ME TO YOUR MOON 2
Journeys into the World of Dementia
(2022 - 2026, 1998 - 1999)
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BEDROOM PRISON #368, 2025, 12.5x10.5x9.5"
The Twilight Years, a 1972 novel, gave voice to the hidden anguish of Japanese women, who customarily bore the duty of caring for parents and in-laws with dementia. The book struck a nerve, selling more than a million copies. Startled by the public response, the Tokyo metropolitan government sent Dr. Hasegawa into neighborhoods to see the reality for himself. What he found was devastating. An old man locked in a barn. A frail grandmother left for hours in soiled clothes. Families overwhelmed, ashamed, and alone. A stark phrase “zashiki-rō”—a bedroom prison—was no exaggeration. Dementia sufferers were confined behind closed doors while exhausted caregivers pleaded for help. At last, their voices were acknowledged. Japan established its national long-term care insurance system in 2000. * “I Finally Found Out About Dementia: A Will that a Specialist Who Has Sustained Dementia Himself Conveys to Japanese People” published by Dr. Kazuo Hasegawa in 2019 
BRIDGE OF SUPPORT, #348, 2024, 16.5x19.25x7.5", sold Coco cared for her husband, Bob, as dementia slowly stole pieces of him. The 24/7 responsibility of caregiving left her exhausted and alone. For years, she carried the worry, the humiliation, and the frustration by herself. Sometimes, the one who carries the weight does not reach the other side. Coco suffered a heart attack. That moment changed everything. Her adult children stepped forward. Friends, relatives, and neighbors arrived with meals, rides, and steady presence. Even grandchildren were encouraged to help. Bob was sent to adult daycare, giving Coco space to breathe again. What had once been carried by one was now held by many-- a bridge of support, strong enough for both of them to cross. 
COULD YOU STILL HOLD MY HAND? #114, 1998, 24x29" I remember a poem pinned to the wall of a resident’s room in a nursing home. It read something like this: I used to sing, dance, work, laugh, and love. But time has taken them from me. I can no longer sing or dance. I am bound to a wheelchair, a frown resting on my sagging face. I must be fed. I must be put to bed. I cannot even recognize you. Yet—would you still come and hold my hand? 
UNFAILING LOVE #318, 2022, 17.5x17x18", sold In the nursing home where I worked, residents had 30 minutes to finish their meals. Shane was one of the few who needed to be fed by syringe. One day, his wife came to visit. We placed his tray in a quiet corner, away from the busy cafeteria. When she asked for a spoon, I said, “Does Shane open his mouth?” “Yes,” she answered. “If you give him enough time.” The meal period ended. Other residents returned to their rooms for a nap. His wife remained, feeding him at his pace, restoring, in each small spoonful, his dignity. 
WALLED ARMOR #370, 2025, 17.5x12.5.11" In the nursing home, Ryan, a Vietnam vet, barked at aides, complained about the food, and snapped at anyone who tried to sit beside him. Before long, people stopped trying. Most days he ate alone, facing the wall. To some, he was simply an angry old man. But those who understood dementia in veterans saw something else. As memory weakens, old instincts grow louder. Confusion feels like danger. Pride refuses help. So Ryan did what he had been trained to do. He defended himself. The sharp voice, the scowl, the distance were now his armor. Behind it sat an aging soldier who no longer knew the battle, only the instinct to survive within his walled armor. 
PEARL #343, 2024, 14.75x15x7", sold Pearl, a Lakota resident in a nursing home, had a way of drawing people to her. Whenever we saw new nurse’s aides idling, we would send them to her. Soon after, we would see them in the hallway, walking hand in hand. Whenever I stopped by her room, she would lift her arms and say with delight, “Come visit with me,” as if I were an old friend. Yet she did not remember me, or what had happened only minutes before. Her mind lived in earlier days, and at times she would wander from the nursing home. As we hurried after her, she would say, “I hate to go because everybody is nice to me, but my brother is waiting for me in the wagon.” Pearl was loved. Her gift was a love she gave freely. 
MUSIC TO OUR EARS #345, 2024, 9.5x9.5x9", sold Henry sat motionless, his hands clasped on the tray of his wheelchair. For years, he had been like a partially collapsing statue—tongue-tied, fading from the world around him. Then a staff member placed headphones over his ears and played the music he had loved when he was young. Almost immediately, Henry lifted his head and opened his eyes wide. He began to sing the fast melody, his arms swinging, his feet tapping and stepping to a rhythm his body still remembered. The room changed with him. Other residents smiled as they watched delight spread across his face. Music had reached a place untouched by dementia. And there, waiting beneath the stillness, Henry was alive. * Documentary “Alive Inside: A Story of Music and Memory” 
SPREAD THE REJOICE #367, 2025, 11.5x9x13", sold My 89-year-old mother lives with dementia in an assisted living home in Japan. After my stepfather died, she withdrew into her room, worrying about what others thought of her. “I’m lonely,” she told me. “There’s no one to talk to.” Grief can steal a person’s will to live, and I feared it was happening to her. Then one day, something shifted. “No,” she said. “I don’t want to die yet. There’s still so much to do.” Soon she found her place again. At the home, she took charge of the karaoke machine for a women’s circle. Now they gather almost every day, singing old melodies and laughing together. When my father died 21 years ago, it was this same brightness that drew my stepfather to her. Dementia may blur her memories, but it has not dimmed her gift of rejoicing in life. 
HER ESSENCE #372, 2025, 19.5x7.5x9.5" My mother was unsteady on her feet, yet she always insisted on walking me to the entrance of her assisted living home to see me off. In Japan, people customarily change shoes at the door. Each time she bent to change her shoes, I swallowed my fear. When I drove away, I watched in the rearview mirror as she bowed and waved, and I whispered a small prayer that she would find her way safely back to her room. One day I asked why she insisted on coming outside. “I’m your daughter,” I said. “You can say goodbye in your room.” She looked at me, almost puzzled. “I was taught to be courteous to my guests,” she said. “I want to carry that out, no matter who you are.” Her memory might be fading, but not the person she had spent a lifetime becoming. 
FLIGHT #383, 2026, sculpture 13x13x13", painting 20x29.5" In the surgical unit where my mother stayed, visits were limited to 15 minutes every other day. She was allowed only a full liquid diet. My sister did what she could. She brought pudding and called me on video from our mother’s room. We watched her as she ate. Afterward, she was encouraged to speak to me across the screen. Wiping her lips with a tissue, she smiled. “I’m happy,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you.” Her words, and that wide smile, returned to me again and again in the days that followed. In Japan, self-expression is often restrained. It was the first time I had seen such unguarded happiness in her. Dementia had opened her cage. She responded simply, honestly, to what little we could give. She was free-- to fly. 
EARTHLY JUDGEMENT #346, 2024, 15.5x24x14" My paternal grandmother lived with us while I was growing up. She did not help. Her days were spent-- eating, watching television, napping, criticizing, and checking her pillbox. Years passed. As my father’s business neared bankruptcy, my parents no longer had the time or strength to care for her—now blind and incontinent. They begged her to move in with one of her other children. She refused, insisting it was my father’s duty, as her first son, to care for her. She fell, broke her hip, and was hospitalized. She did not eat. A feeding tube was inserted. After she pulled out the nasogastric tube twice, her wrists were tied to the bed. I was a nursing student then, home for a visit. An aunt complained that my mother should remain at the bedside to prevent her from pulling the tube. That evening, I said I would care for my grandmother at home until she passed. My father’s response was immediate, almost defensive: “Can you imagine what your uncles and aunt would say if I took her out of the hospital against the doctor’s advice?” 
DEPARTURE #347, 2024, sculpture 5x7x21", painting diameter 22" Lying in a hospital bed, my grandmother slept like a baby for days. Then, suddenly, the silent patient called out-- for her husband, and for an old employee named Doh-- again and again, at the top of her voice. The cries frightened an elder in the next room, who knew both men had long been dead. Early the next morning, a nurse found that she had passed. “Grandpa and Doh came to get her,” I said to myself when I saw her peaceful face, a faint smile resting upon it. 
END AND BEGINNING OF CYCLE #125, 1999, 30x30" When death draws near, loved ones—long gone—sometimes return, as if to escort the dying. There may be a long, dark tunnel, and at its end, a radiant light-- a stillness filled with calm. This experience comes to some regardless of religion, race, or age; regardless of belief or doubt, of a life fulfilled or a life burdened. At the threshold of ending, peace awaits. And in that brief crossing-- is it possible we are being shown how deeply, how nonjudgmentally, we are loved? 
TAKE ME TO YOUR MOON #387, 2026, sculpture 16.25x27.5x12", painting 24.25x36" Christine Bryden, a person living with dementia, once sat beside a Japanese woman nearing the end of her journey. The woman had been unresponsive for days. Holding her hand, Christine gently stroked the back of it. Suddenly, the woman opened her eyes. Later, Christine recalled the moment: “It was a spirit-to-spirit conversation. There was no language, no cultural barrier.” She then said: “I believe that at the centre of our being lies the true self. It is what makes us who we are. This is our spirit—the place from which we draw meaning. This spirit remains, even at the end. When we no longer respond to you, you will need to open your heart to reach us. You may see us as departing, but we are still here. Let your spirit join ours.” 
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