In the last five years, several studies have shown that giving life-sized baby dolls to Alzheimer's patients helps to relieve anxiety and to improve negative behaviors. This interests me because 1) my mother died after a long bout with Alzheimer's; 2) three of her siblings had or have Alzheimer's, and 3) I am terrified, yea verily, phobic that I will get the disease myself. When I first heard of the doll therapy it made perfect sense to me. My mother, who had nine babies, would have loved taking care of a baby, even a fake baby. I loved holding my own babies, and I can imagine a lowering of blood pressure with a pretend baby.
Even with dementia, I wouldn't want a big rubber doll from K-Mart for $29.95, so I thought that while I still have control over my life, I would buy a doll I actually liked. So I ordered myself an Ashton-Drake "Emily" doll: "So truly real."
I picked this doll because it was "21" inches long and none of my boys was shorter than that at birth. I picked a female doll so I could buy it pink dresses at T.J. Maxx.
The most difficult part of ordering the doll was having to wade through the copywriting: "A precious vision in pink, she rests her sleepy eyes, so tread lightly, lest you wake her from her pampered slumber."
Really? I don't have dementia yet. I know it's a doll! The damned doll does not slumber. And "lest you wake her"? Who talks like that?
Also difficult was facing the fact that I was now a 68-year old granny buying a doll for herself. What excuse did I have? Preparedness? I've never prepared for anything in my life.
I liked the doll. It reminded me of one I got in 4th grade with the same infant face. There is a ten-year old girl buried in this aging body.
The doll arrived today. I'm naming it Isabella, not Emily. Our first dog was Emily. The best thing about this doll? It weighs five pounds and feels good in your arms. The hand-pasted hair is beautifully done and I like the the shape of its ears and its curled hands. It's a good choice for a demented aesthete.
I will not refer to it as "she." Language is my hold on reality. Word choice is my comfort; poetry, my shining star.
I want one.
ReplyDeleteI just spent a long afternoon with Used to Be Mom. I'm going doll shopping tomorrow. I too am terrified and judging from all the glaucoma drops UTBM uses now, I will pick up some Vitalux too.
ReplyDeleteI have a six month old real baby but I think I may copy you and buy one. I won't always have a real baby and for me holding a baby is just about the one sure way to feel content.
ReplyDeleteI'm surprised you're not naming her Emily. And a little bit disappointed.
ReplyDeleteMother, I'm putting you on the next flight to Phoenix. It will be ok. I love you, we all love you. It will all be ok.
ReplyDeletep.s. You can live in the kitchen until we move into our house.
The doll is a lot cuter in the picture than in real life. I think Isabell could be cast in the next baby-doll slasher movie....Her giant hands come alive and strangle their victims! Watch out!
ReplyDeleteMy mother bought a similar doll for my daughter fifteen years ago when my son was born. My daughter left it on the floor just inside of my hospital room. The nurse nearly had a heart attack when she walked in to find an infant on the floor while the rest of the people in the room gathered casually around my bed, eating strawberries. It didn't have good hair, though. You had to leave the hat on to fool anyone. Anyway, now I know to save it for when I follow in my grandmother's footsteps. I hope I don't have to give it back to my mother sometime soon.
ReplyDeleteDid Isabella survive last night's family outing?
ReplyDelete