The pink bedroom: How memories of special moments help us grieve the loved ones we’ve lost

By Meghan Fitzpatrick, Hospice & Palliative Care Representative
Old Colony Hospice & Palliative Care

My grandma was a character. She was born during the Depression and raised during WWII. She was always a survivor. Growing up, she lived with us for long stretches of time, helping my single working mom raise me and filling the house with the smell of food and her loud, Italian personality. Eventually, she was able to go back to her house in Albany, where we always spent our holidays, and I loved it. When visiting her, I got to stay in my Mom’s old pink bedroom and I felt like a princess.
I was 17 when grandma had her first fall. It was a familiar story from there. She had broken her hip and the resulting surgery and hospital stay began a slow cognitive decline. By the time I was 25, she needed to move into an assisted-living community. She adapted quickly and enjoyed herself there tremendously.
At 29, I moved to California. I stayed in touch with phone calls and FaceTime and many, many cross-country flights to visit until COVID happened and made travel impossible to anyone working in senior care. After nine months of missing my family, my boss and I finally worked out a way for me to go and come back without putting anyone at risk. I took a red-eye out and when I landed, my Mom had texted telling me to call. My grandma had passed away while I was in the air. She was 88. She had been on and off of hospice for years. I specialize in dementia. I know how this works. But she was a survivor. I was shocked.
My husband and I rode in silence to our first stop in New Hampshire. I greeted my family there and said nothing about my grandma. I had a lovely afternoon and we went to bed early. Then I cried. I sobbed. I hated myself for abandoning her. I felt all the things I know come with grief. But the thing that kept popping into my head was the pink bedroom from her house in Albany. It had been years since we sold her house to pay for her care. But the image of that bedroom just kept coming back, and every time it did, I cried harder. I missed the bedroom.
Grief is different with dementia. I hadn’t realized that before. My grandma’s pink bedroom was the last place I slept before she started to develop symptoms, but there was no time to grieve at the time. Grandma needed care so we set about getting it for her. Loving someone with dementia means continuing to love them while they’re here, while simultaneously grieving the person you loved before the dementia. We get frustrated with them because we hope against all hope that they will come back to us. We all have that pink bedroom in our head reminding us of what we’ve already lost.
My hope in writing this is that when you read it, you will learn what I couldn’t at the time – to be gentle with yourself as you love someone through their dementia. You are grieving.

About the Author: Meghan Fitzpatrick is a business development representatives at Old Colony Hospice & Palliative Care. She has a strong background in assisted living and dementia care. She is also a trained support group facilitator for the Alzheimer’s Association. Her compassion and knowledge make her a vital part of Old Colony Hospice’s outreach efforts. She is a trusted resource in the community, connecting with families, providers, and community partners throughout the region and can be reached at mfitzpatrick@oldcolonyhospice.com.