Auntie Shouldbee

Today I knit for a few minutes, just enough to catch my breath. There in front of me sat a knitted fabric I created (with the help of a pattern). Not a difficult project. In fact a pushbutton shawl pattern called “Colonnade” that I discovered on Ravelry.com. Truth be told I do need clothes for next fall and while we just got through an warm winter I don't want to hedge my bets as far as what next winter promises.

Every time I pick up the needles it's the same old story. Out pops “Auntie Shouldbee.” As in “you should be doing dishes, cleaning, doing laundry, paying bills, preparing tomorrow's schedule, etc., etc." “Shouldbee” knows the minute I'm doing what this shadow considers self- indulgent. If “Auntie Shouldbee” had human form she would resemble that old-fashioned, stern school marm with a ruler in her hand ready to fire. She pokes at my brain while nagging me over things left undone, as if I need reminding. Auntie Shouldbee and I begin to argue as I begin to knit. She's a relentless little one as she goes down the list of tasks incomplete and those to come.

Breathe, I remind myself, just breathe. You're entitled to a little downtime. Mom and Dad are resting. My daily rest has averaged about three-five hours a night over the past twelve days because Dad hit a rough patch. I struggle to concentrate on the pattern. Knit2 together. Knit2 together. Yarnover. Yarnover. Knit. Knit. Knit. Knit. Auntie Shouldbee continues to poke me. I lose my rhythm and count back to ensure I remembered the second yarn over. My mind turns into mush, but I'm gaining ground.

Putting the needles down, I have to ask myself, “Why am I knitting when there's so much to do?” Is it form of blantant escapism? Does it calm my nerves? Does it help me think? Focus? What? The answer isn't definitive. There is no answer to this question today. Not right now. Why don't I do something else others would label “more worthwhile”?

My skillset does not label me as an “uber-knitter,” although I can out-frog the best of 'em. (Frogging involves ripping back stitches for the non-knitting readers.) In all honesty and immaturity, I blame Auntie Shouldbee. She knows better than to interrupt. Auntie Shouldbee continues to rant like an angry gorilla in the room. Jumping up and down to get my attention. Not a pretty sight, especially when her stockings fall down around her ankles.

This is not to say my projects are completely abandoned or go unfinished due to boredom or a poor skillset, they aren't (OK, sometimes an endless sea of garter stitch can be off-putting). Projects have been given "time outs" in order to forgive the careless pattern writer or to slap myself a few times for failing to comprehend what the designer has written. Certainly my family has benefited from my efforts in the form of socks, handwarmers, scarfs, mittens, sweaters. The family has seen them all. Auntie Shouldbee doesn't buy the benefits.

As I continue down the pattern, a gentle thought emerges that partially answers the question. No matter what happens to be going on, the act of knitting serves me unconditionally. An on-call fibre-therapist, if you will. Knitting calms be down. Knitting makes me happy and gives me a pat on the back for a job well done. Knitting soothes my soul and reflects what I put into it. If I make an error, it's an error, but it can be fixed with forgiveness. The pattern, whether charted or written, slows my mind down and takes me away from the stresses and strains of my life as caregiver. Knitting reshapes itself to be what I need it to be at the present moment.

As for Auntie Shouldbee, she's really not so bad. We need to compromise. She does remind me of things I need to do. I just wish she wasn't so blessed cranky.

FYI

Of Prosnostications

It's 1 AM and for the third consecutive night Dad's gotten me out of bed resulting in a false alarm. My eyes sting from sleep deprivation. His behavior is new. I keep asking myself if the adjusted medication is the culprit, or perhaps a waking dream, or maybe those things that go bump in the night interrupted his sleep. I just can't predict when my next attempt at sleep will be derailed.

Usually fall's coolness equals a good night's sleep. The season has an other-worldly feel to it that belies explanation. I marvel at the crispness of the air, the shorten days wrapping itself around me and the garden's rush of activity as it prepares to hibernate.

New Englanders are famous for forecasting the severity of the coming winter through natural occurrences, such as when hummingbirds pack their bags and the woolly worm's attire. If the worm's wearing white we'll be shoveling, black not so much. Folks on my gardening forum post impassioned messages challenging this mythology in the name of the scientific method. It's enough to make one's head spin. I've yet to see the world of mythology and method meld until this week.

My father went to his post-rehab physical with his GP. We (and I do mean we) were treating some things that had cropped up during his stay at rehab. The doctor and his young resident poked and prodded offering an occasional mumble that I didn't quite catch. After the exam, the doctor turned to me and said. "You know this is a prognostication. Get his affairs in order now." All I could do was nod, meaning I hear you, but my brain's not digesting this word too well. My world rocked with the intensity of a 7.0 earthquake. How will I tell my mother?. What are my next steps? My brain kicked into overdrive. We have turned a corner. Since when did those elite members of the medical world offer predictions? I know the word "prognosis" is derived from "prognostication," but I never associated it with fact-entrenched medical science. I have to admit my head still reels from the doctor's two simple statements.

This morning my folks are sleeping-in as the rain pelts what's left of the garden. I'm still wrapping my head around what's to come. I'm allowed to predict, but not to believe the outcome because I don't have a shingle on my front door. I'm allowed to make the best of each moment without trying to waste that present moment with forecasts of gloom and doom. This morning they are both with me. When it's time I'll grieve, but now is not the time. Today, in this moment, we'll celebrate the gift of life no matter its stage with love, laughter, and naps in between. Today the only forecast I will manifest concerns the weather - snow predicted for Saturday evening and we all know that branch of science gets paid to be wrong.

I'll sleep later...

Peace,

Meet Frederick

I'm Frederick!  (Only in burgundy.)

But, ancient Greece and ancient Rome - people did not happen to believe that creativity came from human beings back then, OK? People believed that creativity was this divine attendant spirit that came to human beings from some distant and unknowable source, for distant and unknowable reasons.
Elizabeth Gilbert

One of the problems in caregiving my father rests solely on two directions: up and down. He can walk with a walker once he achieves “up” and dives like a scuba diver as he attempts to master “down.” Needless to say offering assistance can sometimes hurt the caregiver (I have the Advil to prove it!)

As we were going through the discharge process at the Rehab Center, I asked for a doctor's order for a lift/recliner. The doctor said, “No problem.” On THE day of discharge, I asked for said order and the nurse told me that the “Physical Therapy Department” claimed he didn't need one. Huh? When did you do the home evaluation? Did I miss something? The reason Dad got up so easily for them was because each room contained a LIFT RECLINER!!!

When he came home (24 hours before my mother's arrival) “up” and “down” hurt like the dickens. Dad gave it all he had but the settee in the living room (kinda like a love seat) cut off the circulation to his legs making “up” almost impossible and “down” the equvalent of landing on concrete.

Our G.P. came to the rescue by approving the lift/recliner. Great! Now to get the necessary paperwork done. The necessary paperwork took almost a month! Back and forth between the medical equipment company and the doctor. By then Dad had gone from anger to deep depression over the current state of affairs. “When is this chair coming?” “Why is it takiing so long?” Reassurance notwithstanding, desperation took its toll on both of us.

When the approval finally came through, the company told me to bring Dad down to their showroom to be measured for the chair. Ummm, measured for the chair? I asked what they meant by “measured for the chair.” The customer service representative told me each chair had to be custom-made involving another month of wait, frustration and desperation.

Admittedly, I hit the roof. I had been played by bureaucracy, an ill-informed Physical Therapy Department, and now a nit-wit. Sorry, but that's where I was at the time. I asked to speak with whomever signed paychecks at this joint and was put in touch wth the General Manager who apologized for the delay as there had been an insurance mix-up. My father's physical therapist told me all that they needed to know was Dad's height & weight. Period. Donde the chair. Color did not matter to me at all. Martha Stewart might get picky about aethetics, I'm not. I wanted a chair with a new working motor and didn't give a fig if the blessed thing had pink polka dots. My dad needed the chair. My elbow needed the chair. My back really needed the chair.

Three days and two trucks later (lift gate broke on the first truck. Seriously!) Frederick arrived. I named it Frederick after my late-husband who helped me with all life's heavy lifting and comforted me during our lives together.  It come from www.goldentech,com and a life-saver. This piece of human or other worldly creativity holds a hallowed place in our living room. From the kitchen, I can hear my father making himself more comfortable as I hear the sweet purr of the motor. Frederick is good. We'll keep Frederick!

As for the criminal settee, it enjoyed a night out on the curb before getting a ride to the landfill. Not one picker stopped to snatch it. Bad settee!

Carpe diem!

[Apprehensive note: I can't find a manual crank on this baby. What happens this winter if Dad's all comfy reclined and the power goes out? Oy!]

The Road to Caregiver

Courage isn't the absence of fear; it's the dealing with it. -- Randall

It's two weeks before Christmas 2008. I stand at the bus stop (car at the mechanic's) with a trash bag holding my personal possessions gathered from my office, my heart racing as that dreaded animal known as “fear” rears its ugly head. The employment epidemic, a contagion of a bad economy, found me. The symptoms of this disease are emotional pain, insecurity, intense stress/anxiety, and just feeling lousy about myself. How could this have happened? I took all the preventative measures by working hard, being open, listening, and being a Company person. Geez, the week before I learned my named appeared on the Employee of the Week email!

Not being the inactive sort, I took some courses at the local community college. Sharpen my knives if you will. Unemployment benefits would keep me alive, but quite frankly, positions were few and far between. My “just older” status detracted, rather, than attracted potential employers. (I can still here all that experience going down the drain.)

I did well during the first quarter of the first semester, enjoyed my courses, and then the phone call came. My 85-year-old mother called to tell me she couldn't walk and would I come to check her out. Without breaking any HIPPPA regulations, let me just say that 9-1-1 arrived less than five minutes after I hit the door (more in a future post). She recovered, spent a few weeks in rehab and returned home. That was three years ago. My then 88-year old father suffered different issues, but all in all, stable.

As I searched the job market, went on second interviews, chewed my fingernails, I stayed close to attend to their routine needs – grocery shopping, bill paying, doctors' appointments, etc. The community college courses morphed into online courses to free up my time for job-hunting and very light caregiving.

One of the courses, I did attend was offered by the American Red Cross focusing on training caregivers. Over those weeks we reviewed the basics to quality caregiving. The course proved to be money well spent as well as prophetic. Little did I know what events were on the horizon.

All That I Was

The years teach much which the days never knew.  

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

This blog chronicles a precious journey in caregiving. Journeys are unique to each life as are our fingerprints. According to www.caregivers.com there are over 40 million family caregivers in the United States, yet few shine a light on their journeys. As I go further down this road, I'm learning that we are truly the “Forgotten Majority.”

As for me I am a widowed, “just older,” daughter who worked in television for over 25 years, trying to make my folks comfortable while still grabbing on to snippets of my life. I will say this experience has its blessings. Through the eyes of my parents I've been able to view bits of their youth, learn their fears, laugh at their insights, and hold hope in a death grip during the dark times. I'm also learning about myself which is a little late in the game, but maybe that's the purpose.

Most of all this blog's purpose is to share what I've learned and, hopefully, to learn from you. The importance of helping our parents, the elderly population proper, IMHO, has to be regarded as a great honor, rather a burden. Their journey takes them on a road we cannot see or imagine, but remains nonetheless real.