This morning's attire can only be described as "soupy and gloomy." The humidity weighs me down allowing a flood of memories to resurface while a list of things to do clicks in my head. It's August weather such as this that tells me the season's transitioning. The tomato crop has slowed to a crawl and blossoms are beginning to wither. This summer has been a good one for my little urban farm. I can't complain. The freezer's jam packed with cherry tomatoes, kale, and green beens.
Today my prayers go to those along the Gulf coast as Tropical Storm (almost Hurricane) Isaac approaches. It's unbelievable to me that another storm threatens New Orleans so close to Hurricane Katrina's anniversary. Hopefully, lessons from her wrath encourage residents to do the right thing and their preparations have been thorough.
The "Mom Mission" continues. I need to get her on an earlier schedule. She's tired, grieving, and, at times, can't make sense of it all. For some reason on Sunday she insisted I change her room around. This all stems from radio reports featuring severe thunderstorms as the meteorologist cautions (quite strenuously) folks to stay away from windows. Mom insists she needs to get away from the bedroom window. I comply with the move (although I wanted to do it after the room had been washed and painted), but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.
Browsing the hardware store had the feel of a European vacation (I don't get out much.) The paint department offered a vast array of new colors and textures. The house needs a change. We need to get away from the colors of what once were to those that offer brightness and hope. I leave the store with a fistfull of paint swatches, eager for Mom to choose the colors that speak to her.
The building department proved to be a problem. I don't build much. A web search informed me about these drip edge thingys. I finally found them only to discover they were 10 feet long, not too easy to get into a small vehicle. I asked the salesman if they came any shorter. His response, "No. Just pull your car around back and we'll stretch it!" Wise guy! In the end he cut the piece in two, which barely fit in the car. A $5. a strip fix to save a big buck expenditure. That's the way to roll!
Fingers crossed the "indoor water feature" has been resolved. Yours truly did her rooftop inspection last Saturday and installed the aforementioned "drip edging." (Thanks to my neighbor for holding the ladder. She's a home repair gem!) I caulked the two 5' pieces back together, so the moisture shouldn't seep through as well as liberally stuffing the stuff around the offending gutter. Thankfully, the moisture barrier had two days to cure. It's a temporary measure, but the edging has kept the cellar dry as of this writing. If we can avoid tropical storms, blizzzards, and ice dams, it'll make it through the winter, next spring I'll get bids on a new roof. This home management stuff has proven to be new territory for me.
In the meantime, since I don't sleep much, I've signed up for free college courses on Coursera. Coursera comprises a group of top notch colleges and universities offering open courses, aka free. Enrollment for me includes a course on "Introduction to Sustainability." These are non-credit courses, but learning is important to me. Without education, news hype takes on a life of its own. I don't know what news accounts to believe any more and what measures to take to be a good steward of the planet. So far, so good!
So, what's new in your worlds?
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Saturday, August 25, 2012
A Caregiver's Post-mortem
Today marks one months since my father passed. I've been flooded with memories. Those bits and pieces of the recent past contain small seeds of self-discovery. Things I didn't know about myself and why they are pouring over me now, I have no idea. Perhaps my mind now has a chance to sort these journal entries, to put them in some meaningful context much as a news department meets after a newscast to see what worked, what went off the rails.
In today's meeting with me, myself, and I, we reflect on that day leading up to my father's hospice care. That awful day when the doctor delivered the news that "There's nothing more we can do. He has 3-6 months. Here are your options." I only had a day to absorb this news. As I stare at my journal, I realize I had less than a day. Actually, I had an hour to decide as a social worker recited the possible next steps. My mind had a terrible time dealing with the phrase "nothing we can do" and yet the health care system demanded my presence in the here and now to move forward, their job completed. The clock ticked. Nursing home or family home? I remember thinking this is a hairpin turn in my family's life while going 90 miles an hour? This is crazy!
Sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot, some small voice from within helped me to focus on the news. I knew the day would come, but it didn't help the intense shock at hearing the words. Something inside helped me to process not what I had just heard, but what the future demanded. First thing at the top of list -go home to tell my mother the news. My hands shook as I gripped the steering wheel. I told myself not to cry.
At home, I gently broke the news to my mother. She understood. She's a real Steel Magnolia. She had been there when her father passed. My mother was only 17 years old. Whatever decisions we made had to be in her best interest as well as my father's. If we placed Dad in a nursing home (something he hated only two months before), she would insist on daily visits and winter lurked around the corner. She'd give her all not to abandon her husband to the point of putting her own health at risk. The answer to "Where" emerged as clear as day. I never asked myself if I fit the role of caregiver. I never put myself in the equation.
After running back to the hospital to deliver the news that Dad would be coming home, I needed to figure out just where in the house we'd put a hospital bed. Mom and Dad's foresight must have very keen back in the day as they purchased a single floor house plan, but access to the master bedroom wouldn't work due to a tight turn from the hallway into the bedroom. No good. The living room had to be the answer, but where would I put the living room furniture? I had no time to secure storage. No time to schedule a truck to move the furniture. Hell, I had no time to go to eat or go to the bathroom!
The "Hour of Decision" morphed into the "Night of High Anxiety." The hospital had arranged for hospice who, in turn, called to tell me the hospital equipment would arrive by 10 AM and the ambulance would bring Dad home by 2 PM. I acknowledged the schedule, but I hadn't done a thing about clearing out the living room. I remember thinking "this is happening to someone else." Sleep never visited me that night and. as I would soon learn, sleep would be a tentative visitor in the weeks and months to follow.
As dawn approached I realized the day before hadn't been a nightmare, but cold reality, I made a cup of coffee and pondered the living room situation. I couldn't lift the stuff in order to get it into the basement. Everything in that room seemed gargantuan. Overstuffed chairs. Coffee Table. How the heck I'm going to make this work? The answer came in creating what I call a "Neighborhood Nightmare." At 6 AM, I threw open the front door and proceeded to drag, push, and pull the living room furniture into the driveway. By 10 AM, the bed and an oxygen concentrator arrived. Also, in the course of an hour, I had filled three outlets: two for the hospital bed, one for the concentrator, one for the television, one for the cable modem, and one for a table lamp. My fingers crossed that I didn't trip a fuse. At 2:30 PM, Dad arrived to my mother's and my delight!
At 4 PM the hospice admissions nurse visited. She reviewed Dad's medication schedule, and other needs, which had simply not crossed my mind. Need such as toileting a bedbound patient, frequent turning to avoid bedsores, aspiration (choking) prevention, etc. The only response my head screamed silently sounded like this, "What?" or "Are you kidding me." Now, I knew I decided to care for both Dad and Mom, but as she recited his care plan, I began to relate to parents bringing home a new baby. Asking myself, "What the hell do we do now?"
The result of this post-mortem of the first 24 hours brings to light a few key points that might assist those caregivers entering into long-term care of a loved one:
In today's meeting with me, myself, and I, we reflect on that day leading up to my father's hospice care. That awful day when the doctor delivered the news that "There's nothing more we can do. He has 3-6 months. Here are your options." I only had a day to absorb this news. As I stare at my journal, I realize I had less than a day. Actually, I had an hour to decide as a social worker recited the possible next steps. My mind had a terrible time dealing with the phrase "nothing we can do" and yet the health care system demanded my presence in the here and now to move forward, their job completed. The clock ticked. Nursing home or family home? I remember thinking this is a hairpin turn in my family's life while going 90 miles an hour? This is crazy!
Sitting in the car in the hospital parking lot, some small voice from within helped me to focus on the news. I knew the day would come, but it didn't help the intense shock at hearing the words. Something inside helped me to process not what I had just heard, but what the future demanded. First thing at the top of list -go home to tell my mother the news. My hands shook as I gripped the steering wheel. I told myself not to cry.
At home, I gently broke the news to my mother. She understood. She's a real Steel Magnolia. She had been there when her father passed. My mother was only 17 years old. Whatever decisions we made had to be in her best interest as well as my father's. If we placed Dad in a nursing home (something he hated only two months before), she would insist on daily visits and winter lurked around the corner. She'd give her all not to abandon her husband to the point of putting her own health at risk. The answer to "Where" emerged as clear as day. I never asked myself if I fit the role of caregiver. I never put myself in the equation.
After running back to the hospital to deliver the news that Dad would be coming home, I needed to figure out just where in the house we'd put a hospital bed. Mom and Dad's foresight must have very keen back in the day as they purchased a single floor house plan, but access to the master bedroom wouldn't work due to a tight turn from the hallway into the bedroom. No good. The living room had to be the answer, but where would I put the living room furniture? I had no time to secure storage. No time to schedule a truck to move the furniture. Hell, I had no time to go to eat or go to the bathroom!
The "Hour of Decision" morphed into the "Night of High Anxiety." The hospital had arranged for hospice who, in turn, called to tell me the hospital equipment would arrive by 10 AM and the ambulance would bring Dad home by 2 PM. I acknowledged the schedule, but I hadn't done a thing about clearing out the living room. I remember thinking "this is happening to someone else." Sleep never visited me that night and. as I would soon learn, sleep would be a tentative visitor in the weeks and months to follow.
As dawn approached I realized the day before hadn't been a nightmare, but cold reality, I made a cup of coffee and pondered the living room situation. I couldn't lift the stuff in order to get it into the basement. Everything in that room seemed gargantuan. Overstuffed chairs. Coffee Table. How the heck I'm going to make this work? The answer came in creating what I call a "Neighborhood Nightmare." At 6 AM, I threw open the front door and proceeded to drag, push, and pull the living room furniture into the driveway. By 10 AM, the bed and an oxygen concentrator arrived. Also, in the course of an hour, I had filled three outlets: two for the hospital bed, one for the concentrator, one for the television, one for the cable modem, and one for a table lamp. My fingers crossed that I didn't trip a fuse. At 2:30 PM, Dad arrived to my mother's and my delight!
At 4 PM the hospice admissions nurse visited. She reviewed Dad's medication schedule, and other needs, which had simply not crossed my mind. Need such as toileting a bedbound patient, frequent turning to avoid bedsores, aspiration (choking) prevention, etc. The only response my head screamed silently sounded like this, "What?" or "Are you kidding me." Now, I knew I decided to care for both Dad and Mom, but as she recited his care plan, I began to relate to parents bringing home a new baby. Asking myself, "What the hell do we do now?"
The result of this post-mortem of the first 24 hours brings to light a few key points that might assist those caregivers entering into long-term care of a loved one:
- Time: The medical system takes care of itself. We, who are caregivers, must insist on a adequate period of time to process what we've just been told. Some professionals might say that my father's transition to hospice care occurred seamlessly. I beg to differ. Dad's prognosis needed to be communicated to my mother and to me in a way we could have a day or three to mentally, emotionally, and logistically process this shock to our systems. The first rule of caregiving has to be self-care. Switching into a heightened stage of caregiving without so much as a good night's sleep flies in the face of that all important rule.
- Questions: There are things that never dawned on me to ask. Questions such as types of equipment, medication schedules and administration, oxygen administration and electrical power. What's the nurse's schedule? When I think of getting Dad home and then having to re-arrange a room because I needed more electrical outlets, or not being equipped to meet his needs, I find myself saying prayers of gratitude to the Divine for having workeded as well as it did.
- Preparation: Again, prayers of gratitude to the Divine for guiding me in my emergency management career leading me to first-aid courses, including oxygen administration. The courses, offered by the American Red Cross, proved to be the foundation of my caregiving abilities.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
A Matter of Independence
Mom has been keeping to her bed lately, which worries me. She does come out in the evening to watch her favorite TV shows and goes back to bed around 9 PM.
Reflecting on this situation brings me to several conclusions: 1) too much bed = not too much muscle mass; 2) this might be her grief process; 3) Mom needs independence, but built in safety measures.
Granted I'm running around the house trying to complete paperwork, prepare meals, and look out for the property. It does keep one busy, but not the point of ignoring a human being, so I've devised a plan to get Mom slowly, but surely, back in action.
Greatest Generation products don't give up easily. They've learned to push through life's problems with a determination that can't be described. They this way of life in their youth.. It's called survival. Mom's a risk taker, has been described as the Energizer Bunny (translation - goes until she falls), so we are going to embark upon some group activities.
Today she began to fold laundry. I took the sheets, blankets, and spreads due to their size and bulk. Mom completed the rest. At the end of the task, she was tired; however, I detected a spark in her eyes that shone the pure light of purpose. Divine, absolute purpose. That simple effort told her she remained in this game of life and I have to admit she helped me immeasurably.
I once spoke to a social worker while my folks were in the nursing home for rehabilitation. Mom had tremendous anxiety issues while she tried struggled to walk again. The nursing home maintained she had to perform or pay for the room. If she took a day from physical therapy, she was out. It was as if the nursing home had hired her for some unknown purpose, but she must pass her performance review or else be deemed irrelevant. (As a matter of fact she suffered from a post-operative infection that I screamed to have checked!) As I told my friend about Mom's situation, she looked me square in the eye and said, "Your mother has the right to fail."
My friend's statement stung as if I had been slapped in the face. It stung of ignorance. It stung of cruelty. It stung of dispassion. It flew right in the face of my faith. For once in my life a statement rendered me speechless.
Do I think people do not have the right to fail? It's a tough question. My answer can only be wrapped around what I've experience with my parents. If one becomes ill, but has the will to go on the best they know how with support, then no. Perhaps the definition of failure lives in a black and white reality. If society can't take care of them, then that's that. The deed done. Is that healthy?
My faith tells me every day that we need to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. Are we supposed to help our neighbor from facing failure. No one wants to be branded a failure, so what gives healthcare workers the right to make that pronouncement? It's like a chef calling his menu "products," rather than a result of passion. Our parents, aging relatives, or aging neighbors require help from having their dignity taken away from them. To uphold and devise methods where an elderly person can wear the cloak of independence.
Perhaps we can air this mindset into the light of day for discussion, because I, for one, will not make a snap judgement about my mother. I'm preserving her right to succeed for as long as she can.
Reflecting on this situation brings me to several conclusions: 1) too much bed = not too much muscle mass; 2) this might be her grief process; 3) Mom needs independence, but built in safety measures.
Granted I'm running around the house trying to complete paperwork, prepare meals, and look out for the property. It does keep one busy, but not the point of ignoring a human being, so I've devised a plan to get Mom slowly, but surely, back in action.
Greatest Generation products don't give up easily. They've learned to push through life's problems with a determination that can't be described. They this way of life in their youth.. It's called survival. Mom's a risk taker, has been described as the Energizer Bunny (translation - goes until she falls), so we are going to embark upon some group activities.
Today she began to fold laundry. I took the sheets, blankets, and spreads due to their size and bulk. Mom completed the rest. At the end of the task, she was tired; however, I detected a spark in her eyes that shone the pure light of purpose. Divine, absolute purpose. That simple effort told her she remained in this game of life and I have to admit she helped me immeasurably.
I once spoke to a social worker while my folks were in the nursing home for rehabilitation. Mom had tremendous anxiety issues while she tried struggled to walk again. The nursing home maintained she had to perform or pay for the room. If she took a day from physical therapy, she was out. It was as if the nursing home had hired her for some unknown purpose, but she must pass her performance review or else be deemed irrelevant. (As a matter of fact she suffered from a post-operative infection that I screamed to have checked!) As I told my friend about Mom's situation, she looked me square in the eye and said, "Your mother has the right to fail."
My friend's statement stung as if I had been slapped in the face. It stung of ignorance. It stung of cruelty. It stung of dispassion. It flew right in the face of my faith. For once in my life a statement rendered me speechless.
Do I think people do not have the right to fail? It's a tough question. My answer can only be wrapped around what I've experience with my parents. If one becomes ill, but has the will to go on the best they know how with support, then no. Perhaps the definition of failure lives in a black and white reality. If society can't take care of them, then that's that. The deed done. Is that healthy?
My faith tells me every day that we need to love our neighbors as we love ourselves. Are we supposed to help our neighbor from facing failure. No one wants to be branded a failure, so what gives healthcare workers the right to make that pronouncement? It's like a chef calling his menu "products," rather than a result of passion. Our parents, aging relatives, or aging neighbors require help from having their dignity taken away from them. To uphold and devise methods where an elderly person can wear the cloak of independence.
Perhaps we can air this mindset into the light of day for discussion, because I, for one, will not make a snap judgement about my mother. I'm preserving her right to succeed for as long as she can.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
F.A.T.
It's 4:37 AM and I've been awake since 3:31 AM. Three weeks ago, I would have attributed my interrupted sleep to my father's needs in the middle of the night, aka E.D.T (Early Dad Time), but my broken sleep pattern has another meaning now - F.A.T.
F.A.T. has a different meaning to me than what most people would think. I'm not talking about muffin tops, spare tires, or expanded pieces of my body. F.A.T. is the acronym for "Fall Anticipation Time". F.A.T. messes with my sleep cycle. It's an energy that calls me telling me there are things to do in order to enter winter. Things such as hauling out the winter blankets, planting a fall garden, deciding what gardens to close, putting things away, and taking out the heavy hitters. Heavy hitters such as sweaters, mittens, scarfs, cleaning the storm windows, putting the shovels on standby (let's not forget the Halloween snowfall last year, my friends). And, the all important, cannot be ignored vegetable harvest and canning.
If there's one culinary treat my mother cannot live without it's her tomatoes. This year I planted three heirloom varieties resulting in three different sized tomatoes. She's gone through the hearty heirloom beefsteak tomatoes like they were going out of style. The cherry and grape tomato harvest came in with a boom, but she made a nice dent in the crop, but she's not about to run out soon.
I asked her if she could really differentiate between the taste of the tomatoes grown outside her window and the commercial varieties. Bless her heart. She told me she couldn't get enough of the homegrown flavor. The tomato had a deeper richer taste. Her comments were good news to me because she's about 80 lbs and I'm always trying to feed her something, anything, all the time.
The preservation plans for our robust harvest came from several Internet foodie sites. I've already frozen a great deal and today I'll do the slow-roasted and preserved in olive oil method, just to change things up a bit (and no, I won't forget the garlic).
Next, I'll move on to kale. Kale's new to my garden and the crop did very, very well. Too well. I am the only one who eats Kale. Mom can't have it because it interferes with her medication. Dad's nurses would leave with a bunch of two of kale and towards the end I'd pull up an entire plant, dust off the dirt, and put the beautiful plant in a bag. I am up to keister in Kale, but the folks on Facebook's Cold Antler Farm group gave me some excellent recipes. Kale pasta anyone? Who knew. Kale smoothies? What? Kale chips? Awesome by the way.
After all that's accomplished, I'll move on to the herb drying. I dry herbs for many purposes, but today's focus rests on the culinary and tea herbs. My beautiful friend Katie gave me an antique herb drying rack that makes drying a breeze. I'll harvest a good amount of anise hyssop, lemon balm, mullein (people say it's a weed, it's an herb!), rosemary, russian sage, and lemon thyme (delicious sprinkled on chicken before roasting).
So, that's F.A.T. as in the harvest. F.A.T. as in preparation for the winter. A time of cool crisp air, beautiful turning leaves, and, here we go again, change.
F.A.T. has a different meaning to me than what most people would think. I'm not talking about muffin tops, spare tires, or expanded pieces of my body. F.A.T. is the acronym for "Fall Anticipation Time". F.A.T. messes with my sleep cycle. It's an energy that calls me telling me there are things to do in order to enter winter. Things such as hauling out the winter blankets, planting a fall garden, deciding what gardens to close, putting things away, and taking out the heavy hitters. Heavy hitters such as sweaters, mittens, scarfs, cleaning the storm windows, putting the shovels on standby (let's not forget the Halloween snowfall last year, my friends). And, the all important, cannot be ignored vegetable harvest and canning.
If there's one culinary treat my mother cannot live without it's her tomatoes. This year I planted three heirloom varieties resulting in three different sized tomatoes. She's gone through the hearty heirloom beefsteak tomatoes like they were going out of style. The cherry and grape tomato harvest came in with a boom, but she made a nice dent in the crop, but she's not about to run out soon.
I asked her if she could really differentiate between the taste of the tomatoes grown outside her window and the commercial varieties. Bless her heart. She told me she couldn't get enough of the homegrown flavor. The tomato had a deeper richer taste. Her comments were good news to me because she's about 80 lbs and I'm always trying to feed her something, anything, all the time.
The preservation plans for our robust harvest came from several Internet foodie sites. I've already frozen a great deal and today I'll do the slow-roasted and preserved in olive oil method, just to change things up a bit (and no, I won't forget the garlic).
Next, I'll move on to kale. Kale's new to my garden and the crop did very, very well. Too well. I am the only one who eats Kale. Mom can't have it because it interferes with her medication. Dad's nurses would leave with a bunch of two of kale and towards the end I'd pull up an entire plant, dust off the dirt, and put the beautiful plant in a bag. I am up to keister in Kale, but the folks on Facebook's Cold Antler Farm group gave me some excellent recipes. Kale pasta anyone? Who knew. Kale smoothies? What? Kale chips? Awesome by the way.
After all that's accomplished, I'll move on to the herb drying. I dry herbs for many purposes, but today's focus rests on the culinary and tea herbs. My beautiful friend Katie gave me an antique herb drying rack that makes drying a breeze. I'll harvest a good amount of anise hyssop, lemon balm, mullein (people say it's a weed, it's an herb!), rosemary, russian sage, and lemon thyme (delicious sprinkled on chicken before roasting).
So, that's F.A.T. as in the harvest. F.A.T. as in preparation for the winter. A time of cool crisp air, beautiful turning leaves, and, here we go again, change.
The Proof Is In the Paperwork
I'd like to say I gained some traction today, but it was slow going. Very slow.
For all those pondering becoming a family caregiver or simply being the child of an elder parent, begin with the paperwork first. I'm talking Vital Records. Gather ye offical papyrus while ye may before entering the world of 24/7 caregiving. Don't leave this task until after the funeral as I did. Well, to be kind to myself, I had most of the paperwork, but missed one important piece of the puzzle - the marriage certificate. My mother swears she put it someplace safe, but that safe place eludes her. Now, these two folks have always been my parents, I had no reason to doubt their union. Mom has records from her graduation from elementary school, so the question never entered my mind. I thought when they applied for this and that, they supplied said vital stuff, but that's not the case.
This lapse in record-keeping provides its own measure of embarrassment as a) I pride myself on having my ducks in a row, and b) I'm taking a genealogy course for crying out loud and that stuff should have been resting nicely with the hundreds of family records already in my possession! Forehead slap!
So, with great deal humility, I set out to visit our fair city's Vital Records folks to acquire said missing piece of my parents' history (and mine for that matter). I wrongfully thought this small errand would be a quick in and out. No worries. Um, well, my time did prove to be a quickie as I discovered that the cartridge containing the document legalizing their "I dos" became an "I don't" as in, "Sorry. I don't have this record." Done. Nadda. The clerk couldn't have been sweeter. She offered to order the document from the State. I declined telling her I needed to get things taken care of soonest.
So with a heavy heart I returned home to complete the State request form, check on Mom, and wait until 12:30 PM, the time when our fair Vital Records Department opened and prayed the next level of government had this record.
When I arrived at Vital Records, I could not believe the line! My heart sank. I needed to get home. This odyssey had entered its 5th hour! A sign posted at the entrance directed me to "Take a Number," which annoyed me to no end. "Great, now I'm at the Vital Records deli. I'll have one marriage certificate to go, hold the mayo!" (Note: I hadn't eaten yet, so pardon the deli analogy.) I took the number, saw it said "38," looked at the "Now Serving" number and lo and behold discovered it flashed "31."
The clerk knew her stuff, found the record, and got me out of there in less than hour. I still don't know where all those people came from and they were still there when I left. All told, this short errand involved 6 hours of my time, but I had what I needed. Finally.
I guess I gained a bit of traction, but this wee hill took forever!
For all those pondering becoming a family caregiver or simply being the child of an elder parent, begin with the paperwork first. I'm talking Vital Records. Gather ye offical papyrus while ye may before entering the world of 24/7 caregiving. Don't leave this task until after the funeral as I did. Well, to be kind to myself, I had most of the paperwork, but missed one important piece of the puzzle - the marriage certificate. My mother swears she put it someplace safe, but that safe place eludes her. Now, these two folks have always been my parents, I had no reason to doubt their union. Mom has records from her graduation from elementary school, so the question never entered my mind. I thought when they applied for this and that, they supplied said vital stuff, but that's not the case.
This lapse in record-keeping provides its own measure of embarrassment as a) I pride myself on having my ducks in a row, and b) I'm taking a genealogy course for crying out loud and that stuff should have been resting nicely with the hundreds of family records already in my possession! Forehead slap!
So, with great deal humility, I set out to visit our fair city's Vital Records folks to acquire said missing piece of my parents' history (and mine for that matter). I wrongfully thought this small errand would be a quick in and out. No worries. Um, well, my time did prove to be a quickie as I discovered that the cartridge containing the document legalizing their "I dos" became an "I don't" as in, "Sorry. I don't have this record." Done. Nadda. The clerk couldn't have been sweeter. She offered to order the document from the State. I declined telling her I needed to get things taken care of soonest.
So with a heavy heart I returned home to complete the State request form, check on Mom, and wait until 12:30 PM, the time when our fair Vital Records Department opened and prayed the next level of government had this record.
When I arrived at Vital Records, I could not believe the line! My heart sank. I needed to get home. This odyssey had entered its 5th hour! A sign posted at the entrance directed me to "Take a Number," which annoyed me to no end. "Great, now I'm at the Vital Records deli. I'll have one marriage certificate to go, hold the mayo!" (Note: I hadn't eaten yet, so pardon the deli analogy.) I took the number, saw it said "38," looked at the "Now Serving" number and lo and behold discovered it flashed "31."
The clerk knew her stuff, found the record, and got me out of there in less than hour. I still don't know where all those people came from and they were still there when I left. All told, this short errand involved 6 hours of my time, but I had what I needed. Finally.
I guess I gained a bit of traction, but this wee hill took forever!
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Garden Surprises!!
Saturday I stole a few moments to explore the garden. My poor neglected garden took the brunt of the heat this summer. The iris pods are crispy, the lemon thyme scorched, and I spied some pretty sorry looking lavender. All has not been lost as I soon discovered.
I planted a new birdfeeder right on the front lawn in order to do some birding from our front window. It's been a pretty active venue. Cardinals, robins, & mourning doves frequently fill-up while giving me a front row seat to their beauty.
But wait, why didn't I notice this before? A trio of sunflowers sprounted around the feeder.
I planted a new birdfeeder right on the front lawn in order to do some birding from our front window. It's been a pretty active venue. Cardinals, robins, & mourning doves frequently fill-up while giving me a front row seat to their beauty.
But wait, why didn't I notice this before? A trio of sunflowers sprounted around the feeder.
 |
| The sunflower rests its head against the heat.
And yesterday morning:
And, THIS morning:
And THAT makes me happy!
|
Monday, August 13, 2012
Traction
Last night I finally surrended to whatever had been toying with me and watched television. Even though I've spent over half my life working in television, my viewing habits have gone from 60 to 0 in the blink of any eye. Television can be a powerful, beautiful medium, but the reality shows just unleash a great deal of angst and anger into the world that prompt me to hit the "Off" button.
A channel surf led me to the program, "Ice Road Truckers." For the life of me, I can't explain the attraction. Some might say I identify with them because my father drove trucks in his early days. Perhaps the rawness of the Alaskan and Yukon wildernesses demonstrated a certain harmony (or disharmony) between Man & Nature. Or, because its been so sickly humid here in the Northeast, I just needed a bit of snow, wind, and ice to get my mind off this "tomato" weather. Maybe I just need a serious change of scenery.
Lately, I just can't seem to get a foothold on life without my father. He and I had many discussions about his wishes, his funeral, things I need to do around the house, the property, etc., etc. Mom knows he's gone and her resolve amazes me, inspires me, yet I can't seem to get a blessed thing completed. Friends have reassured me it's too soon. I'm going too fast. They prescribe rest. The lists of things to do pile up like an Artic blizzard and grow faster than a Yukon snowdrift.
For some reason as I watched IRT, one driver in particular caught my attention, Alex. The man can drive through anything, anytime, but he always has an co-pilot - his faith. To watch this man navigate roadways, which at times can be seen and unseen, brings forth not just the strength of his gift, but how he acknowledges his life and the dangers of being a long haul trucker through prayers of gratitude with each and every mile.
In this particular episode, Alex negotiates a 120-mile mining road replete with shear cliffs, steep inclines, and treacherous turns. A real knucklebiter. On the return trip, he misses a gear and the rig begins to roll backward down the incline. The truck spins its wheels searching for traction. The trailer approaches the drop-off where bad things can happen to both driver and cargo if the trailer goes over. He downshifts. The truck finally stops. I finally breathe and apparently Alex did as well. He starts his ascent up the incline again, slowly and skillfully without missing a gear. He reaches the top. He's safe and offers prayers of gratitude.
That entire scene became my "Aha" moment. Had I been driving that rig in my current state of "get 'er done," one might be reading about my going over the cliff. How I had missed a gear resulting in a fatal scene. I need to downshift. The mountain journey stands right in front of me. This journey looms over me. As I negotiate this thing called "grief," I need to pay attention to what's in front of me, not be afraid to change gears when necessary, be grateful for what I have, and, most importantly, breathe. My life from my father's passing forward can best be described as spinning my wheels on the "Grieving Highway." I had lost my traction.
We're on the road now. My precious cargo called "Mom" listens to the radio in the other room. If I need to "chain-up" by asking for help, I will so I don't lose traction again. My prayers of gratitude shine like the sun on snow after the blizzard.
Perhaps this reality show-thing isn't so bad afterall.
A channel surf led me to the program, "Ice Road Truckers." For the life of me, I can't explain the attraction. Some might say I identify with them because my father drove trucks in his early days. Perhaps the rawness of the Alaskan and Yukon wildernesses demonstrated a certain harmony (or disharmony) between Man & Nature. Or, because its been so sickly humid here in the Northeast, I just needed a bit of snow, wind, and ice to get my mind off this "tomato" weather. Maybe I just need a serious change of scenery.
Lately, I just can't seem to get a foothold on life without my father. He and I had many discussions about his wishes, his funeral, things I need to do around the house, the property, etc., etc. Mom knows he's gone and her resolve amazes me, inspires me, yet I can't seem to get a blessed thing completed. Friends have reassured me it's too soon. I'm going too fast. They prescribe rest. The lists of things to do pile up like an Artic blizzard and grow faster than a Yukon snowdrift.
For some reason as I watched IRT, one driver in particular caught my attention, Alex. The man can drive through anything, anytime, but he always has an co-pilot - his faith. To watch this man navigate roadways, which at times can be seen and unseen, brings forth not just the strength of his gift, but how he acknowledges his life and the dangers of being a long haul trucker through prayers of gratitude with each and every mile.
In this particular episode, Alex negotiates a 120-mile mining road replete with shear cliffs, steep inclines, and treacherous turns. A real knucklebiter. On the return trip, he misses a gear and the rig begins to roll backward down the incline. The truck spins its wheels searching for traction. The trailer approaches the drop-off where bad things can happen to both driver and cargo if the trailer goes over. He downshifts. The truck finally stops. I finally breathe and apparently Alex did as well. He starts his ascent up the incline again, slowly and skillfully without missing a gear. He reaches the top. He's safe and offers prayers of gratitude.
That entire scene became my "Aha" moment. Had I been driving that rig in my current state of "get 'er done," one might be reading about my going over the cliff. How I had missed a gear resulting in a fatal scene. I need to downshift. The mountain journey stands right in front of me. This journey looms over me. As I negotiate this thing called "grief," I need to pay attention to what's in front of me, not be afraid to change gears when necessary, be grateful for what I have, and, most importantly, breathe. My life from my father's passing forward can best be described as spinning my wheels on the "Grieving Highway." I had lost my traction.
We're on the road now. My precious cargo called "Mom" listens to the radio in the other room. If I need to "chain-up" by asking for help, I will so I don't lose traction again. My prayers of gratitude shine like the sun on snow after the blizzard.
Perhaps this reality show-thing isn't so bad afterall.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Grace, Guidance, and Gifts: Sacred Blessings to Light Your Way
Places: United States, Australia, United Kingdom, Republic of South Africa, Canada, and India
Publisher: Hay House, Inc. USA: http://www.hayhouse.com; Australia: http://www.hayhouse.com.au; United Kingdom: http://www.hayhouse.com.uk; South Africa: http://www.hayhouse.co.za; Canada: www.raincoast.com; India: http://www.hayhouse.co.in
Edition: 1st. Edition, July 2012
Pages: 231
Special Features: Meditation CD included
Price: USA/CAN $18.95; UK 12.99
Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-3744-7
Digital ISBN: 978-1-4019-3745-4
Had I been browsing the stacks of any bookstore or digital new releases on the computer, my attention would have been immediately drawn to the latest from Sonia Choquette and for all good reason: Who doesn't need more sacred blessings in their lives or to be reminded of those precious gifts bestowed upon us?
The title invites readers to learn what is in store for them once they shift their focus from walking aimlessly along their journey to turning to one of Divine attentiveness. The cover, designed by Julie Davidson, illuminates that invitation in the form of a lighted candle drawing us toward something truly special which lies between the covers.
Ms. Choquette defines her mission, as well as the premise of this book, "to unite your soul and your spirit" through three Divine blessings: Grace, Guidance, and Gifts. Reading the introduction offers important instruction prior to beginning the meditations.
Formatted into three sections, each blessing contains a Message from Spirit, a Morning Affirmation or Invocation, a daily Mantra to repeat throughout the day, and a concluding a Blessing. The writing revives the soul and invokes the strength of Spirit.
Grace, Guidance, and Gifts cannot be defined as a passive read, although that's what I did initially. Opening the book to a random page can prove equally effective. This is an interactive work requiring the reader to begin a daily ritual or to enhance one’s established prayer practice. The author writes in an easy, understandable, non-denominational style applicable to all faith groups or traditions. Read individually or in a group setting.. Ms. Choquette provides a “True North” for the soul to look toward the Creator.
The author recommends the accompanying CD be played at bedtime. The disc contains three guided meditations ranging in length from 15 to 20 minutes focusing on the three blessings. They are designed to draw the listener into a relaxed, safe, state and open one up to that particular blessing.
As a new member of Hay House’s review program, selecting this book could not have come at a better time in my life. I believe Grace, Guidance, and Gifts: Sacred Blessings to Light Your Way has the potential to become an important tool to reveal what lies within, make the grey days brighter, and, ultimately, to unite with Spirit.
Available at Barnes & Noble.
I was not financially compensated for this post. I received the book from Hay House for review purposes. The opinions are completely my own based on my experience.
Friday, August 3, 2012
Women's Handball: Russia vs. Brazil
Mom never ceases to amaze me. We're sitting in the cool living room watching the Women's Handball match, Russia vs. Brazil. The conversation goes like this:
Mom: "This is interesting I didn't expect to like it."
JD: "I'm glad you like it."
Mom: "It's very interesting."
JD: "What do you like about the sport?"
Mom: "Look. They all have their bras on..."
I looked at the screen and sure enough emblazoned across their chests in big bold letters appears "BRA."
I cannot make this stuff up, folks!
Mom: "This is interesting I didn't expect to like it."
JD: "I'm glad you like it."
Mom: "It's very interesting."
JD: "What do you like about the sport?"
Mom: "Look. They all have their bras on..."
I looked at the screen and sure enough emblazoned across their chests in big bold letters appears "BRA."
I cannot make this stuff up, folks!
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Surrounded by Angels
This morning we laid my father to rest.
Oprah would call this memorial as a "full circle moment."
The service took place where their love story began 64 years ago. My mother had one simple request - to have my father's service at the church where they wed. She wanted to be in familiar surroundings. Let the memories of their joining as husband and wife intertwine with this latest memory - one of parting. So, we all gathered at that church where they vowed by saying "I do" and meant it. In today's world, some marriages last 64 minutes, then the cold reality of what's ahead rises to the surface.
I agonized over this ceremony. Agonized. I reviewed the liturgy over and over again with the "Service Coordinator." Same scenario for the music. Everything had to contain meaning to my father and our family. Our values, our hopes, and our love. Since my parents didn't belong to this parish, the thought of a stranger delivering a eulogy smacked of hypocrisy. Nope, not going there.
I decided upon the theme of the service. It has been in front of me and I almost missed it. It's the very thing my father prayed for throughout his life - Peace. A peace he and his fellow soldiers fought for during his time in Europe. A peace when broken him to tears when he heard we had gone to war during Gulf I and earlier when he wanted to volunteer as a truck driver during Vietnam. We have enjoyed Pax Americana throughout our history, but I'm talking about a different peace. One that endures throughout the ages.
Mom championed through the service in a wheelchair. We had a few hairy moments as she climbed onto a chair lift to enter the church, but the driver and I guided her through the process. Amazingly she heard the sermon and enjoyed the cantor. She delighted in seeing her family, her friends, my friends. The people who mean everything to her.
Encircling the altar from above, beautiful statues of angels gazed out at us. I thought Dad and his angel. Mom said she knew she'd be fine if her two strong nephews and their wives attended. They did. She was. Although she tired after the military honor guard.
We did not get together afterwards as Mom had been up for most of the night and she needed to rest after three weeks of late nights with Dad. She came home, changed her clothes, ate her lunch, and took a nap.
In my heart I know one thing, when St. Peter asks my father what he wants to do in heaven he'll respond, "Join Team Peace." He'll work like an Olympian and then some until the job's done. I love you, Dad!
Dona nobis pacem, (Give us peace.)
Oprah would call this memorial as a "full circle moment."
The service took place where their love story began 64 years ago. My mother had one simple request - to have my father's service at the church where they wed. She wanted to be in familiar surroundings. Let the memories of their joining as husband and wife intertwine with this latest memory - one of parting. So, we all gathered at that church where they vowed by saying "I do" and meant it. In today's world, some marriages last 64 minutes, then the cold reality of what's ahead rises to the surface.
I agonized over this ceremony. Agonized. I reviewed the liturgy over and over again with the "Service Coordinator." Same scenario for the music. Everything had to contain meaning to my father and our family. Our values, our hopes, and our love. Since my parents didn't belong to this parish, the thought of a stranger delivering a eulogy smacked of hypocrisy. Nope, not going there.
I decided upon the theme of the service. It has been in front of me and I almost missed it. It's the very thing my father prayed for throughout his life - Peace. A peace he and his fellow soldiers fought for during his time in Europe. A peace when broken him to tears when he heard we had gone to war during Gulf I and earlier when he wanted to volunteer as a truck driver during Vietnam. We have enjoyed Pax Americana throughout our history, but I'm talking about a different peace. One that endures throughout the ages.
Mom championed through the service in a wheelchair. We had a few hairy moments as she climbed onto a chair lift to enter the church, but the driver and I guided her through the process. Amazingly she heard the sermon and enjoyed the cantor. She delighted in seeing her family, her friends, my friends. The people who mean everything to her.
Encircling the altar from above, beautiful statues of angels gazed out at us. I thought Dad and his angel. Mom said she knew she'd be fine if her two strong nephews and their wives attended. They did. She was. Although she tired after the military honor guard.
We did not get together afterwards as Mom had been up for most of the night and she needed to rest after three weeks of late nights with Dad. She came home, changed her clothes, ate her lunch, and took a nap.
In my heart I know one thing, when St. Peter asks my father what he wants to do in heaven he'll respond, "Join Team Peace." He'll work like an Olympian and then some until the job's done. I love you, Dad!
Dona nobis pacem, (Give us peace.)
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
Newer: Shades of Gray
For those of you who stumbled upon this blog in the hopes of finding a sequel to the bestselling novel Shades of Grey sorry. That's not what purpose of this blog, but stay awhile. You are most welcome.
This morning as I gazed out the window with my morning coffee in hand I began to review where I was 10 years ago versus the present tense. Fortunately, the comparison held few regrets. Of course, I dearly miss my husband. The career much missed taught me many lessons. The people I worked with beyond a shadow of a doubt were the best in the business. My analysis continued to take a strange turn. It wasn't about what happened around me, but rather what happened within me.
Did I seek some sort of startling outcome? Did I discover a turn in the road that would have changed my life's course? I have to admit early on in my work life black and white suited me just find. I was the quintisential rules girl. By the book or else. I held onto facts, figures (which is hard to do since I'm so math-challenged) and other folks' rules so tightly that I'm lucky I didn't break in two. Yet, I wouldn't describe myself as rigid or I just didn't want to see myself as rigid? Did I suck the joy out of my own life by neglecting to look at it? Maybe.
Today, without any shadow of a doubt, I'm in the gray (or grey). The events of the last ten years have shaken me to my roots. I'm lucky I didn't snap. Really snap. My decor would have called "Early Goodyear" for the rubber-covered walls. My life now centers on the spirit within. That feeling that a Great Source loves me and I, in turn, love that Source back. I live in a fluid world, but not one where those changes occur on the outside. My life is no longer a spectator sport. It's an active being trying to figure things out armed with hope and belief, which are subject to change.
Going forward some shades of gray are going to be darker, but if I keep my face toward the lighter shades with the faith and the strength I believe I inherited from my mother and father, my roots will seek deeper soil and my limbs stretch toward the light that contains more love than the world can fathom.
Maybe in this life as a care giver, I'm learning to be a care receiver. Hmmm.
This morning as I gazed out the window with my morning coffee in hand I began to review where I was 10 years ago versus the present tense. Fortunately, the comparison held few regrets. Of course, I dearly miss my husband. The career much missed taught me many lessons. The people I worked with beyond a shadow of a doubt were the best in the business. My analysis continued to take a strange turn. It wasn't about what happened around me, but rather what happened within me.
Did I seek some sort of startling outcome? Did I discover a turn in the road that would have changed my life's course? I have to admit early on in my work life black and white suited me just find. I was the quintisential rules girl. By the book or else. I held onto facts, figures (which is hard to do since I'm so math-challenged) and other folks' rules so tightly that I'm lucky I didn't break in two. Yet, I wouldn't describe myself as rigid or I just didn't want to see myself as rigid? Did I suck the joy out of my own life by neglecting to look at it? Maybe.
Today, without any shadow of a doubt, I'm in the gray (or grey). The events of the last ten years have shaken me to my roots. I'm lucky I didn't snap. Really snap. My decor would have called "Early Goodyear" for the rubber-covered walls. My life now centers on the spirit within. That feeling that a Great Source loves me and I, in turn, love that Source back. I live in a fluid world, but not one where those changes occur on the outside. My life is no longer a spectator sport. It's an active being trying to figure things out armed with hope and belief, which are subject to change.
Going forward some shades of gray are going to be darker, but if I keep my face toward the lighter shades with the faith and the strength I believe I inherited from my mother and father, my roots will seek deeper soil and my limbs stretch toward the light that contains more love than the world can fathom.
Maybe in this life as a care giver, I'm learning to be a care receiver. Hmmm.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
The Universe Responds: It's Batty
After my recent post, I decided that today marked my day of rest. The house looks a wreck, but in order to take care of all that requires my attention, especially Mom's needs as she transitions to widowhood, I need self-care.
I find myself out of focus, yet living in the moment. Strange sensations since I've always regarded myself as a person of determination. Drifting as if in a dream doesn't suit me too well, but lately it happens more than I care to admit.
My aimlessness leads me to one place - my front door. Don't know why. Do I feel trapped? Hm mm. Am I waiting for something? Someone?
This morning's scene outside my front door became very familiar as I realized the car parked in front of my house belonged to another friend. We spoke for a short while. He expressed his condolences to Mom and me. I finally asked why he idled in front of my house. He said he had been dispatched by a mutual friend to help my next door neighbor who reported bats in her attic (as opposed to those in my cerebral belfry). I laughed. He looked puzzled as I grinned.
It was at that time that "Great Deluge of July 2012" became the topic. The flooding discussed, my frustration vented. He knows about chimney caps. He knows about bats. The fix? Easy.
With gratitude to the Universe for listening and showing me again we are all One in good times and in bad, through sanity and battiness.
Namaste
I find myself out of focus, yet living in the moment. Strange sensations since I've always regarded myself as a person of determination. Drifting as if in a dream doesn't suit me too well, but lately it happens more than I care to admit.
My aimlessness leads me to one place - my front door. Don't know why. Do I feel trapped? Hm mm. Am I waiting for something? Someone?
This morning's scene outside my front door became very familiar as I realized the car parked in front of my house belonged to another friend. We spoke for a short while. He expressed his condolences to Mom and me. I finally asked why he idled in front of my house. He said he had been dispatched by a mutual friend to help my next door neighbor who reported bats in her attic (as opposed to those in my cerebral belfry). I laughed. He looked puzzled as I grinned.
It was at that time that "Great Deluge of July 2012" became the topic. The flooding discussed, my frustration vented. He knows about chimney caps. He knows about bats. The fix? Easy.
With gratitude to the Universe for listening and showing me again we are all One in good times and in bad, through sanity and battiness.
Namaste
Of Chimneys and Tears
This morning brought overcast skies and a case of the "drearies." Mom's had breakfast, I've had a cuppa, and time to read the posts I've missed over these past few weeks. One in particular brought me to tears as it illustrated where I am now in my life with all its sadness, tears, and challenges.
Jon Katz over at Bedlam Farm had the courage to put out to the universe what he felt in this post Feeling Blue/. His thoughts reflect what I've been dealing with lately: life after Dad's passing, Mom's health, my financial health, life after Mom and Dad, etc., etc.
Last night, we had a storm. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Rain. Rain. I sensed that someone had opened a dam resulting in a huge force of water upon us. I had been doing laundry and went to the basement only to discover we had a mini-flood on our hands. I checked the water heater. Good. I checked the furnace. Also good. The water came from the middle of basement. Nothing leaked around the windows. Again, good. Where did this come from?
I called the water heater and furnace insurance folks. No one home. (Someone remind me again why I'm paying for service that doesn't happen?) I called the gas company who casually told me to call a plumber. I ran back down to the basement for mop-up detail. It was at that very moment I became angry. Really angry.
Mom's answer to this dilemma? Call a man. In her generation, the "damsel-in-distress" worked, not so in this era. Maybe I suffer from pride because my brain usually works for me and I can figure things out on my own. My feelings overwhelmed me. I can't take this, all this stuff, everything raining down upon me and I haven't even buried my father. I'm not a 21st Century Job from the Bible who sits there in quiet strength ignoring everyone who advises him in the name of faith. (Although, I have to admit the part about the "boils" would have weakened me.)
My fury continued (something I'm not used to feeling). I returned to the basement for further clean-up. As I spread the towels, I heard it. The "ping, ping, ping" coming from the chimney into the furnace, which I had turned off. Could it be possible? My next action involved calling my dearest friend's husband to check my hypothesis. Did I just do the damsel-in-distress thing? He concurred with my theory. I ran back up the stairs and out into the deluge to look up at our chimney only to discover no chimney cap. Nadda. It stood tall against the elements as it has in years past - open and vulnerable.
As of Midnight my tears, anger, and the water in the basement had dried. The same weather that had channelled the rain through the chimney now carried a drying breeze. It's as though nothing had happened.
In the past few days, I've made list upon lists of things I need to do before the season turns. Lists concerning my father's funeral service and lists of ideas to write and share. Capping a chimney doesn't appear on any of these reminders, but in a strange way, attempting to put a cap on what life presents should have been Job 1. My situation resembles the chimney. Open to life and everything that falls into it. This life needs something to shield Mom and me from these life occurances. This life cap won't stop that "stuff" completely, but deflect as much as possible.
Next week, after the funeral, the chimney gets a cap.
Jon Katz over at Bedlam Farm had the courage to put out to the universe what he felt in this post Feeling Blue/. His thoughts reflect what I've been dealing with lately: life after Dad's passing, Mom's health, my financial health, life after Mom and Dad, etc., etc.
Last night, we had a storm. Thunder. Lightning. Rain. Rain. Rain. I sensed that someone had opened a dam resulting in a huge force of water upon us. I had been doing laundry and went to the basement only to discover we had a mini-flood on our hands. I checked the water heater. Good. I checked the furnace. Also good. The water came from the middle of basement. Nothing leaked around the windows. Again, good. Where did this come from?
I called the water heater and furnace insurance folks. No one home. (Someone remind me again why I'm paying for service that doesn't happen?) I called the gas company who casually told me to call a plumber. I ran back down to the basement for mop-up detail. It was at that very moment I became angry. Really angry.
Mom's answer to this dilemma? Call a man. In her generation, the "damsel-in-distress" worked, not so in this era. Maybe I suffer from pride because my brain usually works for me and I can figure things out on my own. My feelings overwhelmed me. I can't take this, all this stuff, everything raining down upon me and I haven't even buried my father. I'm not a 21st Century Job from the Bible who sits there in quiet strength ignoring everyone who advises him in the name of faith. (Although, I have to admit the part about the "boils" would have weakened me.)
My fury continued (something I'm not used to feeling). I returned to the basement for further clean-up. As I spread the towels, I heard it. The "ping, ping, ping" coming from the chimney into the furnace, which I had turned off. Could it be possible? My next action involved calling my dearest friend's husband to check my hypothesis. Did I just do the damsel-in-distress thing? He concurred with my theory. I ran back up the stairs and out into the deluge to look up at our chimney only to discover no chimney cap. Nadda. It stood tall against the elements as it has in years past - open and vulnerable.
As of Midnight my tears, anger, and the water in the basement had dried. The same weather that had channelled the rain through the chimney now carried a drying breeze. It's as though nothing had happened.
In the past few days, I've made list upon lists of things I need to do before the season turns. Lists concerning my father's funeral service and lists of ideas to write and share. Capping a chimney doesn't appear on any of these reminders, but in a strange way, attempting to put a cap on what life presents should have been Job 1. My situation resembles the chimney. Open to life and everything that falls into it. This life needs something to shield Mom and me from these life occurances. This life cap won't stop that "stuff" completely, but deflect as much as possible.
Next week, after the funeral, the chimney gets a cap.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Dad's Angel (Final Hours)
I've spent the past 24 hours trying to get things sorted. Important things. Feelings. Details. List making. Everyday things. Dressing. Eating. Things that I do automatically without a second thought. I'm wearing the cloak of grief (again) and those tasks that I take for granted have become difficult to achieve. I'm in a surreal place right now. Sort of like walking between two worlds: life and death.
The events leading up to my current state of mind vividly replay. Images that flood me with a mixture of feelings that take me away from what I intend to do vs. what I hope to achieve.
On Tuesday evening, Mom and I sat with Dad as we have done every night. He had developed a high fever. I attempt to cool him with compresses. My mother asks me why his body has morphed into a furnace. I have no answer . Nothing works to relieve the fever. It's as though his internal thermostat has broken. I continue to apply the compresses and moisten his mouth, but it's a losing battle.
At 9:30 PM, Dad's breathing pattern has changed from one of measured respirations to labored, unequal inhalations and exhalations. I speak to the Hospice nurse who tells me this happens when the end is near. Strangely, I did not panic, although it seemed to be a viable option. I call upon everything within me to be present for Mom and Dad. After a short while the labored breathing quiets a bit. Crisis averted?
Midnight arrives and I encourage my mother to go to bed. She's been staying up far too long. She agrees and says goodnight to Dad. She's weary, worried, and scared. I assure her I'll stay up with Dad.
At 1 AM, I look over at Dad while at the same time I feel a funny sensation in my chest. Not painful. A feeling of warmth. It's as though my heart has swollen with love. A comforting feeling that I can't explain. I sit by his bed continuing to cool and comfort him. His labored breathing has returned only this time it has slowed and I count the seconds between each breath. The engine that is his body slows. At last he takes one final breath. It's over. He has passed before my very eyes. I notice the time on the clock. It's 1:11 AM. I wake my mother and gently break the news. She leaves her bedroom to say goodbye to her husband of 64 years.
Throughout my life and in the days leading up to his death when asked, "What would you like to pray for?" his answer never waivered. Dad prayed for peace. He yearned for it. Craved it. That's all he ever wanted. Never prayed for one material thing. Only peace. Peace in the world. Peace in his home.. Peace for those he loved.
As the funeral personnel gently lifted him on the stretcher, I noticed his face. He had arrived. He had reached that place of peace. One might describe his look as angelic. His angel had found him and taken him home.
My emotions ebb and flow. The inner child within me cries out, "I want my Dad!" That little girl who sat on her father's lap as he read to her needs comfort, love, reassurance. The adult daughter, the mature daughter, knows Mom needs my presence. She requires comfort. She needs love. The caregiver in me needs to step up, despite my feelings of profound sadness.
Later in the day, my best friend and her daughter, Katie, visit. Katie won a garden statue during a fundraiser she and I worked on recently - an angel. A blessed angel. A visible reminder of the unseen things that take place on this earth. A reminder of what's truly important.
Rest in your heavenly peace, Dad. I love you. Thank you for being my father.
 |
| Dad's Angel |
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Signs of the Divine
Mom and I are keeping watch as my father enters his final hours on Earth. The turn he took late last week has resulted in a nose dive. His pain continued unresolved until Hospice changed his medicine medical delivery system yesterday. Now his face has a look of comfort and rest. His body has lost the rigidity the other medications could not conquer.
Nursing personnel have visited daily. A change made here and there to maximize care. Yet, it feels like there's nothing to do but wait. There are things to say, but strangely, I believe he knows everything we think and feel about him. Love. No-strings-attached love, but nothing like a little reinforcement.
This past week as I sat with Dad, I felt something - a shadow, a presence. I shook it off saying to myself, "I must be more tired than I thought." On the following days, as the Aide worked on Dad's personnel care other "occurances" happened. On Monday as we turned him he said, "I'm not going to take this **** much longer. On Wednesday, I heard him say, "But, I don't want to go." I attributed the latter remark to some delusion, but I'm not certain. All along, I've felt forces at work that I couldn't see or hear. Yet, feeling comfortable that something, Someone, bigger than me had come to our aid.
What Dad's final hour may look like remains to be seen. His life has affected mine this past four years in ways I could never have imagined. Yet, I am fixated on each moment. Listening to each breath, feeling his forehead, insuring his mouth is moist, and insuring my mother has her private time with her husband. I'm a product of a marriage, not an active participant in their private love story. There are things to be said to each other. Things that my husband and I said to each other that no one else should be involved.
One of the aides told me that I'd know when the end was at hand. He said I'd feel a presence. That I would know someone else had arrived to be with us. I like that. As an only child, the future does not hold that siblings are on the way. Nor are distant relatives. I welcome a heavenly visitor.
As many television programs promise "reality" scenarios each week, I wonder if folks studied end of life issues or walked with someone to the end, if they would buy in to this genre or if people would be interested. For me to understand death forces me to live life large, not from an aspect of materialism, but from one of love.
The poor little kitchen lays trashed. I'd make a meal for Mom to enjoy, only to return to Dad's care. I don't have time for pots, pans and dishes. My only hope if we do receive a divine presence, neatness doesn't count and that angels and saints realize just what a great guy they've called.
Peace,
Nursing personnel have visited daily. A change made here and there to maximize care. Yet, it feels like there's nothing to do but wait. There are things to say, but strangely, I believe he knows everything we think and feel about him. Love. No-strings-attached love, but nothing like a little reinforcement.
This past week as I sat with Dad, I felt something - a shadow, a presence. I shook it off saying to myself, "I must be more tired than I thought." On the following days, as the Aide worked on Dad's personnel care other "occurances" happened. On Monday as we turned him he said, "I'm not going to take this **** much longer. On Wednesday, I heard him say, "But, I don't want to go." I attributed the latter remark to some delusion, but I'm not certain. All along, I've felt forces at work that I couldn't see or hear. Yet, feeling comfortable that something, Someone, bigger than me had come to our aid.
What Dad's final hour may look like remains to be seen. His life has affected mine this past four years in ways I could never have imagined. Yet, I am fixated on each moment. Listening to each breath, feeling his forehead, insuring his mouth is moist, and insuring my mother has her private time with her husband. I'm a product of a marriage, not an active participant in their private love story. There are things to be said to each other. Things that my husband and I said to each other that no one else should be involved.
One of the aides told me that I'd know when the end was at hand. He said I'd feel a presence. That I would know someone else had arrived to be with us. I like that. As an only child, the future does not hold that siblings are on the way. Nor are distant relatives. I welcome a heavenly visitor.
As many television programs promise "reality" scenarios each week, I wonder if folks studied end of life issues or walked with someone to the end, if they would buy in to this genre or if people would be interested. For me to understand death forces me to live life large, not from an aspect of materialism, but from one of love.
The poor little kitchen lays trashed. I'd make a meal for Mom to enjoy, only to return to Dad's care. I don't have time for pots, pans and dishes. My only hope if we do receive a divine presence, neatness doesn't count and that angels and saints realize just what a great guy they've called.
Peace,
Friday, July 13, 2012
Scenes from the Garden (Distracting Myself @ 4 AM)
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| Bumble Bees scaling Mt. Anise Hyssop |
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| Wildflowers by the birdbath. |
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| These flowers just look so happy to me. |
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| Whoa! Startled by what it sees. |
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Turning the Corner
It's 2:30 AM on Friday, the 13th. The superstition behind the date doesn't mean that much to me; however, the significance of Thursday, the 12th, weighs on me
Dad took a turn. A bad turn. He couldn't breathe. I gave him the medication as directed, which usually does the job. I wait. Dad doesn't relax. The coughing continues with abandon. He moans. I try to determine the source of his pain. What compromises his breathing? He will not respond. I can't panic. I cannot morph into his little girl who cries for help. I am his help.
The Hospice nurse returns my call. I report what little Dad has shared with me concerning his discomfort. Recent vital signs are recited in a cool professional tone. I hold it together. The nurse tells me I'm doing the right things. Keep up the med every two hours.
One hour later, I'm back on the phone with a different Hospice nurse. Dad's still in distress. I swallow my panic in order to focus on bringing him some comfort. She's a straight shooter and shares some comfort measures. She says, he's "turned the corner", a euphemism for "buckle up, things are going downhill."
I read somewhere that some faith traditions recommend leaving a window open in order for the soul to take flight when its ready. I walk to the window, open it, and reflect on the loneliness of the night.
I need to circulate some caffeine in my body in order to be of any help to Dad.
Mom's asleep. Oblivious to what's going on with her husband. A blessing in disguise.
I shuffle over to the coffee brewer and pour a cuppa Joe. This vigil isn't about me, but my eyes are heavy with fatigue. I don't dare close them because I don't want to know what's around that corner.
Dad took a turn. A bad turn. He couldn't breathe. I gave him the medication as directed, which usually does the job. I wait. Dad doesn't relax. The coughing continues with abandon. He moans. I try to determine the source of his pain. What compromises his breathing? He will not respond. I can't panic. I cannot morph into his little girl who cries for help. I am his help.
The Hospice nurse returns my call. I report what little Dad has shared with me concerning his discomfort. Recent vital signs are recited in a cool professional tone. I hold it together. The nurse tells me I'm doing the right things. Keep up the med every two hours.
One hour later, I'm back on the phone with a different Hospice nurse. Dad's still in distress. I swallow my panic in order to focus on bringing him some comfort. She's a straight shooter and shares some comfort measures. She says, he's "turned the corner", a euphemism for "buckle up, things are going downhill."
I read somewhere that some faith traditions recommend leaving a window open in order for the soul to take flight when its ready. I walk to the window, open it, and reflect on the loneliness of the night.
I need to circulate some caffeine in my body in order to be of any help to Dad.
Mom's asleep. Oblivious to what's going on with her husband. A blessing in disguise.
I shuffle over to the coffee brewer and pour a cuppa Joe. This vigil isn't about me, but my eyes are heavy with fatigue. I don't dare close them because I don't want to know what's around that corner.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
Life(lines) and Lace
If anyone reviewed this care giver's life, they might come to the conclusion that she experiences a measure of isolation. Now, according to the experts, isolation is a care giving "no, no". Isolation breeds resentment, fatigue, and a whole host of other unhealthy things. I agree with the experts. Feeling as if I'm on a precipice has not served me well, but it has not been a lasting condition.
As you may or may not be aware, I love the art of knitting. Well, I have to own up and say I love some aspects of knitting. There are various forms that I have avoided like the plague, for example, entrelac (a textured knitting technique involving diamonds), stranded knitting (knitting with many colors), and lace (well, that's the fabric with the holes in it). Over the years, I overcame the stranded phobia and had small forays into lace making, but nothing serious.
In caring for my parents small blocks of time allow me to do other things: clean the house, read, write, and knit. Last month, I decided that I had avoided this lace thing long enough. Christmas would be here before I knew it, so I'd better get on it. A visit to Ravelry (a knitter's haven and information central) led me to a group aptly called "Beginner's Lace". After joining, the group I discovered they did something called a shawl knit-along and discovered a technique I thought beyond me - a lifeline.
Knitters use lifelines as a line of fibre defense. A piece of waste yarn inserted between the needles and the live stitches secures the project from mishaps, such as a dropped stitch or a major unravel. Truth be told, I felt I didn't need to use a lifeline. Who? Me? Are you kidding? Such mental
hubris led to the failure of my first project. I lost stitches, gained them, discovered huge chasms open below the needles, aka "a hot mess."
The second shawl project cruised along with a better outcome. I have to attribute its success to those lifelines. Oh, sure I dropped a stitch or two, but the lifeline caught them. I noticed an error after I finished the project and, luckily, a lifeline rested just under the faux pas. I frogged (knitting term for undoing) the knitting and am currently reknitting. Yay, lifelines.
It's funny how knitting and care giving go hand-in-hand in my life. As with the members of the lace group, as in life I rely on lifelines in the form of nurses, nurses aides, doctors, pharmacists, friends, and the volunteers to answer questions, offer guidance, and help keep me sane as we strive to make comfort the fabric of the day. We do miss stitches here and there in the form of communication or try to go too fast, that's when I unravel. If my lifeline are in place calling up past training and wellness guidelines, those lifelines keeps me from becoming an abandoned hot mess...
And for that I am very grateful.
As you may or may not be aware, I love the art of knitting. Well, I have to own up and say I love some aspects of knitting. There are various forms that I have avoided like the plague, for example, entrelac (a textured knitting technique involving diamonds), stranded knitting (knitting with many colors), and lace (well, that's the fabric with the holes in it). Over the years, I overcame the stranded phobia and had small forays into lace making, but nothing serious.
In caring for my parents small blocks of time allow me to do other things: clean the house, read, write, and knit. Last month, I decided that I had avoided this lace thing long enough. Christmas would be here before I knew it, so I'd better get on it. A visit to Ravelry (a knitter's haven and information central) led me to a group aptly called "Beginner's Lace". After joining, the group I discovered they did something called a shawl knit-along and discovered a technique I thought beyond me - a lifeline.
Knitters use lifelines as a line of fibre defense. A piece of waste yarn inserted between the needles and the live stitches secures the project from mishaps, such as a dropped stitch or a major unravel. Truth be told, I felt I didn't need to use a lifeline. Who? Me? Are you kidding? Such mental
hubris led to the failure of my first project. I lost stitches, gained them, discovered huge chasms open below the needles, aka "a hot mess."
The second shawl project cruised along with a better outcome. I have to attribute its success to those lifelines. Oh, sure I dropped a stitch or two, but the lifeline caught them. I noticed an error after I finished the project and, luckily, a lifeline rested just under the faux pas. I frogged (knitting term for undoing) the knitting and am currently reknitting. Yay, lifelines.
It's funny how knitting and care giving go hand-in-hand in my life. As with the members of the lace group, as in life I rely on lifelines in the form of nurses, nurses aides, doctors, pharmacists, friends, and the volunteers to answer questions, offer guidance, and help keep me sane as we strive to make comfort the fabric of the day. We do miss stitches here and there in the form of communication or try to go too fast, that's when I unravel. If my lifeline are in place calling up past training and wellness guidelines, those lifelines keeps me from becoming an abandoned hot mess...
And for that I am very grateful.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Saying Goodbye to a Friend
Today's not my favorite day. In fact, if I could skip today, it would be all well and good.
My friend passed last week after a 16-year battle with cancer. He fought with every fibre of his being. Procedures, surgeries, or medications couldn't overcome this dreaded disease, but watching the battle between this man and this illness brought to light a valuable recipe - life is one part faith, one part attitude.
Al, in spite of all the internal conflict going on inside his body, chose to live each day with a smile on his face, spoke gently, and never forgot how to laugh. In fact, a few years ago he suffered a back injury and during my visit he began to laugh. I asked him what he found so amusing and he replied, "I'm in pain and I don't know why, but I just laugh at it." Maybe Norman Cousins was right when he proposed laughter as a way to a healthier lifestyle.
As I write this I realize that in remembering his life, I've been gifted by how he enriched my life. Al loved iconography and taught me to appreciate those beautiful symbols. He educated me on matters of faith and social justice. Our friendship opened me up to the world in a broader context. He cross-stitched. What he produced could be displayed in any museum. There have been many more gifts that are now part of my journey. Permanent reminders of his life on earth that are now embedded in my heart.
So, as much as I dread going to his wake this afternoon, I think that the visit has a different, yet still emotional meaning for me. I'll go to say prayers over his coffin and to discuss with gratitude the many gifts his life meant to others. I know there will be tears. Tears of sadness and tears of celebration for his life on earth and that in the hereafter.
His pain is no longer. His life well lived.
Thank you, Al.
My friend passed last week after a 16-year battle with cancer. He fought with every fibre of his being. Procedures, surgeries, or medications couldn't overcome this dreaded disease, but watching the battle between this man and this illness brought to light a valuable recipe - life is one part faith, one part attitude.
Al, in spite of all the internal conflict going on inside his body, chose to live each day with a smile on his face, spoke gently, and never forgot how to laugh. In fact, a few years ago he suffered a back injury and during my visit he began to laugh. I asked him what he found so amusing and he replied, "I'm in pain and I don't know why, but I just laugh at it." Maybe Norman Cousins was right when he proposed laughter as a way to a healthier lifestyle.
As I write this I realize that in remembering his life, I've been gifted by how he enriched my life. Al loved iconography and taught me to appreciate those beautiful symbols. He educated me on matters of faith and social justice. Our friendship opened me up to the world in a broader context. He cross-stitched. What he produced could be displayed in any museum. There have been many more gifts that are now part of my journey. Permanent reminders of his life on earth that are now embedded in my heart.
So, as much as I dread going to his wake this afternoon, I think that the visit has a different, yet still emotional meaning for me. I'll go to say prayers over his coffin and to discuss with gratitude the many gifts his life meant to others. I know there will be tears. Tears of sadness and tears of celebration for his life on earth and that in the hereafter.
His pain is no longer. His life well lived.
Thank you, Al.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Thunder and Lightning
As parts of the country suffer through the heat without power my thoughts go to those who need it most-the elderly and disabled. We, who are in pretty good shape, are uncomfortable and dismayed by this week's power outages, by food loss, by sleepless, sweltering nights, but at least our health helps get us through the night.
Thunder storms have always attracted me. I loved seeing the dark clouds roll in, counting the time between thunder and lightning, watching those bolts of electricity shoot from the sky. The majesty and power hidden within those clouds kept me spellbound. This summer has presented a different sort of challenge. The storms seem to go on longer, the thunder louder, the lightning more intense and, based on the fallen branches, angrier.
Now as a caregiver, my blood pressure goes up a few notches as the clouds begin to march over the neighborhood. A loss of power requires action on my part. My Dad lies on a air mattress. One that continually circulates air to help prevent bed sores and other skin problems common to a bed bound patient. Should we lose power, I must turn him and insert something called a "waffle mattress" under him. The waffle mattress must be manually inflated using a hand pump. All this needs to occur before the other mattress deflates, which would indeed leave Dad resting on a hard slab.
Additionally, there's the matter of oxygen. Dad uses a powered oxygen compressor. Should nature knock our lights out, Dad must be switched to an oxygen cylinder or tank for the duration of the outage. Not too big a task, but not one I look forward to actually doing.
During the duration of the outage, matters of hydration are high priority for Mom and Dad. They become annoyed when I'm touting fluids on a good day. Now "the daughter" roams the halls with a pitcher full of water or lemonade coaxing them to drink more. In their minds, drinking more results in increased bathroom time and swimming through the "Hazy Hot and Humids." just doesn't cut it. The heat slows them down, way down. Lack of fluid causes confusion.
It's during these extreme conditions, I worry about those who don't have anyone to care for them. Who are they? Can a neighbor assist? Are they locked up in a 100 degree apartment too worn out from the heat to get a glass of water? Where is their help? Could I be their help? Could you be their help?
All it takes to know may be a small measure of awareness. Does an elderly or disabled person live in your neighborhood? Have you seen them since the power outage? Did you notice an air conditioner sticking out of their window? Is it on? Do folks come and go from their home?
I realize it can be hard to just knock on someone's door with a pitcher of lemonade or water in your hands, but if you're a born extrovert, it couldn't hurt. If you don't dare knock on a stranger's door, then by all means call your local fire department or elderly affairs board to discuss next steps. The point being do something. Who knows? You just might save a life and it doesn't get more powerful than that.
Thunder storms have always attracted me. I loved seeing the dark clouds roll in, counting the time between thunder and lightning, watching those bolts of electricity shoot from the sky. The majesty and power hidden within those clouds kept me spellbound. This summer has presented a different sort of challenge. The storms seem to go on longer, the thunder louder, the lightning more intense and, based on the fallen branches, angrier.
Now as a caregiver, my blood pressure goes up a few notches as the clouds begin to march over the neighborhood. A loss of power requires action on my part. My Dad lies on a air mattress. One that continually circulates air to help prevent bed sores and other skin problems common to a bed bound patient. Should we lose power, I must turn him and insert something called a "waffle mattress" under him. The waffle mattress must be manually inflated using a hand pump. All this needs to occur before the other mattress deflates, which would indeed leave Dad resting on a hard slab.
Additionally, there's the matter of oxygen. Dad uses a powered oxygen compressor. Should nature knock our lights out, Dad must be switched to an oxygen cylinder or tank for the duration of the outage. Not too big a task, but not one I look forward to actually doing.
During the duration of the outage, matters of hydration are high priority for Mom and Dad. They become annoyed when I'm touting fluids on a good day. Now "the daughter" roams the halls with a pitcher full of water or lemonade coaxing them to drink more. In their minds, drinking more results in increased bathroom time and swimming through the "Hazy Hot and Humids." just doesn't cut it. The heat slows them down, way down. Lack of fluid causes confusion.
It's during these extreme conditions, I worry about those who don't have anyone to care for them. Who are they? Can a neighbor assist? Are they locked up in a 100 degree apartment too worn out from the heat to get a glass of water? Where is their help? Could I be their help? Could you be their help?
All it takes to know may be a small measure of awareness. Does an elderly or disabled person live in your neighborhood? Have you seen them since the power outage? Did you notice an air conditioner sticking out of their window? Is it on? Do folks come and go from their home?
I realize it can be hard to just knock on someone's door with a pitcher of lemonade or water in your hands, but if you're a born extrovert, it couldn't hurt. If you don't dare knock on a stranger's door, then by all means call your local fire department or elderly affairs board to discuss next steps. The point being do something. Who knows? You just might save a life and it doesn't get more powerful than that.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Questions
There are questions for which I need answers. Tough questions concerning this election year. Questions about how the candidates view our growing elderly population. Questions about point of view. Questions that I believe touch all of us - the elderly, their families and the nation as a whole.
In the interest of full disclosure, I do not belong to a political party because it's the person's record that gets my attention. Celebrity endorsements, massive campaign contributions and all the media advertising doesn't sway me one bit. Interviews from panel discussions to news conferences are usually very well rehearsed to avoid turning off voters and staying "on message", so they are not worthy of my attention. I've worked in the media long enough to know how it all works with campaigns. (And, I have to say I've always regarded these folks from campaigns as "cam-pains" with the incesant polling telephone calls.) Call it New England pessimism, but it takes a lot to impress me.
According the Administration on Aging's "Projections for Future Growth" data, there are approximately 57 million folks who turned 60 years old in 2010. The numbers are staggering when one considers the total population of this country stands at 308,745,538. More recently, the Huffington Post presented this article on caregiving and the numbers are even more telling. Additionally there are approximately 40 million unpaid caregivers in the United States. Why aren't these candidates paying attention to this issue when so many people are affected?
In the past, politicians have often used the line "for our children's future" to fight terrorism, engage in budget battles, and as an argument for or against health care reform. Yet, I haven't seen or heard any candidate applying that rhetoric to our elderly population and their caregivers? Why? This is an issue that directly impacts our childrens' future. I know that the election boards in every state visit nursing homes and assisted living centers to aid the elderly in casting their votes, but otherwise the silence leading up to that critical time is deafening. Our children may or not become caregivers. Trust me it effects their future.
There's an old saying about "a fence is a strong as its weakest link." In this case that link in our society must be considered the care of our elders. Those who came before to craft a nation and honored as the "The Greatest Generation." If 40 million unpaid caregivers walked away from their loved ones, the economic strain would be huge. Same has to be true for the unemployment figures because those 40 million caregivers go unreported. Those 40 million aren't eligible for anything. Those 40 million caregivers may not be able to leave their homes to vote because they can't leave their loved ones. Those 40 million are love in action.
Candidates go on and on about National security, border security, and the threat of terrorism all the while ignoring that which they are going to face somewhere down the road. If we are to maintain our strength, we must shore up our weakest links. To be there for our fellow citizens in their last days. Why is the discussion about this issue so weak and elusive?
Is this country only for the young? For the most productive demographics? Are we dismissive of the older demographic? Recently news accounts have announced that the elderly are living too long. A line to which my mother responded, "Sorry to disappoint you." What? Shouldn't that longivity serve as a symbol of our greatness? Are we turning into a country who believes that folks in their 70s, 80s, and 90's are a detriment? Someone, please answer the question. It's disturbing to me that these accounts appear to assign blame for our economic woes on a demographic that may be too fragile to defend themselves. What does it take for our candidates to acknowledge this important stage of life?
I believe if we are to continue being the great nation that we are, then we have to include care of our elders as a matter of social and economic security. Proper healthcare programs, support systems for caregivers, and respect for those who came before us have to be of utmost priority. Politicians may blabber about the need to reduce "entitlement" programs. Those are the folks who get a checkmark in my "Clueless" column. To me such statements demonstrate an ignorance that no statesperson should possess.
If anyone has answers to these questions, perhaps you can share them here. Until then, I'll just keep asking.
In the interest of full disclosure, I do not belong to a political party because it's the person's record that gets my attention. Celebrity endorsements, massive campaign contributions and all the media advertising doesn't sway me one bit. Interviews from panel discussions to news conferences are usually very well rehearsed to avoid turning off voters and staying "on message", so they are not worthy of my attention. I've worked in the media long enough to know how it all works with campaigns. (And, I have to say I've always regarded these folks from campaigns as "cam-pains" with the incesant polling telephone calls.) Call it New England pessimism, but it takes a lot to impress me.
According the Administration on Aging's "Projections for Future Growth" data, there are approximately 57 million folks who turned 60 years old in 2010. The numbers are staggering when one considers the total population of this country stands at 308,745,538. More recently, the Huffington Post presented this article on caregiving and the numbers are even more telling. Additionally there are approximately 40 million unpaid caregivers in the United States. Why aren't these candidates paying attention to this issue when so many people are affected?
In the past, politicians have often used the line "for our children's future" to fight terrorism, engage in budget battles, and as an argument for or against health care reform. Yet, I haven't seen or heard any candidate applying that rhetoric to our elderly population and their caregivers? Why? This is an issue that directly impacts our childrens' future. I know that the election boards in every state visit nursing homes and assisted living centers to aid the elderly in casting their votes, but otherwise the silence leading up to that critical time is deafening. Our children may or not become caregivers. Trust me it effects their future.
There's an old saying about "a fence is a strong as its weakest link." In this case that link in our society must be considered the care of our elders. Those who came before to craft a nation and honored as the "The Greatest Generation." If 40 million unpaid caregivers walked away from their loved ones, the economic strain would be huge. Same has to be true for the unemployment figures because those 40 million caregivers go unreported. Those 40 million aren't eligible for anything. Those 40 million caregivers may not be able to leave their homes to vote because they can't leave their loved ones. Those 40 million are love in action.
Candidates go on and on about National security, border security, and the threat of terrorism all the while ignoring that which they are going to face somewhere down the road. If we are to maintain our strength, we must shore up our weakest links. To be there for our fellow citizens in their last days. Why is the discussion about this issue so weak and elusive?
Is this country only for the young? For the most productive demographics? Are we dismissive of the older demographic? Recently news accounts have announced that the elderly are living too long. A line to which my mother responded, "Sorry to disappoint you." What? Shouldn't that longivity serve as a symbol of our greatness? Are we turning into a country who believes that folks in their 70s, 80s, and 90's are a detriment? Someone, please answer the question. It's disturbing to me that these accounts appear to assign blame for our economic woes on a demographic that may be too fragile to defend themselves. What does it take for our candidates to acknowledge this important stage of life?
I believe if we are to continue being the great nation that we are, then we have to include care of our elders as a matter of social and economic security. Proper healthcare programs, support systems for caregivers, and respect for those who came before us have to be of utmost priority. Politicians may blabber about the need to reduce "entitlement" programs. Those are the folks who get a checkmark in my "Clueless" column. To me such statements demonstrate an ignorance that no statesperson should possess.
If anyone has answers to these questions, perhaps you can share them here. Until then, I'll just keep asking.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Contest Winner Announcement!
Congrats to Debbie! She has won the $25.00 Barnes & Noble Gift Card!!!! Woohoo!
Stay tuned for July's contest and thank you for visiting "The Daughter."
And, Happy 63rd Anniversary to my Mother and Father. In a time when some marriages last 65 minutes, I'm proud of them for sticking together. In honor of this wonderful occasion, Mother Nature pummeled us with a 100 degrees of hazy, hot, & humid.
More adventures in caregiving to come...
Stay tuned for July's contest and thank you for visiting "The Daughter."
And, Happy 63rd Anniversary to my Mother and Father. In a time when some marriages last 65 minutes, I'm proud of them for sticking together. In honor of this wonderful occasion, Mother Nature pummeled us with a 100 degrees of hazy, hot, & humid.
More adventures in caregiving to come...
Friday, June 15, 2012
Who Wrote the Book on Caregiving?
Late last August when I finally decided to take my folks home from the rehabilitation center, an overall sense of helplessness surrounded me. Questions circled my head, uncertainty swelled in my stomach. Where did the answers live? Who or what resources existed to help me if I need it?
The 36-Hour Day came to me as gift in the form of a recommendation from a friend, so I immediately ordered it and felt like I'd won the lottery when it arrived. Although no where does this book deal with caregiving a deux, it provides an overall landscape to deal with a such an abrupt turn in the lives of our loved ones and ourselves.
I have to say, this is one of the few books regarding caregiving that attempts to hold up the family and the caregiver. The authors understand just how deep and real the dynamics are and, in turn, offer suggestions on making life a little better for everyone involved.
So, if you are a caregiver, if you are contemplating caregiving, or are just curious concerning what might be down the road, gift yourself.
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| The 36 -Hour Day by Nancy L. Mace, M.A and Peter Rabins, M.D., M.P.H.
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The 36-Hour Day came to me as gift in the form of a recommendation from a friend, so I immediately ordered it and felt like I'd won the lottery when it arrived. Although no where does this book deal with caregiving a deux, it provides an overall landscape to deal with a such an abrupt turn in the lives of our loved ones and ourselves.
I have to say, this is one of the few books regarding caregiving that attempts to hold up the family and the caregiver. The authors understand just how deep and real the dynamics are and, in turn, offer suggestions on making life a little better for everyone involved.
So, if you are a caregiver, if you are contemplating caregiving, or are just curious concerning what might be down the road, gift yourself.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Thoughtful Thursday
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| Busy bumble bees! |
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| Anise hyssop in bloom! Yes! |
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| Lemon thyme through new lavender haze |
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| Nice to know she's doing her job. |
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Have You Seen My Angel?
Last Sunday as I readied Dad for bed, he asked me, "Have you seen my angel?" The question caught be off guard. I asked him if he HAD seen his angel. He said, "No, but they tell me my angel is coming." I told him that if I saw the angel I would tell him? her? you were waiting.
Now I, for one, believe in those messengers between heaven and earth. I love looking at magnificent pictures of angels with gossamer wings, protecting us from evil or urging us on to do the right thing. As a little girl I prayed every night to my guardian angel to keep me safe from monsters that roamed the night or to give me the wisdom to get through a difficult exam.
Dad's question left me wondering about who 'they' were. Does heaven or the afterlife operate much like the secret service sending an advance team? Are there celestial beings who prepare the dying to meet their angel? Really? A Celestial Advance Team (CAT)?
So, how does one become a CAT member? Perhaps the difference they made on earth earned them their calling in the great beyond. I really don't know the answer, but there's a saying, "Treat everyone with love and care, for they might be an angel in disguise." Or in Dad's case a member of CAT.
Take care.
Now I, for one, believe in those messengers between heaven and earth. I love looking at magnificent pictures of angels with gossamer wings, protecting us from evil or urging us on to do the right thing. As a little girl I prayed every night to my guardian angel to keep me safe from monsters that roamed the night or to give me the wisdom to get through a difficult exam.
Dad's question left me wondering about who 'they' were. Does heaven or the afterlife operate much like the secret service sending an advance team? Are there celestial beings who prepare the dying to meet their angel? Really? A Celestial Advance Team (CAT)?
So, how does one become a CAT member? Perhaps the difference they made on earth earned them their calling in the great beyond. I really don't know the answer, but there's a saying, "Treat everyone with love and care, for they might be an angel in disguise." Or in Dad's case a member of CAT.
Take care.
Monday, June 11, 2012
Contest: Stories That Stirred Your Soul
For me, reading brings enormous pleasure. Walking into a bookstore can be overwhelming. First, I search for my favorite authors wondering if I've missed the fruits of their labors. Next, off to what's new on the bookshelf. I'm a kid in a candy store and I don't want to leave. After scouring the shelves, I sit in the cafe and savor what's to come. What's the story? What does it promise? Is there a tug from deep down inside telling me this is THE one. I keep one eye peeled on the time honoring my curfew, but hope time stretches.
My e-reader sits in my handbag. It saves me time and money; however, as old-fashioned as it may sound, sometimes my hands yearn to hold a book. Perhaps turning the pages heightens the anticipation of what comes next. Please don't get me wrong, my e-reader works like crazy. It's my right arm. For me, the digital or the printed book are merely containers. Ones that house the precious gift of story. I'm flexible to a certain extent. Lately, my reading time has been few and far between, but I manage a little in the evening or the wee morning hours.
So, I'm hosting a contest to answer a simple question: What's stories have you read recently that stirred your soul, gave you a different life perspective and opened your heart? The story that awakened your soul, pulled at your heartstrings, hurt to stop reading, and left you wanting more after the final page. Yeah, THAT book.
What do I need to do? Simple. Leave a comment including the title, author, and what the story means to you.
What do I win?: A $25.00 gift card to Barnes & Noble. (BTW, I saving the gift card that I received from a friend for Jon Katz' newest release this August.)
What if I don't have a B & N in my area: I believe you can use the card to order online.
When does the contest begin?: Now
When does the contest end?: Wednesday, June 20, 2012 at Midnight
How will the winner be selected: The winner will be selected at random using a randomizer.
When will you announce the winner?: I'll announce the winner on Thursday, June 21, 2012 (my parents' 64th Wedding Anniversary.)
How do I know if I won?: I'll contact the winner via email & on this blog. You must send me your address at that time in order to send the card to you via USPS. Winner has 7 days to claim their prize; if he/she doesn't respond, another winner will be chosen.
I'm looking forward to learning about some inspired reading. At the end of the day, we'll have developed a pretty great summer reading list!
More to come...
My e-reader sits in my handbag. It saves me time and money; however, as old-fashioned as it may sound, sometimes my hands yearn to hold a book. Perhaps turning the pages heightens the anticipation of what comes next. Please don't get me wrong, my e-reader works like crazy. It's my right arm. For me, the digital or the printed book are merely containers. Ones that house the precious gift of story. I'm flexible to a certain extent. Lately, my reading time has been few and far between, but I manage a little in the evening or the wee morning hours.
So, I'm hosting a contest to answer a simple question: What's stories have you read recently that stirred your soul, gave you a different life perspective and opened your heart? The story that awakened your soul, pulled at your heartstrings, hurt to stop reading, and left you wanting more after the final page. Yeah, THAT book.
What do I need to do? Simple. Leave a comment including the title, author, and what the story means to you.
What do I win?: A $25.00 gift card to Barnes & Noble. (BTW, I saving the gift card that I received from a friend for Jon Katz' newest release this August.)
What if I don't have a B & N in my area: I believe you can use the card to order online.
When does the contest begin?: Now
When does the contest end?: Wednesday, June 20, 2012 at Midnight
How will the winner be selected: The winner will be selected at random using a randomizer.
When will you announce the winner?: I'll announce the winner on Thursday, June 21, 2012 (my parents' 64th Wedding Anniversary.)
How do I know if I won?: I'll contact the winner via email & on this blog. You must send me your address at that time in order to send the card to you via USPS. Winner has 7 days to claim their prize; if he/she doesn't respond, another winner will be chosen.
I'm looking forward to learning about some inspired reading. At the end of the day, we'll have developed a pretty great summer reading list!
More to come...
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Dear Dad
Happy Father's Day! That's right, the day we celebrate our paternal line or those who were paternal toward us approaches soon.
I didn't get you a new grill or some snappy new power tool. Didn't get you a DVD or aftershave. I think we've past that point.
I have so, so much to thank you for today, namely:
I found breadcrumbs from the past; clues left by our dearly departed. Poverty, loss, and systems too blind to see the real story. Yet, you worked so hard to keep your family fed. The chicken story still makes me laugh, but it also teaches me the stark reality of hunger. You did good, Dad. You gave it your all.
In these recent months I've seen you through a different lens. Early on, images rose of a young strapping soldier full of bravado, ready for a fight. Next, as a baby who quietly drifts back to sleep after eating. Words can't describe how those images have touched my heart.
When you asked me if I meant it when I said I'd care for you and Mom at home, I have to admit a heaping measure of apprehension. But now I can honestly say to do so has been heaven sent. Had I not accepted the challenge, I would have missed out on your stories. They would have been lost on strangers who didn't understand their meaning. So, while I gifted you by caring for you, I received a far richer gift in return.
We don't know how much time we have left together as a family. I pray each day for a little longer. I pray that you be pain-free, and, most of all, I pray you finally get the peace you fought for and so rightfully deserve. These prayers conflict with each other. Selfishly, it hurts so much to know we'll have to say goodbye. That's something I'm just not ready to do. Not yet.
I'm sitting next to you in your hospital bed in our living room as I write this entry. You might ask, "Why would a daughter write an open letter to her father on the Internet?" My reply, "I want the world to know what a gift you are to me and my mother. Not gifts that wear out in two or three years, but an eternal gift living our hearts."
I love you, Dad.
I didn't get you a new grill or some snappy new power tool. Didn't get you a DVD or aftershave. I think we've past that point.
I have so, so much to thank you for today, namely:
- for surviving the Great Depression.
- for falling in love with my mother. (Good one, Dad.)
- for putting me on a racehorse at three-years old and igniting my passion for horses. (As you might remember, Mom didn't take that too well.)
- for the Friday fish and chip lunch dates on your days off from work.
- for driving down to Ft. Jackson, SC from Rhode Island in a Volkswagen Beetle when you found out I'd injured my knee in the Army. (That had to hurt your six-foot frame.)
- for giving me a love of nature.
- for challenging me every blessed day. (OK, I fought you tooth and nail on THAT one.)
- for showing me your quiet determination.
- for instilling in me the true beauty of living an authentic life, not a flimsy one built from pretension.
- for teaching me to seek and celebrate peace.
I found breadcrumbs from the past; clues left by our dearly departed. Poverty, loss, and systems too blind to see the real story. Yet, you worked so hard to keep your family fed. The chicken story still makes me laugh, but it also teaches me the stark reality of hunger. You did good, Dad. You gave it your all.
In these recent months I've seen you through a different lens. Early on, images rose of a young strapping soldier full of bravado, ready for a fight. Next, as a baby who quietly drifts back to sleep after eating. Words can't describe how those images have touched my heart.
When you asked me if I meant it when I said I'd care for you and Mom at home, I have to admit a heaping measure of apprehension. But now I can honestly say to do so has been heaven sent. Had I not accepted the challenge, I would have missed out on your stories. They would have been lost on strangers who didn't understand their meaning. So, while I gifted you by caring for you, I received a far richer gift in return.
We don't know how much time we have left together as a family. I pray each day for a little longer. I pray that you be pain-free, and, most of all, I pray you finally get the peace you fought for and so rightfully deserve. These prayers conflict with each other. Selfishly, it hurts so much to know we'll have to say goodbye. That's something I'm just not ready to do. Not yet.
I'm sitting next to you in your hospital bed in our living room as I write this entry. You might ask, "Why would a daughter write an open letter to her father on the Internet?" My reply, "I want the world to know what a gift you are to me and my mother. Not gifts that wear out in two or three years, but an eternal gift living our hearts."
I love you, Dad.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
My Mother's Hands
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Every day Dad's aide comes into her room to speak with her. Mom noticed the aide's manicure and complimented her nail color - blue. She asked her where she purchased the polish. She had to have THAT color. The aide asked if she really wanted blue nail polish. Not too many people my mother's age opt for blue nails. Mom insisted, "It's pretty. I want my nails to look like yours."
The following day our kind aide got to work and applied the polish, along with a topcoat of sparkles to liven things up a bit. She's shown her manicure to anyone who looks her way - the gardener, the neighbors, our cat - anyone. Dad's nurse came in to speak with her about Dad and up flew the hands, "See my nails. They were just done. I love my nails!"
But this photo isn't simply about a manicure. You are viewing a lifetime of stories. These are the hands that cared for her mother and father. The ones that worked on a comptometer and later a calculator to support herself and her family. Fingers that made beautiful music as she played her violin. Hands that held me as a baby and consoled me when my husband passed. Her hands are a gift.
The rings she wears tell stories as well. Her school ring reminds her of her life on the debate team, of times with her best friend, and of a nun who acted as a second mother to her. Cherished memories that she's taken with her all of her life. Not merely a piece of jewelry, but contained within this little ring are memories that shaped her.
She wears her wedding ring on her right hand. Her left hand so tiny that it slips off. A few weeks ago she panicked when she realized the ring slipped off overnight. Mom looked up at me and said, "Does this mean he's going to die today?" A gentle search of bedclothes uncovered the ring. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Today her tiny fingers reach over to caress Dad's cheek as she sits next to his hospital bed. She knows what's happening. I leave the room so she has her time with the man she loves. These are sacred moments never to be recaptured. Every moment matters as she conveys the love lying deep within her heart.
I love my mother's hands.
Friday, June 1, 2012
Reflections from the Garden
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| Working the bugs out.. |
The small gardens surrounding this house not only produce, they produce with purpose - flowers to attract the bees, herbs for teas, fruits and vegetables just outside my window, and, someday, chickens to provide necessary protein (but there's a red tailed hawk nesting in the back yard which means waiting for him to move to another neighborhood.)
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| Beauty |
So, I thought I'd fire up the old Coolpix Nikon to share my serenity spaces. Those little patches of earth that soothe and heal my soul. Being with such beauty quiets the mind. This little universe keeps itself quite busy and worthy of further exploration if one looks hard enough.
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| Smiling Pansy |
I love pansies because they are easy to grow and come in so many expressions. This one reminds me of a bandit. All it needs is a sombrero.
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| Blurry Blueberries |
Pancakes await my little beauties. Hope it happens as so often the ripe ones are consumed before they hit the batter. Ooops.
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| An Ocean of Irises |
Bumble bees wind their way from flower to flower collecting pollen. It's the interconnectiveness of nature. One small flight for bee, one giant bloom for mankind.
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| Vitamin K(ale) - sauteed or baked crisp in the over with a roast chicken. |
Jenna Woginrich of Cold Antler Farm wrote about the goodness of the mighty Kale. I often thought it a bitter lot of leaves, but that all changed when I tried it with roast chicken. Unbelievably delicious!
I've learned so much from these and other plants. It's the dawn of my urban farm. Every year I add a little more and every year the garden responds in kind.
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