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Helping Yourself Help


I have been thinking lately about decisions I made for my mother.  During my day, I often run into people who are in some stage of being a caretaker for a parent.  Some are in the beginning stage of denial.  Some are in the panic stage of, what do I do now?  Others are in the end stage and either silently, or out loud, are praying for an easy death of their parent.  I recognize all of these stages, because, I experienced each one.

As I’ve said before, I don’t mind listening and giving advice when asked.  Sometimes the obvious is very clear to those looking in, but not clear at all when you are the participant.  Recently, I heard of a woman who was trying to work full-time and take care of her mother, who lives alone.  Not only does she live alone, but she cannot cook for herself, can’t get herself to the bathroom, can’t get herself dressed, the list continues.  Yet, this loving daughter is trying to figure out how to take care of her mother without bringing in extra help or removing her from her home.  As I write this, the situation sounds very obvious as to what needs to be done.  But, put yourself in that role and all kinds of emotional problems surface.  There are promises made: Mom, I won’t put you in a nursing home.  Of course I will always take care of you.  There are financial issues that come with many questions.  Can my parent pay for care?  What if my parent refuses to pay, but I need the help?  Can I take over financial control?

Personally, the most important conclusion I came to, after taking on the role of caretaker, and spending months becoming more and more stressed was to realize, I can’t do this on your own.  Struggling, without admitting you need help, leads to problems later.  I found, reaching out to others in the same situation helped me tremendously.  As I entered my caretaker role, there were others in the midst of it.  These people understood the ends and outs.  They were aware of doctors, facilities, and organizations that could help with guidance on what to do and what help was available.  They knew tricks on how to just get through the day.  For many women, and I say women because the caretaking generally falls to us, the decision to admit we need help can be covered with guilt.  But, guilt should not be involved.

As a caretaker, your first step is to take care of yourself.  If you fall ill or get hurt, then everyone is in trouble.  Bringing in help; taking hours, days, weekends off is not selfish, it is putting your role as caretaker first.  When you are rested then your patience comes easier.  The skills needed to handle your tasks flow smoothly.

The worst day of my life, and I can also say for my sister, was the day we took our mother to an Assisted Living Home for Dementia Patients.  Like many of her generation, Mom had a pre-conceived notion of a “nursing home”.  It took us hours to get her out of bed, dressed and into the car.  I still get emotional when I think of that day.  But, and this is huge, our mother grew to enjoy her new home.  She found she liked the independence of being out from under my control.  She made friends; the staff grew to love her.  As for our relationship, it returned to more of a mother-daughter one.  Since I was no longer trying to get her to take her medication, to bath, to eat, to go to sleep, to get out of bed, we could enjoy each other.  I took Mom out to lunch, we got her nails done.  She came to my house for holidays.  When she no longer felt comfortable doing those outings, we did puzzles and watched TV.

Looking back, each day seemed endless at times.  But, now I know, making the most of what time is left, and providing the best care, is essential.   Even if it means letting that care come from someone else.  Asking for and excepting help are all part of a good caretakers role. In the end, the decision to let go of some of my control was the best one I made as a caretaker.

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Step back, Let it Go


My impression of the animal known as the Badger is that they are small, fierce, strong, and determined.  Once they have latched onto their prey they do not let go.  My sisters and I often laugh about a trait we call “The Badger.”  We are referring to a quirk of our personalities, the one where we, like the Badger, lock onto a thought or task and become fixated.  This trait can be helpful, for example, if you need to finish a task.  I make lists.  I relish being able to take pen in hand and check off items on my list that I have accomplished. Once the list is completely checked off, I start a new one.   I struggle with my husband, who likes to start tasks but not always finish them, at least in a reasonable manner for me.  We have been working on remodeling our house.  This project, although quite large, is a year and a half in the making. We have very little left to accomplish. But, my husband has lost interest and moved on.   My list sits waiting for me to check it off.  It is covered in coffee stains and more than once I have had to search to find it under piles of papers on my desk.  The “Badger” has lost patience and won’t rest until our final paint stroke is finished, and the final nail is hammered.  Then, pen in hand the “Badger” will check off the last items on the list and it will be time to let go.   The problem is getting my husband to cooperate.

Being a “Badger” can have its drawbacks.  I can become fixated with something, and I am unable to let it go or move on, even though I have no control over the final outcome.  An example would be, trying to help a friend or one of my daughters.  They ask for advice, I give it. But, then I obsess over trying to help them come to their conclusion on my time frame, not on theirs.  The “Badger” wants to come to a quick decision, and then move forward.  But, sometimes these decisions can’t be resolved that easily.  I have to wait because time is needed to find a solution.  This is where I struggle to take a step backwards.  I tell myself walk away, you can’t control this.  Your job is done.  But, I continue to be gripped by the issue.  I worry that the decision they make will lead them down a path that I feel will be more difficult for them.   I want to be in control and walk them through to a happy, final conclusion.  Of course, that would make the decision mine, and it is not on my list to check off, it is on theirs.  So the “Badger” must let go, a difficult maneuver, one that I am still laboring to learn.

I am also working to let go of my mother.  She passed away last February of dementia.  It was a six year slide into nothing.  I know she is in a better place.  But, I miss her.  Not the woman she was at the end, but the woman she was before dementia.  Mom’s passing was a blessing.  Yet, I regret our family didn’t get to enjoy her more, and, that my children lost their grandmother.  Mom and I did not always have this amazingly strong bond, but we had established a loving relationship as I grew into an adult.  Sometimes, I long for advice.  I miss her matter of fact explanations of life.  I have found becoming the “adult” generation is difficult.   I realize this is a normal passage of life, but, the “Badger” in me wants more time to be able to check off of my list things I enjoyed with Mom.  I wanted more time together doing girl stuff.  More quiet talks. More discussions about politics and books.   More laughing at silly things.   I wanted more.  That is a list that the “Badger” had to bury.

This morning I was struggling with an issue that is not mine to make.  Consequently, I did what works for me.  I went to nature.  It was chilly, near 50 degrees, as I hopped on my bike and took a ride on a wooded bike path near my home.  The rush of the cool air produced goose bumps as I headed down my first hill.  My mind was screaming questions and answers to me.  As I rode, over hundreds of fallen acorns and the first leaves of fall, my brain began to quiet.  My thoughts began to untangle and resolve themselves into categories.  It was at the end of my ride that I let the “Badger” grab hold of issues I can check off my list and I forced the “Badger” to let go of all others.  I just hope I can keep the “Badger” in control, today.

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We All Need to Contribute


I watched parts of the Republican Convention, and I am watching the Democratic Convention this week.  As a woman, it seems to me; both parties are working hard to get my vote.  In my opinion, that is a good thing.  Women of this country have the capability to make change.  We are lucky to live in the United States where that statement can be true.  Yet, many times, as the caretakers of our families we get so caught up in managing our own concerns we forget to notice what is taking place in the country and world around us.  Many of the decisions that will be made in the coming years will affect how we live.   The decisions will also affect how our children will live.  Consequently, the women of this country need to stand up and take control of the political environment.  If the parties are going to work hard for our vote, then we need them to work for us.  The issues we find to be the most important, should become front and center in the political debate.  And, men should not be the only ones in that debate.

Many times when I talk with younger women, I hear an unrecognized understanding of how close they are to the change that has recently taken place for our gender.    20 and 30 something’s never lived in a time when Title 9 wasn’t there for them.  They don’t fully comprehend what a glass ceiling is.  The idea of deciding a major for college based on your interests is natural for them.  They did not need to take into account that there were careers not meant for a woman.    I am thankful our daughters can have these thoughts.  But, we must not let our hard won victories come undone by complacency.

Today, I am asking all women, young, middle-aged or old to take notice of what is going on in our country, politically.  Take a stand, voice your opinions; if not to neighbors and friends, then with support of the candidate of your choice.  Women are often the catalyst for growth in their families, take that initiative one step further and work for growth in our country.  Even if that means just voting.

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The Ring Of Fire


I enjoy succumbing to the pull of a mountain lake.  This morning, Monday, of Labor Day weekend, I sit on a porch overlooking the Great Sacandaga Lake, in upstate, New York.  The air is cool and clear.  The view of the blue water, changing to grey as the clouds float in front of the sun, is lovely.  It is mid-morning and the boat motors sound like distant flies buzzing, as the crafts make their appearance on the lake.

Last night we celebrated the end of summer with the Ring of Fire.  A celebration started around 1990 by locals who, after cleaning the brush from their properties, decided to build huge bonfires.  The thought was to involve the community around the lake in camaraderie as neighbors were encouraged to join in and light the fires all at once.  The Sunday evening of Labor Day weekend was chosen as bonfire night.  The idea has blossomed and many families around the lake partake in this festival with cookouts and parties with friends and neighbors.

Sunday afternoon we took a tour of the lake by boat and checked out the many bonfires that were being assembled along the shoreline.  We soon discovered the competition was tough.  We headed back to the dock.  Once there, our team made the obligatory snacks and cocktails to come up with our plan of action.  The assorted debris and trimming were ready and waiting on the beach.  The men of the group assembled our bonfire, with the help of the young generation, the ones who grew up with this tradition.  Because we had seen the other bonfires, more debris was sought out and piled high onto our lake offering, which in the end allowed for much praise and feelings of a job well done from the assembly crew.  Now, we only had to wait until nightfall.

As we cooked and ate our end of the summer feast, steak, squash, corn, tomatoes, dusk began to fall and we watched as one by one bonfires began to illuminate the lake, some were as far as five miles away.  Then, fireworks began to display their colors.  An almost full, fiery, orange moon rose over the mountains, as if on cue.   A true celebration of summer and all of its glory was under way.

We quickly finished our feast and headed to the beach.  The fire was lit and slowly came to a roaring inferno with sparks flying high into the night sky.  The sight was beautiful and we celebrated with “”oooos and ahhhs,” our contribution to the festival.  Cameras were brought forth and pictures were taken to commemorate the evening.  We all knew however, pictures or not, we would not forget such a delightful night.   Soon, quiet descended on us as we watched the leaping flames slowly drop from the night sky into a intensely hot mound of burning logs and hot coals.   Chairs were assembled and we spent many hours sitting by our offering talking, laughing and enjoying each other’s company.  This, I believe, was the original intent for the Ring of Fire.

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Labor Days I Remember


I don’t recall many Labor Days as a child.  Growing up, those carefree summer days of Midwestern humidity melted together into one big holiday. One day, I was celebrating the end of school.  The next, I was headed back, pencil and notebooks in hand, wondering how summer skipped by so quickly.   My first recollection of this weekend as a Holiday always sends my mind back to the Labor Days spent at Purdue University.  Those weekends were some of my best.

When I attended Purdue, 1977-1981, classes started the week before Labor Day.  This meant the first full weekend back on campus, was three days of welcome.  It was my first weekend of regained freedom. College summers in Wabash, Indiana were long drawn out affairs with nothing going on.  The parents still held the reins and fun was pulled in.  Labor Day was the kick-start to the freedom of campus living.  On that particular weekend homework was a distant thought, classes having just begun. The next few days sprawled in front of me seemly endless.

Those Labor Day weekends began with slowly waking to sweat beginning to form as the heat, which truly never left over the night, began to rise.  For a few moments I would lie still on the upper bunk and listen to the hum of the many fans whirring in the windows of Windsor Hall.  Soon the day was calling and the excitement of discovering friends I had missed since last May, forced me from my bed and down the hall to shower.  By midmorning the dorm rooms were so stifling everyone spilled outside.  Frisbees were flying, Doobie tunes were blaring, and cheap beer was flowing.  Three full days of getting back into the groove of life on The Purdue University campus lay before me. There were girlfriends to confide in, boys to drool over and a full year of weekend parties to anticipate.  I took full advantage of these first few days and allowed the Purdue campus atmosphere to once again seep into my pores, returning me to college life.

Eventually, the weekend would wind down, sometime on Monday.  Some students, anticipating classes on Tuesday broke from the parties early.  Others kept going late into the night, neglecting sleep before the rigors of classes began.  For me, falling asleep to the laughter of fellow students meant the start of another good year.    Summer never had a better ending and smoother transition into the fall.

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The Cicada Song


As a young girl, growing up in Indiana, I knew that summer was drawing to a close, not by the date or a change in the temperature, but, by the arrival of the cicadas.  Without warning, as a long humid day began to sink into night, we would become aware of their humming song.  My mother would state; “Six more weeks until the first frost.”  A lesson she learned long ago from her father, who was a farmer.  This proclamation did not always hold true, but my siblings and I grew to understand, with the arrival of the cicadas and their song, came the end of summer.

The rhythmic song of the cicada is a comfort to me.  Each buzz in a late afternoon can send me back to a time when the bottoms of my feet were tough enough to run across stones.   As a kid growing up in the sixties and seventies, my sisters and I didn’t wear shoes once it got hot, we ran barefoot.  Back then, I knew summer was truly underway when I could dash through the neighborhood and not notice if I was on pavement, grass or a rock driveway.

Cicada songs bring a relaxation to my shoulders as I recall endless, sultry days spent swaying in the upper branches of a tree reading a book and trying to catch a breeze.  Or, I remember lying on the grass watching cloud formations in the soft blue sky of late summer.

With the song of the cicadas comes the abundance of summer vegetables.   Fresh sweet corn picked from my uncle’s farm and still warm as we husked it.  The pleasant feel of butter dribbling down my chin as I smacked my lips together and tasted the salt mixed with the sweet of the kernels.  My mouth drools with delight at the thought of sun ripened tomatoes, plucked from the vine just before being cut.  Once we ate those acidic orbs, there was enough juice left on the plate to slurp down.  We often made a meal of corn, tomatoes and green beans.

The cicadas sang along as we churned our own ice cream.  They seemed to lead the anticipation as we waited for the milk, sugar and cream to freeze.  And they would laugh at us, as our eyes almost rolled back in our heads when we ate the freezing cold dessert too quickly.

But my favorite comfort from the cicada song was their humming that grew louder and quieter with the rustle of a breeze as I lay in bed, my mind still racing, but my body exhausted from a day of play.   Even now, as summer wanes and the cicada song begins, I find comfort in my many memories.  And I look forward to crawling into my bed and listening to their lullaby as I fall asleep.

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Bad Day


Minor issues that would not normally upset me, or would cause a small amount of frustration before I moved on, have lingered with me all day.  At a celebration for the three ski team girls who graduated this spring, I didn’t take any pictures.  Never mind that we all had such a great time pictures weren’t really thought of until too late.  An appointment this morning went all wrong.  I realized that I should have sent a greeting card for an event, but the thought never crossed my mind until it was too late.  All minor issues that have grabbed my emotions and tangled them into a knot of regret.  It seems I am having a bad day that I can’t shake.

I am in a low place, and maybe this is the reason, why.   I find myself reflecting on my relationship with my mother.   I worry, that I hurt her feelings without knowing it.  My mind rambles back through my teen and young adult days.  Did I do and say things that were callous?  Was I so wrapped up in myself I forgot that Mom was a person with feelings, too?  I know I did.   I wonder how many times she forgave me and I was totally oblivious to her grace.  Today, even though it is silly, I’m struggling with these regrets that weigh heavy on my heart.

With each step of my life I have realized, as many woman do: my mother did the best she could.  When I only had two young toddlers, I could not even imagine how my mother handled three, along with three older children.  When my girls and I struggled through the teen years, I often reflected on my feelings about how mistreated I felt by my mother.  With age comes the vision of hindsight and with that, the realization Mom was probably struggling to know how to handle my teenage anxiety, just as I struggled with my girls.   I did come to one conclusion: Mom could have been more forth-coming with hugs.  Perhaps, some acknowledgement of accomplishments would have been nice.  I hated being told there were so many kids at the high school far worse off than me, when all I really wanted from Mom right then, was a hug and the words, “I love you.”   I carried that resentment with me for many years.  I believe that same resentment helped me to be a different and, hopefully, more loving mother to my girls.

We often learn from our mistakes.  But, as my mother used to tell me, “I hope you are watching and learning from your older sisters mistakes.”  I did watch and learn; not only my sisters’ but my mothers’.  Because, as Mom believed, each generation should learn from the old and carry that knowledge into the next.  Thanks, Mom.   I love you.

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Richer


Yesterday afternoon I saw an eagle fly.  I know there have been many lines written in songs about this, because they are going through my head right now. My favorite singer, as a young girl, John Denver sang, “I know he’d be a poorer man if he never saw an eagle fly.”   I can agree, it was an amazing sight and I do feel richer for the experience.

There is a spot on the Great Sacandaga Lake where you can go by boat and spot an eagle’s nest.  Late yesterday afternoon my hosts took us for a boat tour of the lake.  They were pointing out the nest when one of the eagles appeared overhead and soared on magnificent wings that had beautiful markings on the underside.  The eagle lazily drifted in circles above us, giving us a wonderful view.  Then, just as suddenly, the mate appeared.  The two eagles danced overhead, wings stretched out, swerving over the treetops and back out over the water.  We spectators in the boat sat in awe and enjoyed the show.  This was a sight not many people get to enjoy and we all remarked how lucky we felt.  The eagles’ huge bodies seemed almost small against the massive cloudless blue sky and the towering pines of the shore line.  But we could feel and see the grace in these birds with each down stroke of their wings and the gentle way they glided on the enormous length of their wingspan as the rose and dipped on the air currents.  One of the eagles landed in the expansive nest built into the top branches of a white pine tree.  The other eagle left our view, perhaps in search of food.  We all turned to each other, the thrill of what we had just witnessed still etched on our faces.  “That was amazing.  What a gift to be able to see two eagles flying.”  With that thought still lingering on our faces and in our minds, we turned the boat to head back home, our tour more than completed.

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Time for me


I went to sleep last night listening to loons calling.  It is a long call that sounds almost as a flute fluttering through several notes.  The sound echoes over the water and disappears slowly through the mountains.  It is late August in the Adirondacks and that means the weather is cooling.  The air is clear and dry, the nights require a sweatshirt.  One of my favorite times of year.

This summer, like many before it, has slipped through my hands.  When the last weather front came through, knocking back the humidity and dropping the temperature, I knew summer was on its way out, here in upstate New York.  Consequently, I took advantage of a standing invitation and yesterday arrived at The Great Sacandaga Lake in time for a swim before cocktails.

I could tell the water temperature has already begun to drop from its record high of 82 degrees this summer; it was cool but not enough that the swim didn’t feel delightful.  There is something amazing about swimming in a mountain lake.  The water is soft, like swimming through silk, and so clear you can see the bottom and all of the boulders and rocks as you skim across the surface.  Looking up and down the lake, as I swam, I relished the view of the gentle Adirondack Mountains.  Not tall and majestic like the Rockies, but round and comfortable.  Like the arms of a mother.  Growing up, I knew I wanted to live in or near mountains.  And so, my dream has come true.  That is why, I had to do myself this favor and allow the time to come to this lake and slow down, take time to cherish the last fleeting warm days of this summer.  I did not want to look back in the middle of February and think, I didn’t get enough lake time.

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A Youth Re-lived


Last night I re-entered my youth. My husband Paul and I went to a Doobie Brothers and Chicago concert at SPAC. (Saratoga Performing Arts Center) It is a beautiful outdoor concert hall. There are seats inside under a roof and then a slopping lawn for anyone willing to throw down a blanket. Paul bought us tickets inside.

The Doobies came on first and Paul and I rushed to our seats, massive beer in hand, to enjoy. Music can transcend time and as our favorite tunes from high school and college floated through the air we were once again teenagers. Paul felt himself cruising in his mother’s huge Buick, eight track tape pushed in, windows rolled down and music blaring.  I remembered listening to WLS out of Chicago, hoping one of my favorite Doobie tunes would come on and then I could shift my parent’s red and cream-colored VW van into fourth and cruise through the hot spots of Wabash, Indiana.

It felt great to once again feel so carefree even for a few hours.  The music, and the emotions it brought back, blocked all worries and cares from our 50-year-old brains.

Chicago, the band, was just as exciting.  We loved watching the musicians that were displayed in front of us, each one demonstrating tremendous talent. Man, those guys can still blow a good horn, while moving all over the stage.   It was clear to us why they were still performing after all of these years.  They were good and they loved it.

The best part of the night was at the end when both Chicago and the Doobies came on stage.   I knew, that in my lifetime, I never thought I would see both of those groups performing together.  Paul and I were wide-eyed with excitement.  The energy level just increased as the bands took turns playing each other’s hits.

The evening finally ended and we walked to our car in the cooling upstate New York August air.  We got home around midnight and crawled into bed.  Our 50 something bodies remembering what our brains did not.  But, it will be some time before I forget the thrill of once again being young.