Oh Christmas Tree!

It took me about three weeks to work up the gumption to decide what to do about a Christmas tree this year.  My mom has a HUGE pretend one, that took ninja-like wrestling to get out of the house last year, finally, in March.  Oh yes, March.  Things like Christmas trees don't seem to be top of the priority list when one's mother has a diagnosis of Mixed Dementia.  Better known as (Doctor dependent) as Alzheimer's and Parkinson's Diseases.

But I digress.....Well, sort of.

The most important thing to me in the universe currently is seeing the FULL ON glowing smile my mom gives when the joy is seeping out of her.  She's functional with a side of repetitive short term memory issues, so it's not like she's lying in a bed hoping for a miracle.  She IS a living miracle.  And trees are one of her most favorite things.

Last year I had the sad task of having a trimming service come out and deal with the trees that were either deceased or dying and our Texas yard is barren for us girls from Michigan used to a tree at every turn. I was gently reminded at the second funeral I attended this past summer for two fathers of dear friends, that trees are vital to life. One of the sons recently pointed out to me that one could purchase a living tree - one that could be planted and grow for the future.

So I donned my Santa hat, and went to the local nursery after phoning to be certain they had what I was looking for.  The very lovely people that came to our home and had to take away our deceased trees.  The wife of the owner came out and helped me select the perfect tree, along with her dachshund who wasn't as fond as I, of my Santa hat.  My main concern above WHICH tree, was how was I going to fit it in/on the vehicle in the midst of a lovely West Texas dust storm when lo - she told me they deliver.  It took a lot out of me to not sit on the ground and sob.

Picking out a tree for one's family, by oneself is a challenging task  I'm used to the frivolity of the experience of many laughing and listening to Christmas songs and laughter over that one time the tree fell on Aunt C's head when she and I attempted to put it up ourselves to surprise the family.  (Thankfully, no emergency rooms or professionals were required that year...but close)

So this year, I asked the lovely owner if she would take a picture of me, so I could share the moment with my family who could not be with me.  And with a line of at least 7 people there, she excused herself and came out to take my photo in front of our soon to be Christmas tree.  Yesterday, they delivered it.

Naturally it was too tall.  Perfectly too tall.  And the delightful man that we use to take care of our lawn, moved it to the corner the tree will spend some time with us, helped trim it and even placed the angel on top. Naturally, as well, I cried.

My suggested lesson in all of this is to call in a favor from angels and see just where it gets you.  It might be in the tiniest of places or the deepest spaces of your hearts.

Merry Christmas.

Sages Through the Ages

There really aren't words for this type of conversation, but here is my attempt, not to mention you may not know the person I'm discussing herein - but here's the deal - say I love you to everyone you can, every chance you get.  Always. 

Many moons ago, my sister was married and as part of her ceremony, a Shaman, by the human name of Dr. Bruce Cox did a blessing.  It was one of those remarkable life moments.  Spirit, love, ancestry - everything was everywhere, twirling around us all in the smoke of the sage that day.  

Years later, when my dear stepfather passed away, he did another blessing.  I wasn't witness to that one, but I could feel it from 1600 miles away.  Deeply.  

When I arrived in Texas, over a year ago, I was beyond thrilled to think I might get to spend some time with this spirit and learn from him.  Turns out, he had moved to another state, but I still had the good fortune to hang with him poolside and listen and learn and laugh, many times.  The first night I saw him again, he did yet another blessing.  Looking back, it was as though he could see I needed protection, support, healing and superpowers before I even knew I needed them all.  

When we learned about my mom's illnesses, one night I ran away from home.  To the Coxs' Big Spring home - about 3 blocks from mom's house.  I raged, and I ranted and I cried as Bruce held my hand.  In these moments, I could not help but feel more strength pouring into my soul.  He gave beautiful wisdom, kindly and with grand humor and I began to realize I actually could do this. 

Bruce and his amazing wife (see, there aren't enough words?!) Sheryl, also raised one of my now dearest friends, Josh, whom I now have the opportunity to do some life-changing work with.  

And just last week, I had the change to speak to Bruce on the phone about a project and was able to tell him I loved him, yet again.  Thank God.  Because, yesterday, he transitioned, after a good cup of coffee.Last night I dreamed of him all night and even woke myself laughing at one point.  Which is the only way he'd want it.  

At the Master Gardner's sale this year, I bought a little tiny sage plant, with great hopes of growing it the size of the state of Texas and hoping Bruce would bless it, so I could use it for blessings.  When mom and I returned home from a trip, I discovered the sage had indeed grown - though merely the size of Big Spring, but the incredible part of the story to all of my family, is that there was a feather, firmly settled into the planter just next to the sage (enter goosebumps here) and I suggested that Bruce and Spirit had already blessed it.  I could not be more grateful.  Say I love you every chance you get.  Always.  

Beat it.

Not long ago, a friend and I spent some time at a family cottage and well, it turns out I'm a drummer.  (or not  - please hold)

My drum kit includes a certain size cottage cheese container and a variety of pots and pans.

Earplugs for my family.

And gifted drumsticks - they were picked from a tree near the cottage, and carved with my initials by one of my dearest pals.  I was thrilled.  Until each one, in it's own time, broke and flew across the room that particular weekend.  For the record, no one was wounded.

I began to remember that singing made me feel release and freedom each time I put my MP-3 player on and banged out the next tune. Next thing I knew I was banging out my frustrations, singing my tunes at the tops of both of my lungs.  Many involved left the room.

Today though, wow.  Today, said friend showed up again, and with not only grown up drumsticks, but drumsticks in a wildly perfect shade of purple.

I cried.  I'm hopeful he didn't notice that part.  Or that he did.  Either way, I'm grateful in ways I can't find just yet.

I'm hopeful you have drums to beat upon that make your heart remember to beat when things feel so tight and tough that there is no other way to express.

I bet my stix will remember.

Where have all the brownies gone?

So I'm reminded today more than usual, that my mother has well, Alzheimer's.  Because I'm looking for the brownies I baked instead of a cake for my aunt's birthaversary.

My mom loves sweets more than God.  So usually, I can figure out where she hides them.  I know she has a chocolate chip stash - I understand that.  I have one too for PMS purposes only, of course.

But here's the real gig - wherever the brownies may rest in peace, I'm thinking of my friends and my family that also care for their mothers and fathers.

We all have our moments and the joy that comes with giving care to someone that brought us into this life is endless.  I sent my mom to bed thanking her for all the laughter we shared today.  (including brownie loss)

The responsibilities are endless when caring for a person who can't remember what day it is.  The joy is bigger than that.

Where have all the brownies gone?

Stress response or abuse?

By my dear friend - K - also in the same space of caregiving her mother: 

I brought Mom to live with me 3 years ago following Dad's death.  Resisting the pull to free-fall from the loss of the beloved man who took care of everything, I was grounded in the need to take care of Mom.  While she was (and is) in terrific physical condition, she is memory-challenged to the point of requiring full-time care.  But she knows her family, loves activity and is operating at far too high of a cognitive level to leave her care to an institution (if there is ever a time when a sentient being should be institutionalized.)

As long as I was visiting Mom in her home, I was completely relaxed and patient with her at all times.  I couldn't imagine ever being otherwise!  Of course, I was always on vacation.  Free of work, free of any responsibilities other than taking care of Mom.

Once the initial house prep was done and ready to bring Mom (that's another chapter), moving her in was a snap!  Against all warnings from friends that she would decline and be disoriented with the change, Mom adjusted immediately.  It was as though she'd always lived here, sitting in the chair I had brought from her home, preparing her coffee in her own coffee maker, going out for the newspaper in the morning.  She blossomed from day one.  The power of family at work!

I took a week off from work to orient her.  I was pretty relaxed that first week.  It was an adventure!  But it wasn't long before my patience was challenged, and found myself snapping at her.  My nephew was here the first time it happened, and assured me that Mom would forget it in 5 minutes.  Which, of course, she did.  But I didn't. I knew I didn't want to be treated that way if, God forbid, I should ever be in her situation.  And that was my litmus test for my behavior.

I snapped at her (yelling or speaking harshly) several times that first few months.  I hated it.  I always felt so badly afterwards.  But I was learning! The frequency of my outbursts lessened as I learned how to avoid difficult situations.  Just like kids that act out when you don't have any attention for them, are rushing them or don't give them adequate information about what is going on - or give them more information than they can process - a person with diminished mental capacity is going to balk.  And Mom can dig in her heels and make a 2 year old's stubbornness look like a cake walk.

Just when I thought I had mastered my cool, Mom decided to take a bath.  She caught me in the bath, and came in to tell me that she would be in her bath.  I told her that we weren't able to lift her out (been there, survived lifting her once, but never wanted to do it again!), and she said "okay" and left.  I knew I needed to intervene, and jumped out of the tub  . . too late.  I found her sitting in the deep whirlpool in her bathroom.  She said, "I'd already run the water and didn't want to waste it." "But Mom, we can't get you out of there!"  "That's ridiculous, of course I can get out." she declared in a stubborn and defensive tone.

The earlier experience had taken place in my low-sided tub, and as tiny as she is, it was a real strain to lift her.  I knew this was going to be even harder, and that I needed to avoid the side-angle by getting in the tub with her.  I grabbed a friction mat that I had purchased in anticipation of Mom's arrival (for showers!  Not baths.) and tried to place it under her.  As I tried to lift, it slipped, but thankfully Mom didn't.  My heart and mind were racing. I had visions of calling in the neighbors to help, but was able to lift her on the second effort.

When I had her safely out of the tub, I lost it, telling her that if she ever did that to me again I was going to put her in a nursing home.  The minute it was out of my mouth, I was horrified.  Her little face was so repentant and contrite, saying "I'm sorry, honey, I didn't know."

It was an all-time low for me.  I couldn't believe I had threatened her in that way.  Never, ever did I want her to feel insecure in my care of her.

That was in the early days.  Over the three year period, I have yelled a few more times.  Sometimes just so she could hear me on the 3rd or 4th time of repeating myself.  My friends and family reassure that I'm only human.

But a recent info packet from an Alzheimer's respite care group reminds that abuse is not limited to the criminal acts of stealing an elderly person's money, hitting them, locking them up or restraining them, or neglecting them.  It includes "using a harsh tone, screaming or yelling, threatening to stop caring for the person, handling the person roughly, and fearing being on the verge of hitting or hurting the person."  In a study by the British Medical Journal, the most common forms of abuse reported were verbal, and more than a third of family caregivers said abusive behaviors occurred "at least sometimes" in the previous three months. (I tend to think the other 2/3rds are not being honest, or are saints.)

I think it helps for me to know that it's not just a failure to achieve goal behavior; it's not just "not the way" I want to be treated in a similar circumstance. It's abuse.

I know that all of the good that I do for Mom more than makes up for the few abuses I have perpetrated on her.  I'm not turning her over to institutionalized care because I'm not perfect.  99.99% of the time, I'm loving, patient and kind.  Reinforcing her confidence by asking questions that she can respond positively to, providing stimulating activities and a loving caregiver when I'm at work.  Never correcting her.  Reassuring when she's confused or concerned. Patting her on the knee as we drive along, asking her how she feels, hugging her when she wakes up in the morning and goes to bed and telling her that I love her.  Standing with her in the hallway as she looks at the collection of family pictures and recounts her memories of a loving husband and her precious children, pointing out how pretty her mother was. Preparing her healthy food, and making sure that she always looks her best, and is therefore treated respectfully when I'm not there to protect her.

I'm good at caring for Mother.  Maybe even great. I'm still a work in progress, and not perfect.  But I do think it's important to recognize and educate others on abusive behavior.

Motel 6, Grace and Faith

In my mind, any new year comes with renewed hope. Know I'm a believer in any moment being filled with hope, but new years seem to come with extra.

Today I got proof of that in the form of grace and faith.

After phone calls to various people at a certain insurance company about various claims including a potentially killer plumbing bill, I was a wee bit dismayed.

I took mom to her usual doc's appointment, had her sign a check so I could pay the co-pay when I learned we didn't owe one! BONUS number one.

Headed to do some shopping while she finished up her appointment, returned home to a few more business calls, when a call came through from Motel 6.

What?

I finish up my insurance call just in time to answer, and it's a man – Rusty. He's found a check, of my mother's signed, but blank, in the biggest, most corporate store in town.

I think. And then I cry. I realized I'd not put the check meant for the un-owed co-pay where I normally would as in, a wallet or in my pocket, but in my TO DO LIST novel, and it had fallen out, in the middle of said corporate store and this man picked it up, took the time to look up our phone number and called so I could come pick it up at his temporary home in a hotel in our town.

There is a level of amazing that goes with this type of kindness.

When I pulled up to the hotel where he and his wife are living, as they do work here in our town.....this large man came out of the room first. I was grateful I'd taken my friend with me – ya know, just in case, and then – out comes Rusty. Check in hand, holding it out.

I'd love to tell you more about that moment – but all I remember is Rusty holding his hand out to shake mine as I hugged him and cried. And repeating “You have no idea, you have no idea how grateful I am”. His friend clapping and saying “Oh, this is a great moment to witness”.

I turned around as I walked back to the car, blinded by tears of gratefulness, and I saw his wife peek out the hotel room door. Waving happily.

A few more stops on the way home of errands and I still could not stop being overwhelmed by grace. As I pulled into the driveway of home, “What if God Was One of Us” came on the radio.

So, I cried some more. And called Rusty at his hotel room to really explain how important his action was. It was a good idea to call him again. We both admitted things most strangers do not to most.

Rusty – thank you. For every moment of each of the lessons learned today.