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.   

Time out, please

Dear God -

You've shown me that I have enough shoulder strength here lately.

I think you need a time out.

Possibly because I pray to you each second of every day here lately, and also, because you have shown me I've enough to handle.

The day after my mother's Birthday, really?  We have to put her cat to peace?  And she cannot remember where the cat is.  I run through this in my head & my heart and I can only find the words she would say to me in hers - she was hurting honey, she didn't need anymore of this life.  She had a lovely world.   She had to go to feel better.  She is our guardian angel now and she shines over us like a shooting star.

For the next several days I will need to repeat the above paragraph in different tones, and with large love & patience, as my mother has Alzheimer's with a twist of Parkinson's

I love my mother more than I can explain.  And each moment we have together is a blessing.  But we could use some peace right now, Mr. God.  A lot of it.

Love,

Mary Lee's daughter

The Time Between.

Childhood is measured by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows – John Betjeman

In the season that felt as though it was only ours – the time between the falling of leaves and snow, my sister and I would walk to the park near our family cottage in northern Michigan.  Most of the summer folks had gone, having  only left behind echoes of loving, joy-filled laughter.     

One particular afternoon, my sister and I discovered the trees were a more than the usual generous audience – swaying to the rhythm of our song – We Are Family – sung at the top of our lungs lying on our backs with the merry-go-round spinning around and around.   


It was one of those times we instinctively knew whose turn it was to get up and push, running around until jumping onto our revolving stage.  

We were one. 

Within the silence of nature with the waves from the lake lapping as our percussion, the gentle wind, our string quartet , the scents of fallen leaves,  you name it, we knew had back up in the form of a higher power.

I am aware to this very moment it was one of the most enchanting, freeing, healing afternoons of my young life.  As we walked back to the cabin in reverent silence, I realized it was the loudest conversation I'd never had.  It’s likely this is the day we learned that in our way, though 5 years and 5 days apart in age, we were twins and carry with us an ability to converse without ever saying a word.  

So cheers to family found, or otherwise.  

I am finally remembering that the time in the between is where real life exists.  

The Fine Art of "Let It Be"

Thanks to Facebook and my Aunt Ellen, our family genealogist, for whom I could not be more grateful, I have been able to connect with cousins once & even twice removed, half brothers and sisters,  the greatest of great aunts and other semi-interestingly titled family member here and there.  I've even enjoyed some conversation with these people otherwise know as my family which is lovely, having not seen many of them since I was something like 7 years old.  

I'd yet though, to find myself in the midst of any life-changing memories or even what may felt like a full on connection,  Well until, that is,  that one day when Dan Bearden, some sort of a first once removed, possibly great second cousin, and I began to chat.  

Dan and I occasionally found ourselves in conversation via Facebook, especially when neither of us could not sleep and it was soon that we discovered we had a common love that transcends all barriers - Folk Music.  I came to call him Cuz/Bro and he called me lil' sis/cuz.  Precious.

He invited me to a Folk Music group and without hesitation I joined.  I particpated occasionally and I was always pleasantly surprised by how much better I felt when I'd take the time to listen to another song.  

Dan passed not long ago and because I was missing him, in particular one day, I went into the group and read that they were looking for a co-administrator.  This isn't any kind of a fancy job that pays a million dollars - but it is the exact kind of thing that keeps us tied as a global family.  Stories have always kept generations alive - no matter the format, but song seems an especially lovely version to yours truly.  

I inquired as to what the job might entail - so as to not over-commit, but thinking it  would be a lovely tradition to carry on and that I would still be able to feel our cuz/bro lil'sis connection.  I thought a lot about it; it felt important to me to be able to do it right.  I even went so far as to ask for a sign.

Meanwhile purging/spring cleaning here in Southeast Alabama and I came across a box of things I'd tucked away into the "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about these things, so I'll let them sit/stay until I can figure it out" zone.  Not to mention if tossing physical clutter doesn't make you ruminate, I'm not exactly sure what will.  I remembered the colorfully wrapped in scarf scented with my aunt's (on the other side of the family, for the record) perfume gift to be cotton, picked from a friends field in West Texas.  One to heed wisdom from my elders, here lately, I thought - ya know - you'd best be unwrappin' that cotton and see what goes on with that bandanna type thing. (sorry - I'm just lazy enough to not put in all the required punctuation and my editor is on personal leave, speaking of said aunt that smells good and sends super thoughtful gifts)

Suddenly - what to my wondering eyes should appear but an image  of "Mother Mary" - going by many other millions of names in this particular rendering - but I saw MOTHER MARY clear as day. (see above photograph, because not even my most clever self could make THIS stuff up)  And then the Beatles joined the party in my mind.  I was instantly transported to one late night talk, when Dan and I attempted to define "Folk Music" and him saying something to the tune of  "it's whatever we want or need it to be.  It's when we try to define things that we end up in trouble - or missing something really amazing."  

Ahem. Sign delivered.






I took the job - and hopefully I'll fill those shoes well.

That day and today The Beatles; "Let it Be" is a folk song of pretty serious magnitude to me.      

I'm ever grateful to all the parties involved in bringing me a moment as simply divine as that one.

PS - Don't worry, cuz/bro Dan Bearden - we'll keep the music playing.  Mother Mary said so.

Joy Hunting; Chapter One "Her Flock"

I am a mighty joy huntress.

What is a joy huntress, you ask?

To "Hunt joy" is a phrase I created a few months back, just prior to a potentially toxic situation my friend and I were headed into. I knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, this "potential toxicity" was based on my old beliefs. Once I shifted gears into the gratitude zone, all would be well, as usual and thankfully,  I have learned that within even the tiniest of normal circumstances, there is joy to be found.  I'm on the case like a bloodhound named Sherlock Holmes.

Exhibit A:

I had lived in Ohio for some time and began to frequent the store just around the corner.  It was convenient and the people that worked there always left me feeling like I had been not only been cared for, but about.  

I went to the store at Halloween time and discovered one of the rather demure, ever-cheerful, elderly woman clerks dressed as a green M& M. We talked and laughed to the point of tears. Her bravado and customer skills impressed me so much that I was moved to write a note of praise to the store's corporate headquarters.

For the record, it took me all of three minutes to write said letter of praise including extensive time spent with spell check.       

I returned to the store a few days later and there was the woman again - she was wearing her normal uniform and clothing (not that I'd ever see her the same again, I might add),  except for she had pinned a note underneath her name tag simply stating "Thank you to the lady that sent the email."

I acted as if it wasn't me  and asked her for the story. To hear her recant the joy over the situation was incredibly precious to me.    She was glowing.  I was near to tears, I was so excited that it had brought her that much loveliness.   I did manage express that it was obvious to me why someone would take the time to 'turn her in', with as well as she took care of us, her customers.

I felt like she needed to know we had become her flock.

I often wonder how many times on those days that she wore that message under her name tag, that she shared the story.  I still attempt to imagine how delightful that must have felt - to anyone that may have asked and most importantly, to her.

There is something quietly magical in the opportunity we all share as members of the human race to  joy hunt.  It's restorative in ways we forget unless we live it.

Did you hear that?  That joy was the sound of the Splash of a Mermaid.