I Understand

When my mom said that she wanted to be well now and it was only a couple of weeks after she had broken her shoulder, the wonderful orthopedic doctor said, "I understand."  I have heard him say that so many times since then. 

Mom wants to be 100% rehabbed NOW. 

"I understand." 

The doctor doesn't tell her why that's an irrational want and he doesn't say that she'll have to wait until such-and-such a date.  He just says, "I understand."

And my mom thinks that he is a really good man.

He is!

Even though I admire that man's ability to just empathize without adding to, or subtracting from, the story presented him, and even though I would like to have his communication skills, I have yet to be able to let go of whatever need I have to be right or smart or impatient or argumentative myself.  I have yet to say, "I understand" when my mom feels tired or sad or impatient about her health or about my dad.

I haven't said those two words once to my mom or to Mr. CfP or to my son or to my daughter or to anyone else.

Even though I can't think of anything that anyone needs more than someone to understand, I still can't get those two simple words into my head.

Maybe a tattoo on the back of my hand will help?  Or better yet, on the back of my eyeballs? 

I feel a little frustrated about this.

Oh, you understand?  

Gee, thanks!

Happiness

Today was a day to fill myself up.  Have forgotten about fun and friends for too long.  I called a friend and we went out to breakfast, then I stood with our Women in Black vigil.  Much healing occurred.

Sometimes it takes another person to straighten out our crooked eyes, so the time shared at breakfast was more than food for the belly.  And I realized that virtual hugs are awesome, but the real human thing cannot be replaced. 


I have not mentioned that Mr. Carol For Peace has been out of town for most of the great adventure that has taken place this past week.  So there have been no hugs and no one but me to take care of Buddha.  Good thing the Buddha is so appropriately named.  He has been an understanding and supportive companion at all times.

While standing vigil alongside a street full of holiday shoppers, something within me opened up.  We are a group of women dressed all in black as a sign of mourning for the atrocities of war.  Today I could no longer be in a place of mourning.  I wanted to wish happiness to each driver and passenger.  I wanted happiness.  I wanted happiness for my family.  We can have happiness even when we have no health or wealth and when the situations of the world are not to our liking.  We can be happy with those who oppose what we say.  We can be happy just for the sake of being happy.  No conditions are required, being happy just because we are alive.


It was all so beautiful.  I couldn't help but to smile.  A lot.  I connected with drivers and and pedestrians, not with words, but with eyes - in a deep, human connection.

"Sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, but sometimes your smile can be the source of your joy."
— Thich Nhat Hanh 

Happiness right now IS peace.  

"Each moment is a chance for us to make peace with the world, to make peace possible for the world, to make happiness possible for the world."
— Thich Nhat Hanh (Teachings on Love)  

 

 

 

 

(You have my permission to remind me of this post the next time I lose my footing, okay?)

Dropping Some Dimes

As I have been following Reed of "A Year of Giving",  I picked up the quote below.  Been meaning to post it and also to start leaving dimes in various places, but I've been a little distracted.  I haven't researched any further on this, but it makes sense to me.

    According to one experiment conducted by Isen and Levin, experimenters looked for helping behavior in unaware subjects after they left a public phone-booth. Whether or not the individuals helped a person in need was found significantly influenced by whether or not one had just found a dime in the phone-booth. In the initial experiment, the results for the 41 subjects are as follows (Doris 2002, 30):

    Found Dime: (14 exhibited helping behavior, 2 did not exhibit helping behavior)
    Didn’t Find Dime: (1 exhibited helping behavior, 24 did not exhibit helping behavior)

    These results suggest that morally significant behavior such as helping another in need depends largely on minute factors of the situation that are not in the control of the agent.

It doesn't take much to bring out the best in people.  Gives me so many ideas about spreading kindness!

 ~~~~

On the family front, everyone got sleep last night!  I got ten hours!  Stockpiling that stuff up for the lean times...

Yesterday (or the day before, can't remember) I told you about Amanda, the daytime caregiver who is Native.  Well, the nighttime woman is also Native.  Only she hasn't told me that: I just know.  She is young.  And get this:  She works twelve hour shifts - from 7 pm. until 7 am, THEN she goes to college!  Holy jamoley.  I have to think of her any time I don't believe I can do something.  She is studying to be a Physician's Assistant!  We are so lucky to have her, and the world is lucky to have this wonderful woman in the area of healthcare.

Maybe my dad is just doing this sick thing so that I can meet all of these angels...

:-)

This Sucks, And Other Fun Thoughts

Was I the one who wrote about this being a PRIVILEGE?

Never mind me.  I must have been out of my mind.

Last night I was thinking of the saying "wrung out and hung up to dry" and I added "...in the desert with vultures picking me apart".

I never want to do this again.

I never thought I would say it, but dementia sucks big time.

~~~~

We have had three shifts of caretakers since my dad has been home from the hospital. 


Amanda is the daytime caretaker.  She is 50-ish, short, somewhat round, with graying hair put up in a bun.  She took no time in telling me that she is Native.  I loved that.  Me, Ms. White Scotch Irish, would have said Native American, but now I think that that is an insult.  Her ancestors were here before any America could be tacked on.  That's our story, not theirs. 


Amanda was raised by her grandfather, a medicine man.  She sits by my dad and does beading for her grandchildren who are all Native dancers.  The photos of her grandson and granddaughter in full regalia are works of art. 

She is totally my idea of Grandmother.  Powerful.  Wise. 


She is teaching her grandchildren the Native ways.  How lucky they are!

When a grandson's classmates were making fun of him for his long hair, calling him a girl (like they used to do to my boyfriend in the early 70s) she gave the principal an offer:  She would speak to the class about her heritage for 1 1/2 hours for free.  The principal set it up.  Amanda asked her grandson to dance for the presentation. He did.  The class got educated and also saw the talent that the grandson has.  Now the kids think that he is one cool dude.  End of harassment story.

I love her...

Privilege

My friend sent me this little card yesterday and it made me cry:

Tomorrow has already come.  I am no longer the daughter.  I am a partner in a journey.

What a privilege to be a caretaker of my sweet, sweet dad in these most intimate of times.

Four Hawks

Life was feeling overwhelmingly hard

until I drove to the airport and back


on the drive

four different hawks

in four different places

eyeballed me

three on light poles

and one on the branch of a tree

how can we forget

the goodness of life

when sharing this planet

with such majestic beauty?



I already know it's everywhere

even in times that feel hellish

there is something sweet to notice

but the birds

they give me more strength

than any super hero

ever dreamed of having.



In deepest gratitude to the wonder...

Milestones

I come from a family of tight-lipped, "we can do it alone" people.  To honor my parents' dignity, I have protected their secrets.  At my own expense.  It's hard for them to accept community and support, and as I play along with their story, I am not able to receive the support that would be helpful for me.

Now it's all breaking down.

Less than six months ago, my dad and his four brothers were all here with us.  As of last night, three of the five have passed on.  My dad and his youngest brother are all that are left. 

That is, if you consider my dad "here".  He has been in the hospital since early Friday morning. I think that he is getting a little better, physically.  Mentally...  his dementia is over-the-top now.  My dad has not been "here" for a long time.

Now that there is only one brother left - and he is a brother that my parents speak with a lot - I am free to talk about what's going on.  I'm free to speak the words that bounce around in my mind. 

My uncle who died last night was the uncle that I spent the most time with as I grew up.  His family lived less than an hour away from my early childhood home.  But in those days, the trip seemed to me like a 500 mile trip.  You had to plan for it and give up a whole day.  Well, I really didn't feel like I was giving anything up, because Uncle Wallace was the father of my favorite cousins.  My cousin, Kathy, was the same age as me and we really had a girlfriend thing - almost like sisters.  It wasn't so much fun with the boys.  As boys can be known to do, they enjoyed picking on us girls, but now that we are adults, one of the male cousins is a good friend who I am so glad to have in my life

Uncle Wallace liked to camp and he was an excellent camper cook.  I remember gathering wild strawberries and other berries (whose types I can no longer remember) with my aunt and cousin. Then Uncle Wallace made berry cobbler on the Coleman stove. Major yum!

And when my brother substituted a rubber hot dog for one of the cousins' grilled hot dogs, Uncle Wallace, who was in on the joke, kept a straight face as he urged his son to just bite a little harder, since sometimes hot dogs have tough skins.

Sometimes it seems like a line of dominoes got set off.  As my uncles have fallen so quickly, I find more preciouness in the family members that are left.  Talking with my one remaining uncle today, an uncle I haven't communicated with much, I find a new place of love and support.  We are a smaller family now, so we have to take care of each other.

And today I let go of the stories of a need for independence that I have lived under for so long and I open up to the beauty of transparency and receiving love from wherever it wants to come.

Michael is listening to a video of a flash mob in the next room.  They are singing the Hallelujah Chorus. 

I dedicate that song to support Uncle Wallace in his liberation.

Sixty Years!

We were awesome, my brother and I, with perfect planning and execution.  The day was gorgeous, cool and Autumny.  The people were warm and supportive.  What a beautiful moment to celebrate my parents' 60 years of marriage!

I did all kinds of things to set up surprises.  I secretly asked for friends and family, far and near, to write their memories of my parents.  Everyone I asked came through with their own brand of writing style and unique memories.  I put the writings together in a book, and I was once again amazed at how we each add our particular piece to make a beautiful quilt of life.

My big coup was to have an unexpected guest show up.  It began quite by accident.  The list of invitees only included local people.  But during a phone call, I gathered that my mom's cousin from New Mexieo just might come.  So I took it upon myself to secretly invite her and her husband.  When they showed up, I thought we would have a Kodak moment, my mom dancing and crying and Oh, My Goodnessing.  Instead, she just looked at them like Who Are You And Why Are You Here?  I didn't realize that my mom wouldn't immediately recognize her cousin who she's known for 63 years, but hasn't seen for quite awhile.  Once my mom did realize who this strange woman was, things did get a little Kodaky.  It was all good.

Mom and her cousin

Cheers to the couple who have been together for so long!  Through raising two kids (and I think that I truly put them through some challenging tests); through fun times and times of loss; and through sickness and health.  I honestly doubt that there has been a moment in their marriage where either of them considered calling it quits.  They have been one committed team for SIXTY YEARS.

The lovely couple

Back Into The Cave

Mr. Buddha just got home after getting an echocardiogram..  He has "a fairly significant micro-regurgitation" in his heart, a.k.a., "low grade heart failure".

Yesterday, I took my mom and dad to the doctor so that my dad could get his pacemaker checked.  The battery is starting to have less energy and after my dad's next 6-month pacemaker check, they will have to start monitoring it more often.

Most likely, my dad doesn't know anything about his pacemaker check-up today.  I'm not sure that he knew the details yesterday.

Buddha came home all happy, instantly wanting his dog cookie and a trip out into the backyard.   No worries.

My dad and Buddha are both fine - except for their bodies.


So why am I a blubbering mess???

If you want to find me, just look for me in my cave.

Now That I Am Here

This is what my dad said to me yesterday when I asked him how he was doing:

"I'm doing much better, now that you are here!"

Is that not THE SWEETEST???


My dad comes from a long line of people who have not had the reputation of being demonstrative of their feelings.  I don't remember him ever saying anything so lovely to me.  I'm guessing that the dementia that has invaded his mind might be a contributor to opening my dad up so that his sweet words could come out. 


Many people fear dementia or have other negative feelings toward it.  I'm not going to say that I completely like it, but I also can't say that it is a problem for me.  Truthfully, I often enjoy people with dementia much more than those who have no diagnosis to explain their strange ways! 


With my dad and I, there are no longer stories of the past; no unfinished business. He is one of the few people in my life who lives right here, right now.  And since this moment is all we truly have, I wonder why people think that those with dementia have a problem while those who are constantly living in the non-existent past or future are considered mentally healthy.

So far, my dad knows who I am.  He knows my name.  When he no longer does, I won't have a problem with that.  I am not my name.  As I get his food for him or help him get into bed for his nap, I can be anyone or no one.  All that matters is the love.

The secret of health for both mind and body is not to mourn for the past, nor to worry about the future, but to live the present moment wisely and earnestly.  - Buddha

While I Was Gone

He traveled to Gandhi's ashram in India so that he could learn about satyagraha, wondering if he could use it to instigate equality for blacks in the U.S. It was 1949 - a year after Gandhi's death.

I never did find out many of the details of Uncle Ralph's experiences in India. I do know that he shot and killed a tiger while there. My family used to have a couple of tiger teeth we would show our friends - maybe those teeth are still in some box in my parents' basement. I know there is still a photo of the tiger's hide in some photo album, and I studied the somewhat decaying orange striped feline remnants fifty years later when I visited my uncle on what I perceived as a quest to learn more about the Gandhi that I loved and the family from which I descended.

While I was traveling in Michigan this past week, Uncle Ralph died. My mom told me during one of our "how is life going with the broken shoulder?" conversations. The news slipped right through my brain and it wasn't until the next day that I realized it and mentioned it to my friend. With the intensity of my travels, and the immediate overwhelm of coming home to the situation with my parents, I have not had the time to let the fact sink in that the uncle I knew best, but didn't know at all, is now gone.

This morning, I pulled out the thick file of Uncle Ralph letters.

I initiated contact with him in the late '90s with two intentions - one stated and the other kept to myself. 1) I wanted to learn, as close to first-hand as possible, about the Gandhi I loved. Even though Gandhi died before he got there, Uncle Ralph had been closer to the man than anyone I had ever known. 2) I wanted to learn about my heritage from someone with a voice different than that of my parents'. There is no truth to these things, only different perspectives.

Looking through my uncle's letters, I remember that I got very little of what I was looking for; instead, I received a lot of thoughts and advice about writing. You see, my uncle was eternally working on his big novel - the novel that was never finished.

In 1999, I even flew to Ohio to visit Uncle Ralph. I spent five days with him and learned many things, just not what I had intended.

I've grown in the past eleven years and I plan to re-read the letters in this file. I realize now that I wanted something that didn't exist. Uncle Ralph gave me what he had. How precious is that???

We can spend our lives looking for what we think should be, but then we end up completely missing the reality that is staring us right in the face.

Farewell, dear Ralph. Thank you for all that you gave your niece who has now finally let go of her agendas.

I hope I remember this lesson so that I can be more present to others in my life.

A Different Point of View

While on the Cape last month, our nephew, David, who is nearing the ripe old age of 7, discovered photography, thanks to Mr. CfP's point and shoot digital camera. David took hundreds of photos and I think that he has a good eye. Below is just a sampling of his artwork.

Appreciating the gift that comes when we can glimpse the world through the eyes of a child, I added some of the lyrics of the Moody Blues song, "Eyes of a Child". If you want, you can click on the video and listen to the song while viewing the photos.

Listen hear the sound
The child awakes
Wonder all around
The child awakes

Now in his life he never must be lost
No thoughts must deceive him
In life he must trust

With the eyes of a child
You must come out and see
That your world's spinning 'round

And through life you will be
A small part
Of a hope

Of a love
That exists

In the eyes of a child you will see

Like Waves on the Ocean

It was only a month ago that I posted (again) about how my dad and his four brothers, all WWII vets, were still hanging around on this earth. That all has changed now that my dad's brother, Glenn, has passed on. He was 92.

I don't know how many pregnancies my grandmother experienced. I believe that some ended in stillbirths. Glenn was the first to survive childbirth - the first of five, all boys. Besides those five boys, my grandmother raised two step-sons. What a woman!!!

Early in my life, Glenn's family lived in the same nearby town as my grandmother, so we were able to spend a good amount of time with them. But they moved to Illinois in the mid-60s and I may have only seen Glenn two times after that.

I can honestly say that I never knew the man. We had absolutely no relationship. My only memories of him are from a very early age and involve him talking. A lot. Since I was a kid at the time, I never hung around enough to hear what all of the blathering was about.

The talking gene is very prevalent and strong on my father's side of my family of birth. I didn't seem to inherit it, though. I think that if it's within me, I turned it off in response to all of the talk around me. I remember thinking that if I didn't say anything or ask any questions, I wouldn't encourage more yakking.

That never worked.

Goodbye, Uncle Glenn. I know that you were more than the limited memories I have. I'm sorry that I never got to know you. Sweet voyages to you.

89

If you have read my blogs over the last ALMOST FOUR YEARS (how did THAT happen???), you will know that I don't write about most parts of my life. You may have noticed, too, that I don't usually write about other people in my life. I guess that I have a somewhat private nature and I also don't know who reads this blog, so out of respect for others in my life, I don't speak of them here.

And all of this cracks me up because, most likely, there are not more than two or three people who ever read this blog. A while ago, I quit looking at stats on my CarolForPeace blog, and I intentionally don't have any stats set up on this one. The reason that I don't have stats is: I don't want to edit myself based on audience or lack thereof. And I still edit... A lot.

(She's hopeless, I tell ya.)

But, I want to venture out and write a little about my recent adventures in FamilyLand. I do this out of sincere respect for my family and out of a desire to express what's in me.

Today is my dad's 89th birthday. I don't know whether or not he knows that. Ever since my dad had heart surgery four years ago (there's that "four" number again!), he has not been quite the same. Things have changed more rapidly over the past few months and even more rapidly over the past couple of weeks.

I am fine hanging out with people who have Alzheimer's or dementia. The way my brain works, I can often have a lot more fun with them than with people who live in their heads. So my dad's process is not a problem to me, in and of itself. This is what IS a problem for me: I get all wobbly about family dynamics and about "the system". A part of me wants to be a little girl and have my mom be the strong person who tells me that she can handle what's coming up. A huge part of me absolutely detests the medical/insurance/"healthcare" system and wants no part of it.

So, here I am. I'm not a little girl - no one is going to save the day - and I'm getting to support my parents in the system, knowing that, most likely, I will be more deeply entrenched in it in the near future.

I had a dream a couple of nights ago. I was at a party with a lot of people. I was having a conversation when, suddenly, a huge ocean wave broke through into the room we were in, carrying us all away. I was under water, being pulled out into the sea. I told myself not to breathe so that I wouldn't take in water. When things settled down, I was able to touch the ground beneath me and my head was above water. I gulped in air and that gulp woke me up.


Lately, I can sometimes feel like I'm being swept out to sea and I have no control over anything. Truthfully, I do question if we really ever do have any control over anything. And the illusion of control can be both kind of comforting and also very limiting.

There is so much beauty to be found in this process.

And it's not easy.

What's Inside

My dad will turn 89 in a couple of months. The changes in him have been very noticeable since his heart surgery the day before he turned 85.

All of my life, my dad has said the same blessing at the dinner table. It has always been meaningless to me; so much so, that if I were asked to repeat it, even after hearing it hundreds of times now, I wouldn't be able to do it. My inability to make meaning of this blessing says more about me than it does about the blessing or my father. I'm sure there is some beauty and meaning in the words that would do me good.

Last night, we had dinner with my parents. When it came time for it, my dad could no longer remember the blessing that has worn a groove in his mind. He had to wing it.

It was beautiful.