Caregiver Sandwich

Apartment hunting

I went to see an apartment yesterday.  It was in an area of Albany where 3 blocks farther downtown is a place where I would never live, 3 blocks up is beautiful.  The apartment itself is charming.  An old fashioned house, this is a flat on the second floor, all of it.The newly redone hardwood floors gleamed when we saw it, and the kitchen was all new cabinets and lots of them.  The bedrooms were small, the closets almost non-existent.  That is a problem for a woman with as many clothes as I have, though  I could get around it. So I gave the man my references and waited to hear back.  Tonight he called.  He said that I must be the most loved woman in Albany.  That my references held me in such high regard.  It made me feel good, though I did not point out the obvious that I had no intention of giving him the numbers of people who disliked me.

It made me feel good, but it made me quite sad as well.  I guess that while I appreciate the good will from those who know me, and I am grateful for the friendship of those that I have, I long for something that they cannot give me.  I miss intimacy and the warmth and rush of feelings and the love that comes with it, if you are lucky. 

There are times, of course, that I do not miss it.  Times that I feel that such a thing does not really exist, or if so just not for me.  But that inevitably leaves me feeling sadder.  Sometimes I feel that this need is a weakness that I need to get over to get the right control of my life.  And sometimes I think that my power to believe is my strength that will see me through the tough times, as it has already.

What do you think? What kind of lives are we destined to have?  How do so many of us live through this short period of time not attaining what they want, no, but far worse, not trying to get it.

Life

There was fog this morning, and dew on my window.  I felt the cold creep around me as I left my bed, making memory of my sheets, so warm and cozy.  I breathed in, and the smell of the air, the dampness and chill, made me feel so alive.  Tears, laughter, hope,love, pain. Life is so good.  Touch, taste, warmth, hunger.  How can we ever get enough of it?  Fear. anguish, ache, joy.  Everything that happens has a purpose.  Soft, gentle, cruel and powerful.  Who would want to miss a single second?  There is so much in the world, good and evil, right and wrong, hope and despair.  To live, really live is to feel it all, breathe it in like cold air in the morning.  Leave the warmth behind sometimes and feel the dampness and chill, the dark and despair.  The warmth will still be there.  The blankets will wait for you. And they will feel so much better for the time apart.  Time is your friend..

My Heroes Stick it out

            Sometimes our lives are hard—difficult.  We are tested almost daily on our beliefs, about what we can handle and about our strengths and values.  We have to tolerate, even endure, things that we never dreamed we would have to, or that we could.

            When in this stage of our lives, we surround ourselves as best we can with the people that we trust.  We count on those people that we can yell at, fall apart around and whose shoulders we feel we can cry on.  We try hard to weed through those around us, filtering out those that we can’t count on, and hoping that when the time comes that we need them, we got it right.

            But what do you do when you don’t have many people to count on, and those that you thought you could trust let you down?

            Being able to depend on someone through the good times, no matter how long they last, and the bad times, no matter how long they last, is something that we seem to be missing in today’s world.  Most people don’t want to, or can’t, take anything uncomfortable for very long.  If you count on them, and you have a problem, you had better fix it fast or, at least, pretend to have it fixed.  Because for these people, it is so much easier to just move on.

            But I am forced to wonder…where is the pride in that?  Where is the sense of self-worth that tells us that we can stand-bye those who need us when things are hard, and we take pride in our loyalty?  Pride in our integrity?  Pride in doing what we know is right?  Pride in sticking with it, riding out the bad and coming out the other side where the good is always so much better for what you went through?  Where we can enjoy it that much more because we know that we did what is right?

            Where is the pride in ourselves?

            I have come to believe strongly that everyone has the right to enjoy their lives…to have happiness.  I have also come to strongly believe that we will never be able to enjoy ourselves if we let down the people who need us, because when we do, we let down ourselves.

            And in the long run, all we really have is ourselves and how we feel about ourselves.  When we look back on our lives, there will be many things that we are ashamed of and, hopefully, many things for which we are proud.  Self-sacrifice and doing what is right for those we care about: these are things that we should, indeed, be very proud of.  When we abandon those who need us, when we decide to pursue our own pleasure and ease instead of doing what we know to be right….well…where is the pride in that?

            So many people seem to be without pride today.  We have bravado, certainly.  And we have anger, no doubt about that.  But we expose ourselves constantly to the cheap and easy, we treat ourselves shabbily and express anger as if it were pride, and we bail out on our responsibilities, leaving others in our wake like so much rubbish.  Children, spouses, lovers, parents…if they become too demanding, too much of a burden we just walk away.  Empathy, pity, concern and compassion…these words have all been perverted into words of weakness, instead of strength, which is what they were meant to convey.

            For myself, these words are my strength.  For me, the caring of others, loyalty and being faithful to those that I care for, that is my strength and my pride.  I have very many weaknesses, but these strengths more than make up for them in my eyes.  These strengths get me through.  And when I am old and look back on my life, I think that I will be very proud to know that I have done what I should have done.  And I know that I will be proud of those few who helped me, who stuck it out with me, and who deserve all the credit that I can give them.  They are my heroes. 

Prepare to Follow

Preparing to Follow

I was reminded the other day of a book that I read when I was younger.  I don’t recall much about the book.   I don’t even remember the story of it.  What I do remember is that within the story there was a poem that was written on a headstone.  From a line in the poem came the title of the book, “So Once Was I.”  The poem itself I remember very clearly.

“All you who read

As you pass by,

As you are now,

So once was I.

As I am now

So you must be,

Therefore prepare to follow me.”

Written on a gravestone, the meaning is clear, and can really make you stop and think.  It’s a creepy feeling, chilling and inevitable, an introspective feeling.

The poem came to my mind in another context, however.  I am a caregiver.  I feel sometimes as though I should be saying that at a meeting of caregiver’s anonymous, when everyone is made to stand up and declare out loud why they are there.  “I am a caregiver,” I would whisper, “I am a caregiver,” I would say out loud and again, “I am a caregiver,” I would shout out loud and clear.  And I would mean every word of it.  For that is who I am.

I became a single mother when my husband of 5 years walked out on me when I was eight months pregnant with my second child.  My daughter was two and a half years old at the time.  When my son was born, I was alone.  I moved in with my parents, who graciously took us in and never said, “I told you so,” and I began the process of single mothering.  It was not easy, but not so very different from having an inattentive husband who did little to help.

When my father developed lung cancer and became to weak and ill to care for himself, it became evident that my mother was unable to care for him.  So I quit my job and stayed, nursing him as best I could.  One month after his death, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, and I have been with her ever since. 

It was when I was watching my mother the other day that I thought of the poem.  And I wondered, is that my fate?  To become like my mother before me?  She was a caregiver—5 children and an alcoholic husband, a mother who lived to be 95 and a mother-in-law who was more a spoiled child than not.  After a life full of giving, she is down to this…. incontinent, non-verbal, paranoid and constantly confused.  More of a two-year-old than a woman of 76.  And I look as I pass by, and I see others look as well.  Are they wondering, as I am, if that is their fate, if they should prepare to follow her?  I can’t imagine being there, living the horror of each minute of this disease.  I know that I am not prepared; I am not ready or willing to have that fate.  But as the poem tells us, sometimes it is inevitable.  Certainly, she did not choose this destiny, this fate, this disease, this descent into hell.  Who would?  And I can’t help but feel that there are worse things than the grave.  So the poem on a headstone may be a little creepy, but the thought that this poem could, for me, lead to my mother’s fate is far more frightening.

I am prepared more for the grave. 

The expression “There but for the grace of God go I” comes to mind. 

And so I hope that God continues to keep me in his graces.  And when I follow others, I hope to God that it will be to the grave.

And not something worse than death.

Growing Old...Beautifully

I want to grow old.  I want to be old and healthy, with wrinkles around my eyes and mouth from laughing.  I want to be one of those women who have lived an interesting life, who has stories to tell and who laughs out loud while telling them.  Who wears interesting clothes and goes barefoot in summer, and who is unafraid.

Too many people are afraid.  So many people do not live, because they live in fear.  I know that we all have fear to an extent.  I do, when it comes to some things.  But already my life has been interesting.  Already I have stories to make you laugh, and stories to make you cry.  Already the lines are coming. They remind me to laugh even more.

As I get older, I will continue to laugh--only more.  I will continue to cry--only harder.  I will continue to try--only more so, and I will continue to love, even when it hurts.

That is my ambition, my goal.  To grow into a complete woman, and to be all that the word means.

Welcome to my Blog

1:36 am and I can't sleep.  Not that I don't want to, I just can't.  Some nights are like that.  For me, lately, most nights are.  Funny.  There was a time when I could sleep anywhere, during anything.  Close my eyes and the dreams would come, and the  night would fly by. I used to love the night.  Now I hate it.  Wide awake, to tired to do much of anything, not tired enough to sleep.  Or maybe too tired to sleep--I'm not sure. Whichever.  Outcome is the same.  And work comes early these days.

Tonight is one of those sultry nights.  I like that word, sultry.  makes me think of warm, wet nights when other, better things were on my mind.  Maybe that doesn't really describe tonight after all.  Humid.  The weatherman uses that word--humid.  As good as any other, I guess. 

All my charges are sleeping soundly. My children, tucked away in dreams and oblivion, not yet knowing how the demons can keep us awake.  My mother, consumed by the demon named Alzheimer's Disease, not knowing or remembering who she is, let alone what awake and asleep really mean.  That just leaves me.  Alone at my computer, writing things that no-one will read and wondering if anyone would understand if they did.  Doubtful.  But then again, the most surprising things can happen sometimes.

Soon the sun will come up, and I will stare at my clock buzzing away without comprehending what it says.  It will take awhile for the fog to lift, for my mind to realize that the call of day is here.  And then I will arise and dress, wake and care for children and mother, go to work to write someone elses blog, someone elses name a cloak around my words.  And I will spend my day fighting the fatigue that I feel, until I come home to the children that I adore to care for them.  Come home to the mother that is my burden and care for her as well.  And forget, once again, to care for me.  And tomorrow night I will sit, here, at my computer, and I will write again while sleep eludes me.  And I will wonder why I bother.  But I will feel better when I am done.

I am done.