Nursing Home Holidays

Holidays are supposed to conjure up warm happy images of get-together with friends and family, but for the thousands of people with loved ones in a nursing home or assisted living facility, this becomes more complicated.  Usually it's not practical to bring the resident out of the facility, but they still long to be included in the celebrations.  I've spent the past few holidays- birthdays, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas- visiting my father in his nursing home.  I need to spend the time with him for my own peace of mind, and it would be painful to think about him by himself, but it also allows me to share with the residents who don't have visitors and get to know the other families that do come. 

Dad got a card from his former secretary
of 20 years, who still keeps in touch

The first two assisted living facilities Dad was in organized formal brunches for the residents' families on Christmas and Thanksgiving, which was nice but not the most practical thing considering so many residents were on special diets or weren't able to feed themselves, and something chaotic always seemed to happen.  His current nursing home, Maryhaven, didn't do anything for Thanksgiving- the nurse told me when I got there at 4p that I was actually only the third visitor to the unit all day.  This greatly saddened me, so I was expecting a similar lackluster turnout for Christmas, and was pleasantly surprised to come on Christmas Eve and see people milling out of a mass service and heading to a table adorned with cookies, cocoa, and eggnog (unspiked, unfortunately). His unit was much more quiet, but still quite cheery.  He said he didn't want to leave his room, so we sat together in there and talked and sang.  I told him it was Christmas Eve and I wanted to be sure to visit, and he truly looked like he meant it when he said, "Thank you." 

When I pulled up at 2:30p on Christmas Day, the parking lot was full.  The families coming out all gave me a warm, understanding nod and wished me a Merry Christmas.  The library and main room were full of people of all ages visiting Grandpa, Mom, or Aunt Susan.  I brought Dad out from his room and we found a corner of the library to camp out in.  A woman and her mother were watching "It's a Wonderful Life" on the computer, a man was reading to his father, and a woman sat quietly holding her husband's hand.  Dad was having some of his usual terrors, and I was trying to soothe him.  Just then my sister Dede called, and I asked Dad if he wanted to talk to her.  He took the phone and was able to have fairly lucid conversations with Dede and my two nieces, who were at a family celebration in Georgia.  Even though he didn't remember the conversation 5 minutes later when I said that they had called, for the time he was talking to his grandchildren he was happy and fulfilled and in the moment.  Afterwards we broke into several rounds of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and he relaxed. 

As I pushed him back down the hallway to his unit, several residents in their rooms looked up at us and smiled.  I hoped that they had somebody special to share the holidays with- a visitor on Christmas, a phone call on Thanksgiving, a card on Hanukkah, whatever.  Being able to spend time with Dad on these days and seeing the other families go out of their way to include their loved ones on special occasions has meant to much.  I was feeling slightly Grinch-ish this year, but the outpouring of compassion and joy at the nursing home on Christmas managed to touch my heart and melt much of my dreariness.

Tears

Crying is a very odd behavior.  Usually in response to emotion, moisture comes out of the eyes in a somewhat erratic manner.  It's often accompanied by sobbing, wailing, hiccups, and a runny nose.  But that's just how it manifests- it represents so much more.  Anything can trigger it- pain, sadness, anger, hurt, joy, sorrow, nostalgia.  It's actually quite liberating and comforting.  You often hear the phrase "a good cry," and I think there's something to it. 

I guess I think of myself as fairly sensitive (often to a fault) and emotional.  I get upset at other people's pain and things that don't directly affect me, like hearing about a suicide or horrible injustice.  When I was six, Dad was telling a story to a group of guests about a man who got locked out of his hotel room while trying to find a bathroom in the middle of the night- it was supposed to be amusing with all sorts of anecdotes and adventures and everybody at the dinner table was cracking up, but I was so distraught for the poor man.  When the laughter died down, I looked at Dad solemnly and asked, "But did he ever get to the bathroom?"  His discomfort haunted me all night.

These days, as the stress and depression build up, I find myself crying more often than ever before.  It usually happens at night or in the morning- for me, the times when things seem the most overwhelming.  I've cried over the phone with friends or Hospice, and am so appreciative of them just being there, listening, supporting.  It's a huge act of compassion. 

I was at an event with some friends the other night that should have been quite enjoyable, but I was having trouble getting caught up in it.  I was feeling incredibly despondent the whole evening and became more agitated and upset on the way home.  Suddenly the tears started welling up, and right after I pulled over I burst into violent, uncontrollable sobs.  I cried so hard I was sure I was going to hyperventilate or vomit.  I cried for the frustration, the sadness, the uncertainty.  I cried for Dad's condition and for the prospect of losing him.  For the headaches, the tummy aches, the fatigue.  For the friend who lost a brother, the neighbor who lost a cat, and the friend who lost her mother- all last week.  For the fear I am so wrapped up in my melancholy I'm not being a good friend to the people trying to offer support.  For the underlying worry that *things will never get better*.  And then I stopped, just as quickly as I started, exhausted and hoarse but ready to drive home.  

There is an old Yiddish proverb that says, "The eyes are the mirror to the soul."  They show what's really going on inside, as opposed to words and even behaviors that can serve as a mask.  I suppose it's fitting that they are the source of tears- one of the ultimate displays of emotion.  I've heard the stigma that crying is something to be ashamed of and means you're *weak*.  I actually thinks it's an indicator that there's too much bottled up inside that needs to come out, and allowing it to is sign of strength.  When it does, it's a huge relief and a chance to see things from another perspective. 

The Birthday

Monday was my father's birthday.  He was born in 1924-before television, computers, washing machines.  It boggles my mind to think of all he has witnessed in his lifetime.  Two ex-wives, six children and eight grandchildren later, he's still holding on.    

On Sunday a few of my friends drove up to Maryhaven with me for a little birthday celebration.  I made brownies, and we stopped to get Dad a Venti Frappuccino- his absolute favorite.  While I went to his room to get him, my friends set up in an unused room in the basement- actually the old ice cream parlor, and quite charming.  They made a huge "Happy 86th Birthday, Henry!"sign on the posterboard I brought and put out the cards and presents.  Dad was grumpy and combative when I first greeted him, and was suspicious about being brought into the elevator.  As soon as we stepped off, we were welcomed with a chorus of "Happy Birthday to you!" 



Post-chocolate slump!

I think he was more in awe than anything else.  He didn't seem to understand that it was his birthday, or recognize any of my friends.  His face lit up, though, when he saw the Frappuccino and he reached for it.  He said he didn't want a brownie, but that changed as soon as I started cutting them for the rest of us.  Settled with enough sugar and caffeine to sustain him for a while, he let me help with the presents.  The one activity he enjoys on his own is watching videos of old movies, so I had gotten Show Boat and The Sound of Music- two of his favorites- from 2nd Hand Tunes.  He saw the cover of Show Boat and smiled, actually laughed for the first time in months when I started singing "Old Man River," and even sung along for a few bars: "He don't plan taters, he don't plant cotton...".  Then one of my friends started singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and the musical party had begun.  When he started getting agitated, we packed up and brought him upstairs.  We left some brownies with the nursing staff, put on Sound of Music, and said our goodbyes.  He was thoroughly worn out, but in decent spirits. 
On Monday, his actual birthday, I went out myself to visit.  He was dozing in his chair when I got there and I took his hand and sat next to him for several minutes, watching his chest rise and fall and thankful for every one.  His eyes fluttered and finally opened, and I wheeled him into the library.  For 45 minutes we sat, talked, and sang.  He was stoic and still worn out from the day before, but seemed peaceful.  He didn't remember the party or my friends, and again showed no response to my birthday wishes, but he did gobble up the leftover brownie I brought.  At one point Gretta, the head nurse's cocker spaniel, wandered into the library and Dad reached for her.  I lifted her onto his lap and there she sat, providing warmth, touch, and companionship. 

I couldn't have asked for a better birthday celebration, and I imagine Dad would agree.  I am so incredibly thankful that my friends came out to celebrate with us, and that I had some alone time with him.  My Hospice team has told me he loves watching the new movies, and Gretta was the figurative icing on the cake. Attention is all  I can offer him right now, and being able to share the time together was a gift for both of us. 

Traditions

I can't think of any holiday that revolves around tradition as much as Thanksgiving.  It's always on Thursday, and businesses usually get the rest of the weekend off, with the exception of retailers who are swarmed with shoppers trying to get Black Friday bargains.  Traffic is light everywhere but on the highways and in the airports, where frazzled travelers are in a rush to get to their in-laws/grandmothers/college roommate's house.  Even the classic menu is set in stone.  It's supposed to be a time to reflect on all that we are thankful for and is celebrated in some way by most people in our country; it's hard not to at least acknowledge it when even Starbucks and some gas stations are closed. 

Having a small immediate family, my Thanksgiving celebrations growing up were always very low-key.  We cooked all the basics, but nothing was made three days ahead of time and it was always just the four of us at the table.  It wasn't until my parents divorced that my mom and I started inviting a few neighbors or friends over, but the dining room table comfortably can't seat more than six people so we never exceeded that.  In my early 20s, I was invited to spend the holiday with my best friend's family in Kansas, and eagerly agreed.  I was not prepared for what it entailed- her mom cooking all week, a turkey and a ham, at least four pies, and more side-dishes than I could count.  Most of the six siblings were there, and with their spouses and children added in the house was filled to the brim.  It was chaotic, overwhelming, and wonderful.  I finally "got" what people meant when they talked about big family holiday get-togethers.  I actually went back for Christmas that year to again feel the stunning sense of love and warmth I felt when I was there- not that there wasn't love at home, but this was on a much more amplified scale. 

In the years since, Mom and I occasionally went over to a neighbor's but pretty much continued to keep things small and traditional at her house.  Dad was invited over once after he moved back to Evanston, but, um, was never asked to return.  After that I would usually would cook something for him in the middle of the afternoon and spend the evening at Mom's- he never was big on holidays and they are extremely important to her.  This year, everything seemed different.  With Dad ailing and my stress level so high, I had a hard time making plans for Thanksgiving or even thinking about it.  I was relieved when a friend asked me to house-sit for her pit bull- it gave me a distraction, something to look forward to, and an "excuse" not to make any commitments.  

Kotter, always ready to play!

Sensing my distraction, Mom invited some neighbors over and said I was welcome to join them if I wanted but didn't pressure me.  My friend said I could have people over at her house, but most people I knew were either traveling or had other plans.  So I spent Thanksgiving morning moving into the house, and sharing some quality time with Mr. Kotter.  He was nothing but adoring, obedient, attentive, and loving the whole time.  I then went for a swim to clear my head, and met up with another friend who had given me word the day before that he didn't have plans and was in the same sort of apathetic mood about the holiday as I was. 

This friend and I can't really go much more than 45 seconds together before laughing and our brains seem to work in the same strange way, so he was perfect company.  We decided to visit Dad, and stopped by Mom's to say a quick hello.  On the way up, we laughed at the line flowing out of Boston Market, which seemed funny at the time.  When we got to Maryhaven, Dad was more interested in the pumpkin pie I brought him than talking, which was fine with us.  We sang the Adam Sandler "Turkey Song", the Super Bowl Shuffle, Ella's "The Man I Love" (at Dad's request), and laughed at Fats Waller's "Your Feet's Too Big".  We talked about the Cubbies, the Bears, and anything else that might hold Dad's attention for more than 30 seconds.  On our way home, we realized that everything had suddenly turned into a ghost town and wished that Boston Market was still open.  We found the one place in Evanston that was serving and got Thai take-out to bring back to the house, stopping at my friend's apartment on the way to pick up the pumpkin pie he had made earlier in the day.  When we got back to the house, we reflected on what we were thankful for before digging into a very unconventional holiday dinner.  After a second helping of pie, we collapsed on the couch and watched "Sister Act", which initiated much more singing. 

Instead of a weekend of tradition, it was a time of firsts.  My first overnight with Kotter, and the first holiday I didn't have plans laid out in advance.  Dad's first (and probably last) Thanksgiving at Maryhaven, Mom's first holiday with vegan guests, and my first gluten-free pie.  It was the first holiday I felt completely okay with bucking tradition and just doing what felt right.  While I fully respect and appreciate the big celebrations and get-togethers, this year called for nothing more than giving thanks to the everyday joys and gifts.

STRESS

There have been countless studies on the physical, emotional, and mental effects of chronic stress, and specifically on caregivers of people with chronic diseases.  Unrelenting stress causes cortisol levels to rise, which dampens the immune system, causes wounds to heal more slowly, raises blood pressure, and leads to heart disease.  Parts of the brain actually begin to lose brain cells and memory falters.  It's linked to depression, fatigue, irritability, and mood swings, loss of appetite, panic attacks, and distraction. 



So tempting...

So when I find myself canceling plans with friends, taking hours to write one press release and unable to beat a lingering hip injury, it cognitively makes sense.  Managing Dad's care for more than four years and coping with the emotional burdens of his Alzheimer's has always been difficult on me.  The longer this goes on, however, the more affected I feel and the more compromised I realize I am.  I've really struggled in the past two weeks, forcing myself to get out of bed after restless nights riddled with horrifying dreams and night sweats.  Once I'm up, the morning nausea that comes and goes throughout the day sets in and I force down some ginger tea.  Just thinking about the day ahead of me is often overwhelming and sometimes the depression is so deep I just want to retreat.  I'm emotionally exhausted and full of anxiety. 

I've always had an overwhelming mind-body connection, and feel physically what is going on emotionally.  Rigidity and pain in my shoulders is second nature to me when I'm especially stressed.  Movement always helps, and exercise is one of my biggest stress relievers.  Despite my fatigue, I get surges of energy while swimming and find that I'm actually crying through the release.  Similar to a "runner's high", I get in a zone where I'm just flowing through the water and oblivious to everything around.  It's one of my favorite activities, and I always feel better afterwards.  Yoga, too, has  been incredibly cathartic- I hold so much tension in my hips and shoulders, and the deep stretches absolves some of it. 

However, I'll often finish up a great swim or yoga practice only to check my phone and have messages from Hospice or the nursing home, which sends me into panic mode once again.  Whether it's a concern about Dad's Depakote level, an update on the swelling in his arm, scheduling a monthly care plan conference, following up on his latest bill or a question about the new volunteer, there's always something and we are in communication almost on a daily basis.  Now that his condition seems to be rapidly decreasing, there's even more to talk about.  My phone is never off and I'm always on call. 

Understandably, this leads to huge distractions.  My mind is so frazzled and it's hard to focus.  I'll be grading student essays, see the word "Arizona" or "amazing", and read it as "Alzheimer's".  I can't remember people's names or everyday facts and knowledge that used to be second nature to me.  I know Rahm Emanuel was part of Obama's staff, I just can't recall what he did.  Is "Wheel in the Sky" Journey or Foreigner?  I draw a blank (it's Journey,  I just looked it up).  I lose track of chunks of time and read the same thing over four times without comprehending it. 

I can deal with nausea and fatigue; it's the depression and memory loss that scares me the most.  Connecting with my friends almost always helps, when I let myself.  Getting out helps, for sure- seeing people at the gym, working at my computer from a coffee shop instead of from home, even visiting Dad at the nursing home- it's sometimes easier to actually be there than away and worrying about him.  I aim for 2-3 times a week, in hopes that I'm giving him enough attention and myself enough of a break.  I'm glad to be able to vent to Hospice, and know that they truly do understand.  It's always been hard for me to do things for myself, but I know now more than ever it's even more important.  I'm just not exactly sure how to help or what to do.

Awareness

Dad doesn't know my name.  I ask him what day it is and he says "potato".  He tries to eat soup with his hands, swears like a sailor, and thinks that washing his face is some form of torture.  He has had dementia for probably 15 years, and full-blown Alzheimer's for at least four.  And yet in some strange way, his brain is processing and pondering and digesting way more than I thought would be possible at this point.  He yells and swears at me, spitting food and calling me horrible names, but 30 seconds later we can sit and talk about the Cubs or my yoga or dogs or sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame quite peacefully. 

Every once in a while he'll say something so profound that it blows me away.  I was visiting him last week with a friend of mine, and we were talking and singing in the library.  Dad was irritated, but we were trying our best.  I wanted to rest my hand on his leg, but he kept picking it up and pushing it away- very unusual behavior for him.  Finally I asked him if I could put my hand there and he said "No".  I asked him why, and he yelled and swore a bit before saying, "I'm jealous."  "Of what?", I asked him.  "Pit bull," was his response.  I had just told him that I was going to be dog-sitting for a friend's pit bull over Thanksgiving, so this didn't seem all that odd of an answer.  I told him I would bring the dog to come visit him (which I won't, of course- this dog could knock him out of his wheelchair with one tail wag!), and he said that would be good.  However, I don't think I've ever heard him use the word "jealous" before in his life.  From his rejection of my hand, the way he kept glancing over at my friend, and the look in his eyes, it was obvious that he was jealous of me.  That I have friends, a life outside on the nursing home, separate from him.  That I can play with dogs whenever I want to, walk around, feed myself with proper utensils.  The words saddened me very much, but also gave me a little more insight into what he's going through. 



A rare quiet moment at Three Crowns, December 2008

Three days ago I went to visit on my own, during dinner time.  He was with the CNA and horribly upset- he had already spilled his milk over half the food, and was pouring the apple juice on his lap and the table.  We worked quickly to clean up the mess, and I took over trying to calm him and encourage him to eat a little.  He wouldn't take anything- he spat the fishcake out and was calling me horrible names.  I looked in his eyes and said, "Dad, it's me, Carrie, you're daughter," but it didn't help.  He was still screaming.  Then suddenly he shouted, "I need to say goodbye!" I caught my breath, and asked him what to.  "To you," he said calmly, looking straight into my eyes.  
While fairly common in the general population, Death Awareness is incredibly rare in people with Alzheimer's.  Most of the don't have the acumen to acknowledge, much less express, what they know is going on.  Now that I've had the weekend to talk about, cry about, and process them, his words seem very surreal. And yet, part of me knows it's happening.  A fit and strapping 5'10" in his heyday, Dad is now down to 135lbs.  Despite a special air mattress, he has sores on his rear because of the emaciation.  Arthritis has made one hand inoperative and causes tremendous pain.  He is on a "nectar-thick liquids" diet, because he is at risk for aspirating and choking.  I'm now reading books with titles like "Gone from my sight: A Dying Experience" and "Final Gifts: Understanding the Special Awareness, Needs, and Communication of the Dying".  I don't know how much longer Dad and I will be on this journey together, but it most likely be coming to an end sooner rather than later.  People have said things to me like, "You must feel peaceful knowing that he said that," and "I'm sure you'll be so relieved when this is all over."  But I feel no sense of peace or relief.  On some level, it will be comforting to know he is no longer suffering.  Other than that, it's just sadness, fear, and a terrible emptiness I have no words for. 

Veterans Day

I walked past a group of middle schoolers yesterday, and overheard them talking about upcoming plans. 

 "Oh, cool, we don't have school tomorrow!" 
"Awesome!  Why not?"
"IDK, some holiday.  Veterans Day, maybe?"

Although I probably had quite a similar outlook at their age (although I would NOT have actually said 'IDK', since texting didn't exist then), my awareness and feelings about veterans have changed dramatically since then.  Granted, when you're 12 years old it's just exciting to have a day off.  Now, the reality of war, the military, and what the word "veterans" really means is starkly different. 

I was going into sixth grade at the beginning of the 2nd Gulf War- "Operation Desert Storm."  I remember people talking about it, and getting chills every time I heard Voices That Care (which was played over and over).  I remember hearing about Stormin' Norman Schwarzkopf and Gulf War Syndrome, but back then Kuwait was just a place on the map.  We didn't have cable, so there was no 24-hour coverage.  There were no YouTube videos because, well, there was no YouTube, or any Internet for that matter.  Although it was still highly televised, we weren't as bombarded with images, stories, and Facebook updates about it.  I didn't know anyone who was directly involved in the war, so it still was very abstract to me.   


Dad, on the right

 Dad was 15 when World War II started.  His father had died that year, and I always thought maybe that had something to do with his urgency to enlist.  Regardless, he fudged the details on his registration forms a little and began basic training with the Marines just shy of 18.  Soon after, he was shipped off to the Philippines to begin service in the war.  I know he brought his Duke Ellington records.  I know he got a horrible case of Hepatitis and the smell of pork chops made him sick.  I know his plane went down into the Mindanao River, and according to the New York Times article I found preserved, but yellowed and torn in several pieces, he was credited with "saving the lives of the entire crew."  I also know that he saw his best friend die. 

Dad never liked to talk about the war, or his time in the Marines, very much.  When probed, he would tell me how they spent a weekend driving a Jeep through the pineapple fields in Hawaii  or other feel-good stories.  He said that he left the Duke's records behind for the rest of the group when he was discharged, and how happy he was to go to New York University on the GI Bill.  But I could never get information about the terror he faced, the faces he saw, the emotions he felt.  I think about it now, and I can't imagine going through that kind of trauma, especially at such a young age.  Several of the college students I work with have spent time in the military, and some of their insight and observations blow me away.  Regardless of whether they served in the current war, they still have the discipline and motivation that comes from their training and I have to think it gives them a boost. 

Since sixth grade, of course, my appreciation and understanding of veterans has grown dramatically.  I have numerous friends with relatives closely involved in the military, and I've learned that can mean directing the Army Band at an American air force base in Germany or raising three children alone while the husband is stationed in Korea for another year.  My mom's neighbor served in the current Iraq War and came back with debilitating PTSD.  Although he's doing much better now, people suffer their whole lifetimes with physical and emotional trauma sustained while serving their country.  We put aside Veterans Day to remember and appreciate the men and women who were brave, disciplined, and impassioned enough to fight in the wars our country is involved in.  At some point it becomes much more precious than just a day off from school. 

Neighbors

The guy who lives in the apartment next to me is quite a character.  Mid-60s, legally blind, epileptic, alcoholic, and probably has a whole list of maladies I don't know about.  He is also one of the funniest, kindest people I know and having him next door is a hoot.  He'll knock on my door at 10am wanting to take my garbage out, and at least three times a week he asks when we're going to get married.  The answer is always, "Tomorrow, Wilson, we'll get married tomorrow," and he seems to be okay with that.  Fortunately his best friend lives a few doors down and is there to drive him to doctor appointments, wake him up when he forgets he's cooking and the fire alarm goes off, make sure he gets his Meals on Wheels and otherwise keep a watchful eye on him.  He's completely harmless, and there's never a dull moment when those two are around. 

I live in a building with three floors and 60 units, so there's a wide assortment of occupants and I'm lucky to have such good people nearby. No matter where I've lived, I've always made a point of trying to get to know my neighbors.  Part of it is a safety issue, but it also fosters a community.  I like being able to ask them how they're doing when we pass in the hallway, and actually care about the answer.  I like getting invited to birthday celebrations and knowing there's someone I can ask to sign for a package. 


Lancelot visiting, November 2010.  Dad's
actually a lot happier than he looks

 Before I moved Dad out of his apartment, he lived on a very friendly street a couple blocks away from me.  It was filled with families and couples of all ages who enjoyed their little part of South Evanston.  Fortunately, his neighbors were wonderful at looking out for him and treating him with care and respect.  They were patient when he yelled, told me when they saw him out walking, and knew he was delighted by the bevy of dogs around.  He befriended them all, but was especially enamored by Lancelot, the award-winning English Springer Spaniel who lived down the block.  Lancelot's owners would do training exercises in the field across the street, and Dad would stand outside just watching him clear hurdles and jump through hoops.  They soon developed a friendship with Dad, and we came to look for him in the early evenings and on the weekends.  We kept in touch after Dad left, and the owner started bringing Lancelot by the assisted living facilities to visit.  They now periodically stop by Maryhaven on the way home from work, and it's a huge treat for both Dad and me.  Lancelot performs his tricks- sit, stay, roll over, strike a pose, high five, shake, figure eights- and will even jump through a hoop I make with my arms.  He especially likes to come after dinner, when there are scraps of bread and tuna salad on the floor.  I am so touched every time they come to visit.  It's a huge distraction for Dad, and it warms my heart that after all this time they still care so much about him. 

Community can bring out the best in people.  Mom has lived in the same house for 14 years, and has grown very close to her neighbors.  When she can't get her coat over her shoulders, she just walks outside and within a minute somebody has come by to help her.  The teenager across the street mows the lawn, the neighbors to the left run to the grocery store for her, and the neighbors to the right have the snow plowed before it even settles.  She couldn't have asked for a better group of people to be around.  Her block has celebrated countless births, mourned numerous deaths, and enjoyed block parties and holidays together. 

Living in close quarters can also highlight people's worst traits- I've heard horror stories of the lady who played rave music at insane decibels at 2am, the guy who almost went ballistic at the noise from a ceiling fan, and the families who leave their dog home all day with nothing to do but howl.  But getting to know the people you live near can lead to surprising benefits and cherished friends.  And for me, if I ever get too lazy to take the garbage out, there's always Wilson.   

A Sneak Preview

Death is not the most pleasant thing to think about, but since Hospice is on my speed dial and I'm a card-carrying member of the Cremation Society of Illinois, it tends to come up more often that I'd like.  At 85 with end-stage Alzheimer's and otherwise deteriorating health, I know Dad could go anytime, and spending so much time in nursing homes and hospitals keeps it constantly on my radar. 


Sherman, mid-1970s

 I actually don't really have much firsthand experience with death, which I see as both a blessing and a hindrance.  My only grandparent to see me out of diapers was Sherman, my mother's father, and he passed at 95 quickly and peacefully when I was 14.  Mom went to the services in California, and that was that.  I'm sure I grieved and processed it on some level, but while I did love Sherman I didn't really know him that well.  In the past few years I've gone to three memorial services, but I've never attended an actual funeral. 

A few months ago I spent an afternoon in the Cremation Society's office and made all of the arrangements for after Dad is gone.  The undertaker was caring, thorough, patient, and understanding.  She answered the bevy of questions I had, and walked me through the timetable of when things happen in detail.  Minutes, hours, days, it was all spelled out.  Choosing the arrangements and accessories, for lack of a better word, was one of the hardest things I have ever done and I had to get up and take a walk before signing the final papers.  In retrospect, I'm now so thankful I have everything set up in advance- those aren't the kind of decisions to make in the heat of the moment, and there's some sense of comfort knowing it's all taken care of. 

I wasn't planning on visiting Henry yesterday, but got done early with other things and decided to spread some Halloween cheer at the nursing home.  As I walked towards the unit, a woman wearing all black and pushing a gurney followed me towards the door.  When we went through and I saw the pastor and a social worker standing there, I realized what was happening- a resident down the hall from Dad had passed about 20 minutes earlier and the undertaker had come to retrieve the body.  I froze, trying my hardest not to cry for fear of being a distraction.  I ran in to see Dad, who was muttering at the football game, then stepped back into the hallway to compose myself.  I was overwhelmed with emotions- sadness, fear, grief, and the sense that these abstract, eventual events that had been playing out in my mind could and will actually happen.  It hadn't seemed real before, but all of a sudden it became very clear that Dad is not only going to die, but will Be Dead.  As I turned to go back into his room, the undertaker started slowly walking towards me, this time pushing the gurney with the bodybag full.  The pastor and family were close behind, and I was amazed at how well-composed they seemed.  Meanwhile, I was fighting back tears and having trouble breathing.   

The son later told me that he was confident his mother was in a better place, and he felt an extreme sense of calm and peace.  I didn't know how to respond, because "I'm sorry" or "You're in my thoughts" seemed to almost contradict what he was expressing.  When he left, he did say that he was touched by my relationship with Dad and loved watching us sing together.  For the past 24 hours I've been in a panic- I keep playing over yesterday's events in my head, only this time it's Dad and me instead of the other family.  I know that whatever our experience is, when the time comes, it will be authentic and unpredictable.  I've written in the past about the importance of appreciating the life while it's here instead of dwelling on what is to come.  Being so close to it, however, has left me more unsettled, distressed, empty, and fearful than I could have imagined. 

Beau

Dad with the camera-shy Beau, Jan 2009

Beau is my mom's dog, and that's how he seems to be known.  Although I did help pick him out, I've never lived with him and can't call him *mine*.  Last year, when Dad could still walk and I would  bring Beau to visit, Dad would parade him around on the leash and tell everyone, "This is Beau.  He's my mom's dog," because that's what he heard me say.  When I talk to Mom's neighbors, they ask me, "How's your Mom?  How's Beau?"  They're a package deal. 


My childhood dog, Rusty, made it to the ripe old age of 16 before we had to put him down.  I was living in Chicago at the time, but came up to hold him at the end.  While is was sad for all of us, he suffered very little and led a happy, if slightly neurotic, life.  Mom made it four months before deciding she needed another dog- she missed the companionship, the greetings at the end of the day, and the discipline it took to get him out for walks.  We drove down to the Anti-Cruelty Society, where we had gotten Rusty years  before, and surveyed the dogs available for adoption.  What we found was a Goldilocks situation- some were too big, others were too small, some were too old, others were too young...but there was one, a 4 year-old golden retriever/cocker spaniel mix named Bear, who was Just Right.  However, it seemed another family thought so, too- Bear's kennel had an "Adoption Pending" sign on it, and we weren't allowed to take him out.  Disappointed, we walked around again, and Mom considered a few others, but I kept insisting that Bear was the right one for her.  When we got back to Bear again, the sign was gone- the other family had decided not to get him!  On the car ride home, Mom decided to change his name to Beau, and he's been her companion, ally, accomplice, and friend ever since. 



He really, really hates cameras!

Beau, however, was not four years old, like the shelter told us.  After a thorough exam and review of his files, the vet assured us that he was a fit and healthy eight year old.  Ideally, Mom had been looking for a younger dog that would be around for longer.  It was too late, though- he and Mom had already fully bonded.  Dad calls him a Momma's Boy, and I've never seen anything like it.  He follows her around from room to room, and stares pathetically out the back door when she goes out without him, which is rare.  He is welcomed on all her usual errands- the cleaners, hardware store, bread store- and everyone on Central Street seems to know him.  They give him treats at the bank and send me home with one if I go there without him.  I've tried to take him for a walk while she's home, but he's slipped out of the collar and trotted back to the house so many times I've all but given up.  I've dog-sat for him on two occasions while Mom was away, and he was just distraught.  They are regulars at the unofficial Doggie Park a few blocks away, and while Beau can't keep up with the puppies running around he does enjoy sniffing his friends Pablo the labrador and Ashley the male pug.

Now that he's almost 16, he's slowed down quite a bit.  He sleeps 21 hours a day, but for those other three he is full of life.  No matter how many times he goes in the backyard, there seems to constantly be something new to explore and there's always the possibility of finding a squirrel to chase or a bird to bark at.  Most days, Mom gets him out for at least one walk, which is great for both of them.  I'm thankful for the socialization and exercise it provides, and she has to test her finger mobility to attach the leash and pick up his droppings.  As a worried daughter, I do feel a sense of ease knowing he's there with her.  He's a constant in her life, and a source of unconditional love and companionship when so many other things in her future are scary and uncertain.  Last week there was a little panic- Beau had blood coming out of both ends- and Mom took him to the Animal 911 on Saturday night.  He turned out to be okay, but it shook both of us up quite a bit.  If ever there was a case for canine cloning, it's Beau.  In my perfect world, Beau would either live forever or Mom would be able to get an identical, younger version of him when he drifts off to doggie heaven.  Since that's not likely to happen, I'm going to have to accept that Mom will be *okay* without him.  It will be hard, and she will have to adjust and grieve.  And in the realm of things, he's *just a dog*, but anyone who has ever had a pet knows that's bullshit.  Beau is family.  I love him for being the best possible second dog we could have found.  He's been the perfect companion for the past seven years, and has helped Mom in ways I can't.  For that, too, I will always thank him. 



A Thousand Words

When I first heard about the party Dad's nursing home was hosting, I was really excited.  The Harvest Ball sounded like a great way to bring joy to the residents' often mundane schedule, meet their family members, celebrate the tireless work the staff does, and just have a good time.  The invitation said it was a "formal event", and with the help of the secondhand store owner I picked out a dashing outfit for Dad.  When I showed him the clothes he nodded in approval, and I told him he would be my special date at the party.  He agreed that an evening of music, dancing, food, and celebration would be fun. 

When my friend and I arrived last night, Dad was already dressed and in the main room.  For a brief moment I had tears in my eyes- he was cleaned, groomed, and more dapper looking than I had seen him in over a year.  It was quite a change from the usual sweatpants, drool, and stains from lunch that greet me.  Even at 85, he hasn't lost any of his handsome charm and he looked more elegant than ever.  As I walked over to him, however, I realized he seemed to have tears in his eyes as well.  At first, I thought maybe he was just overwhelmed by all the people and excitement, and I assured him that I would stay and we would have fun.  The band was playing some of his old favorites- Bye Bye Blackbird, Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy, and a stream of Sinatra classics- usually songs he enjoys.  Suddenly he muttered under his breath, "I can't stand the music", and then he said it louder.  I started singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," his reliable favorite, and he calmed down.  Although he still seemed irritated, I asked if he wanted to leave and he said no. 

We continued to sing along with the band, and I danced with some of the other residents and staff.  Picture a room full of octogenarians in their Sunday best doing the Funky Chicken and drinking O'Doul's, and you get the idea.  Although Dad wasn't smiling, he wasn't really complaining either, and except for a few brief spats of profanity he appeared less agitated.  He looked confused, perhaps perplexed, but not really upset, and insisted he didn't want to leave.  At the end of the night, I brought him back to his room and he thanked me for visiting.  The nurse said they would change him and give him his evening meds.   



The fear and confusion in his eyes is evident

 All day today I've been filled with guilt and uncertainty.  I'm questioning if I did the right thing by bringing him, given the bittersweet reaction he had.  He can be incredibly combative, and I'm sure it was a struggle for the staff to get him dressed, not to mention distressing for him.  Part of me wishes I had gone there earlier to help get him ready, but I know I can't be there all the time and need to set boundaries.  Although he said the music bothered him, he also was able to sing along and I want to think that the recognition was comforting to him.  I want to think that getting dressed up and having a distraction from his usual routine of dinner at 4:30p and spending the night in front of the television was stimulating, but maybe I'm wrong.  Was hearing the old music traumatic for him?  Was watching other people dance too much of a reminder of his own deterioration?  Was seeing his neighbors surrounded by loved ones difficult, given that he hasn't seen most of his family in years?  Should I have not taken him out of his regular routine, or challenged him to adapt?  Did I naively and selfishly think in some way that he would settle in and everything would be like "old times"?  He looks scared and perplexed in all the pictures we took, and I fear that maybe the evening did more harm than good.  Try as I do, I am having more and more trouble interpreting his words and actions and am scared that my good intentions sometimes don't come through.  I am left with knowing that my efforts will often not be enough, and it's distressing to try to accept. 

The Back Burner

When I started this blog, my goal was to update it every 3-4 days.  I'm not sure why I picked that number, but it seemed like a feasible task.  I didn't want it to seem like a burden, because writing in here is something I enjoy immensely, but I needed a little push and incentive to take time out and do it.  The first month or so was easy- maybe my schedule wasn't as busy, or the excitement of something new made it a priority, or my brain was feeling particularly creative then.  Whatever the case, I somehow got distracted and realized it's now been two weeks since my last post.  Yikes. 

It's not that I haven't had ideas- I write in my blog in my head when I'm driving or lying in bed at night or swimming.  But that kind of defeats the purpose of a blog- the idea of sharing your ideas.  Why haven't I written?  I HAVE been busy.  I HAVE been distracted.  I've been working, juggling paperwork and visits and phone calls for Dad, attending to out-of-town guests, going to meetings and appointments, spending time with friends, enjoying the beautiful fall weather...doing laundry, er, um, surfing the web...



The "before" picture

 While all valid, those are all excuses.  The truth is that I didn't make it a priority.  There are 24 hours in each day, and I didn't choose to put 15 of those aside to do this.  Consequently, it built up in my head as this *big thing* I had to do, and I felt guilty about not doing it, which started to almost make me dread it.  There are so many nagging tasks that we put off- things that are on the "to-do" list but never quite make it to the "Done" list.  For me, finally taking care of them is an incredibly rewarding feeling, no matter how small the task is.  I went two weeks once without putting the windshield wiper fluid in my car, even though I had a gallon of it rolling around in the trunk.  Every time I tried to clean the windshield, I was reminded of "one more thing" that I haven't done.  When I finally took the 2 minutes to do it, I felt so much calmer.  It seems silly, but those little things really do make a difference. 

I had three items on my List that I kept putting off and finally realized I needed to make them a priority.  So this morning, I set aside an hour and a half to write the long overdue thank you card to a dear friend, go through the huge pile of paperwork that had been building on my desk, yes, update my blog.  So far I'm 2-for-3.  My desk is cleaner than it's been in months, and the card is addressed and stamped.  Now I just have to write it...

Dancing Lessons

Much to my disbelief,  I took up bellydancing in June and love it.  It came about kind of haphazardly- I started doing PR and writing work Malik Turley, a casual acquaintance who was opening a  studio, and she suckered me into trying lessons.  Four months later, Hip Circle Studio is thriving with Zumba, bellydancing, parenting, and fitness classes, in addition to a number of special activities, workshops, and charitable events.  It has the perfect community feel for my South Evanston neighborhood- Malik has something for women of any ability level and her mission is to foster confidence, health, and joy through all stages of life.   I've certainly grown in all of those areas since starting, and I know scores of other women are getting similar benefits. 

I knew nothing about bellydancing before starting- I always thought of it as a sort of a mystic ancient form of entertainment and had no idea it was such a big part of Middle Eastern culture and history.  I'm fascinated by the subtle movements and rich traditions, and am starting to appreciate the different styles.  While I don't see myself as a dancer in any sense of the word, for the hour-long class I am carefree and exhilarated and it's a thoroughly restorative experience.  I love sharing the challenge and self-expression with the other women- I think doing a physical activity brings us closer on many levels. 

There were only three students in class last week, which gave us a lot of time to improvise following our warm up drills.  Malik said that after having a chance to get a feel of the music, we would perform a short solo for the rest of the group. We were both excited and trepidacious as we practiced on our own, as we weren't used to doing unchoreographed moves.  When we were ready, we were asked to come in front of the group one at a time and dance for as long as we felt comfortable.  It was an intriguing exercise, as we all had contrasting styles and came up with different moves.  When we were done, Malik highlighted a few strengths in each of our performances- smoothly transitioning between moves, identifying with the music, smiling and having a great time.  She then asked us to dance again on our own and try to integrate some of the other strengths into our moves, while at the same time keeping what we already were doing. 

While this was an effective visual exercise for dancing, I thought it was a great way to approach any situation when you're looking for improvement.  Don't downplay your existing strengths, but identify specific ways you want to grow or change.  Observe what's around you, and when you need help, look to others for guidance and feedback.  And don't be afraid to show off a little!  Leaving class that night, I felt confident and energized, and inspired by finding lessons in fortuitous places. 

Plans

I recently had dinner plans with a dear friend of mine- we were long overdue for some serious Girl Time catch-up and we planned it several weeks beforehand.  On the day we were supposed to go out, I got an e-mail from her saying that she was exhausted and would be possible to reschedule for the following evening.  This was certainly understandable, as she had been traveling a lot and was dealing with a lot at the time.  It was the way she phrased it, however, that struck me as gracious and made me appreciate our friendship even more.  Instead of just saying that she was tired and didn't feel like going out, she wrote that she wanted to be as "fresh and attentive as possible" for our get-together, so that she could fully participate in sharing the evening. 

While this highlights the generous and giving nature of my friend, it also made me appreciate the difference in her attitude.  She needed to take care of herself first, so that she would be better able to give and share.  She wanted to address her own needs, so that she could be more attentive to mine.  It wasn't that she would enjoy the evening more if she was rested, it was that our interaction would be stronger and we both would benefit more.  Such a beautiful and refreshing sentiment and outlook to have. 

I'm often told that you can't take care of others until you take care of yourself first.  I'm learning this comes in many forms of giving- to family, friends, neighbors, the community.  When you're rested and healthy, it comes through in your smile, actions, and words.  Challenges are more manageable, and opportunities are more appealing. It's easier to give to others when your own needs are met.  Putting yourself first isn't always easy, but in the end it's more beneficial to everyone.
My friend and I did go out the next evening, when we were both feeling better and able to connect.  To quote one of my favorite movies, it was "practically perfect in every way."

Care-Giver

I was speaking with a casual acquaintance the other day, and somehow the subject of our parents came up.  Without giving her too many details, I mentioned Mom and Dad's health concerns.  She looked me straight in the eyes and said, "Oh, well my mom has cancer, so I have it much worse."  I was more than slightly taken aback, and didn't know how to respond.  Finally I gave her an encouraging smile said, "I wish your mother the best, and am sorry you have to deal with that, but I really don't think we can pass judgement on other people's situations."  I didn't know what her intentions were with that comment.  Was she looking for sympathy?  Attention?  Pity?  And why did she feel she could compare our experiences with no background whatsoever? 

I was perplexed for a while, but then let it go, presuming that she meant no harm and acknowledging that she was under a great deal of stress.  This afternoon, I overheard her say to someone that she was with her mother for several hours the day before and was happy her brother was filling in today because she couldn't handle it again.  She then rolled her eyes and exclaimed, "It takes so LONG to die!"

This statement both saddened and infuriated me.  On one level, I thought of all the people who lost a loved one instantaneously, and had no chance to say goodbye.  But my first thought was that while her mom will eventually die, right now she is alive and probably in need of her daughter's love and support, and craving positive interactions with her.  Now I'm the first to acknowledge that being a caregiver is hard work- exhausting, stressful, often thankless, and full of unanswered questions.  And there can be stark reminders of the end- every time I sign a DNR statement for Dad or have to do something like pick out his urn, the grief is overwhelming.  But I have to see every moment as another moment that he's alive, I have a father, and I am fortunate to be able to visit and spend this time with him.

Ideally, we won't wait until a loved one is diagnosed with a terminal illness to spend time with them or tell them we love them.  As hard as it is to stay in the present moment, in this moment there is life and a chance to connect and share.  It's hard for me to remember sometimes when I'm frustrated or tired or angry or sad, but when I do stop to appreciate this moment there is a great sense of peace.  I hope that this woman is able to find some as well. 

Strawberries

One of my favorite taste sensations is biting into a juicy, delectable piece of fruit.  The natural sweetness, fresh aroma, and lingering essence is singularly refreshing.  This addiction was instilled at an early age- for as long as I can remember Dad would make individual fresh fruit plates for the rest of us to nibble on as we got ready in the morning.  A palate cleanser, and invigorating start to the day.  These plates paled in comparison, however, to the appetizer he would make for himself- a huge bowl of chopped melon, apple, pear, grapefruit, and berries, topped with a scoop of cottage cheese- Breakstone's small curd.  He savored it while perusing the Wall Street Journal and laughing at Mike Royko, and only after he had his fruit fix could he enjoy his English muffin or waffles.  He started this ritual years before I was born and kept it up as long as he was able to prepare his own food. 

Watermelon birthday "cake", 1982

I always loved that he took time to enjoy this.  Such a simple pleasure, and nourishing in every way.  Breakfast has always been his favorite meal, and I think this fruit bowl had a lot to do with it.  It saddens me he can't enjoy this now- these days, he's lucky to get a canned fruit medley cup with lunch or a slice of wilted tomato garnishing his macaroni salad.  The nursing home practically considers coconut cream pie a serving of fruit.  On a whim one day, I stopped at the store on my way out there and picked up some strawberries.  When he saw them, his eyes widened and his hand extended.  He ate half a pound of strawberries that night, and I could see the pleasure on his face with every bite.  Now I try to bring an apple or peach or whatever's in season.  It's such a simple gesture, yet it brings him so much joy. 

It's sometimes the smallest things that gives us the most fulfillment.  Sleeping in an extra 20 minutes, going for a walk as the sun sets, buying yourself flowers at the farmer's market, getting a hug from a cherished friend- or buying that special Someone flowers and giving a cherished friend a hug.  The rewards and gratification of giving and receiving simple pleasures are plentiful, whether we do it for ourselves or someone else.  It doesn't take much to create a smile. 

Liebe

Half-sister...the phrase has been going through my head ever since Dede left yesterday.  It makes no sense to me- I understand from a rational perspective that we only share one parent, but in the two days I got to spend with her last week I had never felt more whole.  She is more of a sister to me than my "real" sister, who has been estranged from me for the past four years and never was close growing up.
 
Dede is Dad's daughter from his first marriage- he was married 25 years and had four children.  He then was married to my mother for another 25 years (his limit, I guess), and had two more daughters.  Needless to say, I did not grow up with my siblings from his first family and they are almost a full generation older than I am.  I remember visiting Dede in Atlanta when I was 9, and not knowing if I fit in playing in the basement with my 6 years old niece or upstairs in the kitchen with the "adults".  Years later, after her family had moved to Vienna and I was studying abroad, I stayed at their house twice during my backpacking travels around Europe.  It was incredibly comforting to have a place to call Home after living in hostels and sleeping on trains for weeks.  As a college student, I was able to relate better- we visited vineyards, toured the Austrian countryside, and even took a side trip to Prague and Budapest.  I was in awe of her- she was cooler than a "cool Aunt" because she was my sister and so full of life.  I've seen her twice since then, but there was always something small in the way- perhaps that she was traveling with her two delightful daughters, or that Dad was ambulatory and still living alone, or the aforementioned self-doubt- suffice it to say we had plenty of distractions.

This visit I fully experienced the connection and love that my friends who are close to their siblings talk about- like the other person is a part of them, their brains works in similar ways, they can laugh and cry and nothing is off-limits to talk about.  Granted, the most important part of her trip was to see Dad, who may or may not be around on her next visit.  We spent one afternoon all together at the nursing home, and the next day I let them have several hours alone before joining them.  As emotional and draining as this must have been on her, and despite being jet-lagged and still on Austrian time, afterwards Dede was up for meeting my friends, joining a wine tasting, lingering at dinner, talking until we literally got kicked out of the restaurant because it was closing.

I am fortunate to have a network of incredibly supportive and validating friends, and I know they love me despite my quirks.  In those two days with Dede, however, I discovered a new connection- one that runs through your blood lines and is comforting and familiar.  They say you can't choose your family; you do, however, have the choice of how to respond to them.  Receiving the full love of my half-sister is one of the best choices I've ever made. 

The Reunion

And to think I was worried.  To think I was nervous, anxious,  even skeptical.  For two weeks I had been pointing to her picture and saying, "This is Dede.  Your daughter.  She is coming to visit."  And even though he was doubtful and confused, I should have known he would pull through.  I wasn't expecting the tears, though.

I can count on one hand the times I've seen my father cry.  There was my college graduation and....probably something else?  I saw sadness in his eyes when I moved him out of his apartment, and when he was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer's, but don't recall any moisture.  I've heard that the eyes are the gateway to the soul, and I can usually read Henry's emotions more accurately through them, as he can be reluctant to say what he's feeling.  I've seen fear, terror, confusion, anger, rage, contentment, and joy.  These days, more often than not they are sullen, and on a good day I can get them to light up a bit. 

Dad and Dede, Aug 2008

It's been two years since Dad has seen Dede, his oldest daughter.  She lives in Austria and it's difficult to make the trip to Chicago.  To me, it seems they've always had a beautiful connection, and so I was greatly saddened when I couldn't get him to recognize her in the pictures.  When she stood in front of him yesterday, however, something clicked.  It took a moment, but then there they were- tears of joy, recognition, jubilation.  It was the most beautiful reunion I have ever seen, and I got teary-eyed myself.  For two and a half hours we sat, sang, talked, laughed.  Dad laughed like a child- free and giggly.  Like an embarrassed chuckle for no reason- he would say, "Frank Sinatra" just out of the blue, then start to crack up.  Seeing her again meant everything to him, and in those tears he expressed nothing but love for the daughter who had been away but not forgotten. 

NIMBY

It's days like these that I appreciate my ability to sleep through a rainstorm...and apparently a bomb explosion.  While much of south Evanston was startled at 3:50a this morning by a blast that shook buildings, I was deeply involved in a dream about bowling alleys (which I have since forgotten).  I woke up, turned on the radio, and heard that Nichols School was closed for the day while police investigated a body found on the premises.  It took me a few seconds to comprehend that Nichols was the middle school a block away, and something was seriously wrong.  As I went to my computer to look up more information, I glanced out the window and what I saw was nothing short of mayhem.  Streets and sidewalks were blocked off, the FBI and police were patrolling the scene, traffic cops were diverting cars, and the media was swarming around looking for information.  It seemed that two hours after the blast, a man walking his dog found a decapitated body on the tennis courts a block away and another bomb.  I took a deep breath and started to process everything.

As the morning went on and people gossiped and whispered, the initial report was that it was a suicide.  Even though this didn't seem to mesh with the evidence, it quickly became all too real and within an hour I had broken down sobbing.  The horrific nature of the events, the mystery surrounding them, the CSI aura out the window, the stares from passersby...and then these rumors.  I've had handfuls of friends affected by suicide, and had my stomach settled with charcoal in high school.  The trauma, the terror, the uncertainty, the unease in the neighborhood.  It was too much and I was rendered useless most of the morning as I grieved.

I live in Evanston, Illinois.  It's not too shabby.  We have two zip codes, six Starbucks, two Whole Foods, a prestigious university, and million-dollar mansions overlooking the lake.  Yes, we have problems- the crime rates are similar to some city neighborhoods and our schools, libraries, and community resources are in trouble.  But it's home, and you like to think it's safe.  Until it's not, and you wake up to bomb threats and beheaded bodies and choppers overhead and news cameras flashing.  Then you remember to lock your door, tell your friends you love them, mail those cards you wrote last week, and light a candle just because it's Tuesday dinner.  Because you never know. But you don't stop living. 

You can read the Tribune's story here.

Here and Now

In the past two weeks, I've had the opportunity to catch up with three friends I have literally known since I was six years old but haven't seen since high school.  Two of them quickly became my best friends when I first moved to Evanston in first grade, and we were inseparable through elementary school.  The other one was a friend of my sister's, but I knew him through the grapevine.  I lost touch with all of them after high school, but thanks to the power of Facebook and mutual friends, I've been able to get to know them again. 

Obviously you're going to relate to somebody differently when you're sharing wine and gelato at 31years old than sharing chocolate milk and grilled cheese at six, but I honestly did feel like something was different and I was picking up on basic connections for the first time.  I noticed I was fully alive and excited in these interactions, and was slightly saddened when I realized what the difference was.  I essentially hated myself growing up and I now see that it masked so many things for me.  I wasn't able to fully give or receive, because I wasn't convinced I deserved the friendships, and was always plagued with doubt.  And so, on some level, I was missing out. 

When we're distracted or preoccupied in any situation, we are not able to be fully present.  It can take any form- we have a preconceived notion or prejudice; we're thinking about something else and not focused; we're worried or caught up in another emotion; or for some reason we're not able to connect.  I think this is a fairly common situation- who hasn't been in a meeting and their mind wanders to weekend plans, that pesky hangnail, or what to make for dinner?  But when we are able to get rid of the distractions and be fully present, it's a very powerful and liberating experience.  For me, I feel fully alive and like I'm really a participant in the world.  It makes me want to share, to give, to appreciate, and to contribute.  And those friends?  I am finally understanding that maybe they didn't come to my sleepovers just because my mom made awesome oatmeal cookies.  And that's a monumental feeling. 

To Yoke

I know I said in my last post that this wouldn't be all about yoga, and yet here we go.  I came home tonight hungry and tired after an especially emotionally draining day.  As I cooked dinner I thought all I wanted to do was have a large glass of wine and disconnect from the world for a while.  It seemed like an easy way out.  However, when I sat down to eat I opened up the October Yoga Journal and started flipping through.  My curious nature drew me to the article "Legendary Poses"- why is it called Fish Pose, anyway?  I never found out, because I stopped reading after the third paragraph.  "The meaning of the Sanskrirt word yoga is 'yoking', or 'connecting.'  One way of describing the state of yoga is as a feeling of interconnectedness, in which we experience that a part of us exists in everything, and vice versa."  It was an "Aha Moment" for me, to borrow a phrase from a certain daytime talk show queen. 

I've been doing yoga on and off since high school, but I've kept it up pretty regularly for the past three years.  I admit at first it was for the physical release and relaxation, but I gradually began to experience a deeper calm, and grounding benefits.  As I fell into a routine, my body and mind started to crave a practice and miss it when I skipped a session.   It became my chance not only to check in with my body and psyche, but share an hour of restoration with others who had similar needs.  Even though we were on our own mats, and focused on our own practices, there was always some feeling of connection and we would share a smile or nod afterwards.

I knew yoga meant "to yoke", and I threw the phrase around- "I am going to yoke tonight", "I had a good yoking session today."  It was a cute word, and I had a vague idea of what it meant, but I honestly had never looked for a thorough explanation.  Reading the definition tonight finally seemed like a validation of what I had been experiencing in my own practice.  Interconnectedness- connecting with my thoughts, emotions, body, and community.  Expressing gratitude to the teacher for leading and the other participants for joining.  Searching inwardly so that we can make a bigger impact externally. 

Whether it's yoga, soccer, choir, community service, music lessons, theater, or dance, we all need an outlet to express ourselves through something that gives us joy and provides a sense of interconnectedness.  What do you do? 

February 2009, after one of Jarrett's Giordano shows

Everybody's Doing It...

Oh, hey, look, I'm blogging!  I'm kind of excited- I've always been a writer and the idea that people might want to read what I write is pretty cool.  People have been telling me for a while that I should start a blog, but I didn't know what to write about.  I wanted it to be something hip, trendy, cutting-edge...but that's just not me.  Then I thought it should be something about my father, since I'm so involved in his life...but that seemed boring and depressing.  I wondered what I'm good at, and what I like doing, but nothing seemed appropriate.  A blog about my yoga practice or my ability to recognize when people get their hair cut?  Meh. 

In the past month, however, I've discovered a new rush of satisfaction that comes from initiating something myself and going through with it (more on that later).  I guess a simple way to explain it is that I felt stuck, with everyday things sucking my energy, and I realized I could do something positive with that energy.  If somebody can gleam a bit of truth or perspective from my writing, then it will be well worth it.  If not, and this only serves as an outlet for me, it will still be worth it.  So what is this blog about?  I still don't know, exactly.  You can read a little more on the "Caring" page on the side.  Here are some of my thoughts, put into words.   I think of myself as creative, but not necessarily crafty, and a blog seems like a satisfying way to express that.  So enjoy.  Or don't.  Thanks for reading!