Reminders

One of the first things I did when Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's was sign him up for Safe Return, a program set up through the Alzheimer's Association. He was registered in their datebase with my contact info and received a bracelet identifying that he had Alzheimer's and to call them if he was found wandering or if something happened to him.  I expected him to argue with me, but he let me put it on with no contest.  I think on some level it provided him reassurance, as well.  I later got him a second bracelet with "Call Daughter Carrie," my phone number, and his medicines listed.  When he did go out alone he was careful to just go around the block, the neighbors were always looking out for him.  Only once did he run into a problem, but unfortunately the bracelet didn't do us any good. 

At the time he had a caregiver in the mornings and I was going over to his apartment once or twice a day to check on him and make dinner.  One afternoon about four years ago I popped in around 4:30p, and when I couldn't find him I assumed he was out for a walk.  I made him a cup of cocoa, straightened up a bit and waited for him to come back.  After 20 minutes or so I left a note in the kitchen, went outside and walked up and down the street.  Getting concerned, I jumped in the car and started slowly driving around the neighborhood, asking anyone I saw if they had seem him.  I went to all the places we had walked together- the lake, Starbucks, the library, even Jewel.  There was no sign of him, and his neighbors didn't know anything.  After an hour and a half of this I frantically called 911 and filed a missing person's report.  An officer met me at his apartment, and I gave her pictures, descriptions, medical history, and guesses at what he might have been wearing.  The officer told me to stay in the apartment and sent six squad cars out looking for him.  Restless, anxious and imagining the worst, I busied myself with calling everyone I knew in the area to alert them what was going on.  My mom and one of her friends came down and started canvassing as well.  It was getting dark and I was boarderline hysterical.  My father had been lost for almost five hours with no leads.  

I was sitting on his kitchen floor at 9:30p in tears, my head in my hands, when I saw the ambulance lights flash out front.  I ran outside to see two paramedics unloading my father from the truck and leading him to the apartment.  I stared, dumbfounded, for a moment before running up to them.  I didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or scream- I think I emitted a sound that combined all three.  Dad's face was wrapped up in bandages but he was walking.  After giving him a hug I asked them what, the fuck, exactly, was going on. 



Dad, after the bandages came off



They didn't have the whole story, but I was able to piece together that Dad had gone outside in the early afternoon, tripped over something and taken a spill.  He was badly cut and bleeding profusely, and fortunately a passerby saw him and called 911.  They took him to Evanston Hospital, where he underwent a CT scan, an MRI, received 13 stitches to his face, and was being held for observation.  He had told them his name and they were able to look up his information and medical history. My phone number was the only one in his records, and I was listed as the primary contact and power of attorney.  Nobody ever called me. This still blows my mind.  I had taken him to the same ER a month before to have a dog bite attended to.  They didn't look at his ID bracelets, and though they knew from his records he had Alzheimer's they just were treating the immediate problem, not the whole person.  I had a heated, lengthy conversation with the head of the ER the next day and the best explanation she could give me was that it was a busy night and they had some new med students working.  I was livid and threatened halfheartedly to sue, but I knew I didn't have the time or energy.  She wrote off the hospital, doctor, and ambulance fees and we left it at that.  I just wanted the nightmare to be over. 

I try as much as possible to focus on the present moment when I'm with dad now, and not think about all we've been through together.  Last week, though, the nursing home gave everyone new standard identity bracelets and gave me the old ones back.  This story flooded into my thoughts, and I was reminded of how traumatic it was for both of us.  Just one more link in the bond he now seems unable or unwilling to break. 

Keeping the Faith



Found it!  Circa 1987

 I grew up with the understanding that my father was an atheist.  Our "Christmas" decorations consisted of miniature Chinese silk animals my parents collected on their travels and wooden horses reflecting my mother's Swedish heritage.  We spent Easter hunting for plastic eggs in the backyard and making our own chocolate bunny candies from molds.  The only time I ever heard him reference any religion was when he would yell, "Oh for Christ's sake!" or "Godamnfuckingshit!"- actually, we heard those quite often but they had no greater meaning than him venting his anger and frustration.  Along with his five siblings, he went to Catholic school from elementary through high school, and he was always proud that all six of them got scholarships.  "My mother never paid a cent for our education," he used to say.  I've heard stories of him settling his arguments with the Brothers by literally putting on boxing gloves and duking it out and I'm sure his rear broke many a nun's ruler.  He went to WWII right after school then attended NYU on the GI bill.  Maybe his Catholic schooling never permeated, or maybe something happened during the war changed him.  All I know is that I never heard him mention God with anything but disdain. 

As he falls deeper in to his Alzheimer's and continues nearing death awareness, a different language is starting to come through.  The first time he told me he was going to go to Hell, I was shocked but thought maybe it was so ingrained at a young age that "sinners" go there after they die that it seemed a natural conclusion to him.  He's been having war flashbacks for quite some time and has talked of needing to reconcile with some of his estranged children, and I think for whatever reason he's looking back on his life with shame.   It's hard to watch a man who was in so many ways hugely successful to go through that, but he's done a lot of things in his 86 years that I will never know about. 

Last week out of nowhere he introduced a new dialogue that I wasn't ready for.  I was feeding him dinner and we were listening to Ella Fitzgerald.  In between spoonfuls of yogurt, he blurted out, "I'm scared of dying."  I've never known my father speak of death even in abstract form or be scared of anything, and it surprised me.  Maybe for the first time he was feeling his own mortality?  Before I could answer, he continued to tell me that he was scared of living, scared of dying, and scared of Christ.  Jesus doesn't love him, and he didn't love Jesus anyway.  He was scared of dying, going to Hell, can't pee, scared of living, hates Christ, scared of dying, and should have told her he loves her.  "I love her so much," he wailed, "she's so good and I love her and I never told her..." 

After gaining my composure, I ask who he was meant- was he talking about me?  "No."  Did he mean...Carrie?  "Yes, Carrie, I love her so much, oh noooooo!"  With tears in my eyes, I said the only thing I could.  "Carrie knows you love her, Dad.  She knows that very well.  And she loves you, too."  It was strange speaking to him partially in third person, but that seemed to be where his reality was right then. 

I am far from an expert in damnation, repentance, moral sin, or the afterlife, and don't feel it's my place to try and comfort him about any of that.  However, it's obvious his thoughts are being plagued by guilt and fear and he needs to work through them.  The chaplain went to visit him the next day, to try and work through some of unresolved religious questions, but Dad was so worn out from his release that he was zonked out the whole day.  Subsequent visits with the chaplain have been unsuccessful, but at least we know it's on his mind and are ready to receive his concerns. 

Agonizing over needing to tell me he loves me and not realizing I'm sitting right there, however--that's a pain nobody can take away from him. 

A Transitional Decade



Mom (left) and Diana decorating
Christmas cookies, Dec 09

April is Parkinson's Awareness month, and it also marks the ten-year anniversary of Mom's diagnosis (for more about the disease, see my "Bonnie and Parkinson's" page).  When I first found out, I was halfway around the world and halfway through my semester studying in England.  Although it didn't come as a total shock, it was certainly unsettling.  In my journal from that time, I wrote, "...all the signs are there, I've known for quite some time something was wrong but I just didn't have a label for it and now it's Parkinson's Disease.  That is why she walks with her arms hanging in front of her, has no facial expressions, sometimes loses her balance, is losing her handwriting ability, and is just SO SLOW with everything." 

She actually doesn't walk with her arms hanging in front of her now, or maybe she never did, or maybe I'm just so used to it- I can't remember, and that makes me sad.  It's hard for me to think of mom before Parkinson's, even though I try to be mindful of reminding myself that it's only a diagnosis; she's still the same Mom.  Yet it's a huge part of her, and therefore my, life.  Weekly trips to an acupuncturist in Uptown have helped more than anything, but isn't covered by insurance and isn't exactly cheap.  Yoga has become even more important, as it challenges her brain and body to coordinate in new ways.  Even though she claims to hate it, she chugs a glass of V-8 juice every day to avoid taking a sodium pill, which raises her blood pressure in hopes of avoiding white outs.  I know that every time I come over, I'll give her a ponytail because she can't maneuver the rubber band, and she won't have to worry about her hair for the next day and a half.

I don't notice people with visible signs of Parkinson's out in the community very much, which seems odd considering that more than a million Americans are affected by it and 60,000 more are diagnosed each year.  When I asked her neurologist why, he said that, frankly, the symptoms are so visible (it's hard to hide shaking hands and shuffling feet) that many people with PD are intimidated or embarrassed to go out regularly, and the associated depression doesn't help.  In addition, they may need help with ordinary tasks and not be comfortable asking a stranger for assistance.

I have always been impressed that Mom hasn't let her diagnosis hold her back.  If she's alone and needs help putting her coat on before taking the dog out, she will go outside and stand on the sidewalk, and within minutes a neighbor or fellow dog walker will offer assistance.  If she's at a restaurant with friends, she will ask them to cut her chicken or open a sugar packet for her.  It may take her 25 minutes to get dressed in the morning and another 5 to put her shoes on, but she has a flexible schedule and her independance is the one thing she's afraid of losing more than anything.  Instead, she accommodates by wearing shirts with wide head openings and elastic waist pants that are easier to get into.  If she's late for an appointment, it's not the end of the world, and it's more important for her to get out and socialize.  If the people in line at the grocery store get impatient waiting 30 seconds for her to get her credit card out of her pocket, well, that's their problem. 

I really am kind of dumbfounded that it's been ten whole years.  It's been somewhat of a roller coaster, and I do worry every time she drives, trips over the dog, has a white out, or sleeps for 16 hours at night.  Her neurologist is pushing deep brain stimulation (DBS), a very invasive procedure that is supposed to have good results.  We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.  For now, one day at a time seems to be working.  Still, I'll glad to be around.  Ten years ago, lying in my dormitory bed in England, I wrote, "She seems really positive whenever I talk to her- I hope it's not a front.  Diana (her best friend) visited her yesterday.  I hope she gave Mom a hug.  I want to give her one..."

Reading



Maybe 18 months?  I hope it was
 a picture book...

I loved books growing up.  My favorites- Goodnight Moon, Where the Wild Things Are, Owl at Home, Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Frog and Toad, Dr. Suess- I now think of as classics and get a little nostalgic every time I see them in the bookstore.  When I got a little older, I could easily get lost following Amelia Bedila's escapades, imagining I lived in the hotel with Eloise or creating my Choose Your Own Adventure future.  I later got sucked into the Sweet Valley Twins and Babysitter's Club series, but even those had some important messages- I learned about diabetes from Stacy in Babysitter's Club, and that it was okay to be smart like Elizabeth in Sweet Valley Twins.  In high school I loved Brave New World, Catcher in the Rye, Jane Eyre, The Great Gatsby and other "required reading" and thought it was cool to become part of this mysterious culture of people who had read and could talk about "those books."  These days I still love to read, but don't take the time to indulge nearly as often as I wished I did. 
A few weeks ago I had dinner with friends who have a two-year-old daughter.  She was showing me her favorite toys and books, then picked up a 200 page hardcover and began flipping through it.  "Actually, that's mine," her father told me.  "The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane- it's a children's book but I just started it and I love it!"  I glanced at the front cover, saw a picture of a stuffed bunny walking towards the door of a big house, and gave my friend a questioning look.   He started telling me about how this rabbit named Edward, who is actually porcelain, goes through a wild ride of adventures and learns some valuable lessons along the way.  The more he told me, the more enthralled I became, and I decided that if this college-educated, world-traveling friend of mine loved it so much I should read it for myself. 

The next day I went to the children's section of the library and told the librarian I couldn't remember the exact name but I was looking for something like, "the amazing journey of...".  She immediately smiled and led me to the book.  Still a little skeptical, I sat down to look at the first few chapters that night...and ended up reading the first 100 pages.  Spoiler Alert: I'm Going To Tell You Some Plot Here!!!  Okay.  This rabbit, who comes from a well-to-do home, has a really easy life but hasn't learned how to love.  Due to circumstances  beyond his control (which, for a porcelain rabbit, would be almost anything), he gets thrown off a boat, kicked off a train, made fun of by snobby porcelain dolls, turned into a puppet, buried for months in a garbage dump, and in an assortment of other challenging situations.  I won't ruin the end, but suffice it to say I finished it the next night and went to sleep happy.  It was a beautiful story with serious lessons children of all ages could benefit from.

A close friend of mine is a school librarian, and is always telling me of this JV series or that young adult book that she read and loved.  But I seemed to be stuck in reading things that were Valuable or Applicable or Age Appropriate.  Now, after remembering the thrill and satisfaction of being immersed in a simple story that doesn't have to be plausible or practical, I may just take her next recommendation.  Lemony Skicket, anyone?

Perspective

A few weeks ago I was talking with a friend who has always struck me as dedicated, compassionate and enduring.  One of his family members had a recent health scare and I was catching up on the latest. The last time we had spoken, he seemed visibly upset and was grappling with how to stop his mind from imagining the worst.  A week had gone by, and his initial shock was wearing off.  He had a great amount of support from friends and family and his work was being generous with offering time off if needed.  I was struck with how much better off he seemed in just a week's time.  When I commented on his cheerier outlook, his answer surprised me.  "I'm still worried, but I can't stop living," he said.  "I need to take care of myself, go to the gym, continue to date, hang out with friends, do whatever I can to make myself feel better." 

What dumbfounded me was that it sounded like something I would have said to him, or something a friend would say to me.  In fact, people do say that to me, but I guess I usually let it go in one ear and out the other.  To hear someone say it about themself was incredibly powerful and validating, and I was in awe of his awareness.  The ability to prioritize by tending to his personal needs and putting himself first is a skill I seem to lack...or at least chose to ignore.   Why do I hold different standards for myself than I do for my friends?  Why do I spend a free afternoon buying new slippers for Dad or baking cookies for Mom's tea party when instead I could use one of those free massage coupons I have or get a head start on a work project?  Why would I be concerned if a friend was withdrawing, but to me it can serve as an ineffective way of "protecting" myself?  Why is okay for other people to buy new clothes, but I haven't in over a year?  Why is it natural to tell a neighbor he seems overworked and stressed and should take some time for himself, but I can't tell myself?  On airplanes we are told to put on our own oxygen masks first, then help our children, because we can't fully aid others if our own health is compromised.  It's a basic concept, and yet I don't seem to be able to apply it to myself. 
There's an old saying that "people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones."  I remember the first time my sister and I heard it, we thought we were really cool and grown up and would use it all the time- if her towels were on the floor and she chided me for not cleaning up the bathroom, it sounded way more clever to respond with a sage expression than to yell at her.  The disconnect between what people consider acceptable for themselves and for others is widespread.  Sometimes it takes looking at things from an outsider's perspective to fully recognize it in ourselves. 

The Practice

Last Tuesday was one of Those Days.  I spent the morning waiting for the AT&T tech to come fix my internet connection (between the hours of 8a-12p), which another technician had accidentally disconnected the day before while working on someone else's phone line.  So much for quality control.  After 90 minutes with the tech and half an hour on the phone, everything was back and running and they had credited my account.  

In the afternoon I had a Care Plan Conference scheduled at Maryhaven, which is basically a meeting held every six weeks for Dad's whole team to get up to date on what's been going on.  I sit down with the head nurse, activity director, and social worker from the nursing home, as well as our social worker, nurse, chaplain, and anyone else available from Hospice and we discuss our observations and concerns, and brainstorm on what changes to make.  One of the decisions we came to was that I needed to compose a difficult letter to someone on his behalf, and I left feeling distracted, but confident it was the right thing to do. 

Immediately after the care plan conference, I met with a representative from the Veterans Association- I've  been fighting to get Dad VA benefits for more than two years and after dozens of letters and phone calls and even having Rep. Jan Shakowsky's office advocate on our behalf, some payments are finally starting to come in.  The representative needed to "verify" that Dad actually lived in a nursing home, was confined to a wheelchair, was incompetent to make decisions...and didn't own a gun (a requirement under the Brady Act).  While productive, the meeting was long and drawn out and after that and the care plan conference, I was mentally fried and ready to leave the nursing home but went back to Dad's room to spend some time with him. 

When I finally did get in the car to leave, I was overcome with a stronger than usual surge of sadness and had to fight back tears.  I had so much on my mind- Dad's unrest at his parents "being there" (it's common for people who are close to death to have visits from loved ones who have already passed), his increasing detatchment from me, the team's general agreement with how quickly he's going downhill, my annoyance with how drawn out the VA process has been- but I was mostly thinking about that letter.  I wanted to get started on it, but really felt that I should go to yoga that evening. 



Morale boosting, indeed

 15 minutes into the practice, I thought that maybe I had made a mistake.  I was going through the asanas and pranayama on auto-pilot, and instead of focusing inward I was trying to compose that pesky letter in my head.  Now I know (or at least I like to tell myself) that everybody's mind wanders during yoga; even the most devoted yogis must forget about their breathing and think about their grocery list or next work assignment once in a while, right?  But I truly didn't feel like I was getting any release from the class, other than a nice hamstring stretch.  Still, I stayed until the end, thankful for some movement in my day if nothing else. 

As soon as I got home, however, I couldn't believe how calm I was.  Sometime between sivasana and driving home I had forgotten about the letter almost entirely and was noticing a sense of peace inside that was missing all day.  I decided to put the letter off until the next day and instead made dinner and caught up on some reading.  I know if I had gone straight home from the nursing home I would have been anxious and distracted and upset the whole night, and am confident that the 70 minutes of yoga was far more beneficial than I originally gave it credit for.  I was reminded that the simply taking time out, breathing, and doing something kind for my body is far more restorative than I sometimes give it credit for. 

A Year

2011 has gotten off to a relatively uneventful start.  I spent New Year's Eve watching a movie with the dog I was staying with, and we were in bed by 10:30p.  On January 1st I went to visit Dad, then went to a neighbor's open house gathering for a bit.  In early January I was especially tied up with work, which provided a much needed buffer between the meetings with my Hospice social worker and calls from the nurse updating me with more signs of Dad's decline- he now requires a more aggressive technique for a supported transfer, is having trouble holding his head up, is haunted by flashbacks from WWII, etc.  But still, the relative stability has been comforting in contrast to the beginning of 2010.


New Year, 2010

 Last New Year's Eve was spent with a group of my closest friends- gathering early for some holiday cheer, dinner in the city, a comedy show at IO (the old ImprovOlympic) and dancing in Wrigleyville until we collapsed into a cab and headed back to Evanston.  In retrospect, it was probably the last evening I was totally immersed in the moment, feeling relatively care-free and happy.  I think of that time now as Before and After, since everything changed the next day. 

I slept late on January 1st 2010, putzed around the apartment, then went to an early afternoon yoga class.  I had been invited to three New Year Day gatherings for later in the day and, and wanted to take a quick trip to Dad's before making my rounds.  The roads were quiet as I drove out to Belmont Village, but inside the residents were milling around .  Dad was in bed when I got to his room, and sat down next to him.  For a few moments I just held his hand and watched him- he looked so calm and the anxiety that had been painted on his face was temporarily gone.  Noel, the nurse said he had asked to lie down two hours earlier, so I decided he was probably ready to get up.  I rubbed his shoulders and said hello.  After a moment I gently shook him and gave him a kiss.  He's always been a pretty sound sleeper, but when I said "Dad" very loudly and rocked him back and forth, I became concerned.  I went to get Noel, who didn't have any luck trying to wake him either.  He then asked if I wanted to call 911, and even though Dad was breathing and had a pulse, I started to calmly freak out.  I did a quick brain scan and decided it wouldn't conflict with Dad's DNR order, and an ambulance was called.

Glenview hospital is maybe four miles away from Belmont, but still it seemed to take forever for them to arrive.  I told them what was going on- essentially, Dad wouldn't wake up- and they checked his vitals, medication list and medical history.  Still unsure how to respond, I did what any normal daughter would have done under the circumstances- I gave the paramedics some room, found my way to a chair in the corner, and stood up.  On the chair.  Not so I could see better, but just Because.  For some reason, it seemed like the Right Thing to do at the time.  So there I stood, while the paramedics poked and prodded and gave Dad all kinds of tests.  Finally the head EMT came over and said his vitals indicated he had suffered some kind of trauma but they weren't sure exactly what, and they wanted to  bring him to the hospital for observation and more tests.

I jumped in the car and got there before the ambulance did.  They had a room waiting for him in the ER, and that's where we stayed for the next five hours while people came in and out, taking blood, pricking his arm, doing EKGs, trying unsuccessfully to get a urine sample, performing a CAT scan, swabbing his mouth, hooking up the heart monitors, etc.  I called a few friends and got many offers for help, but thought I would be able to stick it out.  Sometime around 8p, though, Mom did have someone drive her out with food and Starbucks in hand, and I conceded, welcoming the sustenance and company. 

An hour and a half later, Dad was admitted to the hospital, where he spent the next six days.  The official diagnosis was a severe, undiagnosed infection (judging by his labwork), a series of strokes (shown on the CAT scan), dehydration from the Lasix he was taking, and general failure to thrive.  I sat with him every day, swabbing his mouth, reading to him, playing music, and talking to the staff.  He made a few signs of progress, but still was barely opening his eyes and on the fifth day when I asked his doctor if I should call Hospice she nodded solemnly.  Midwest Palliative & Hospice Care came highly recommended, and within 12 hours of calling we had our own team of doctors and nurses, a social worker, intake coordinator, music therapist, chaplain, CNAs, and most importantly, someone to answer questions and address my fears and concerns.  The next morning they had a hospital bed and two special geri chairs delivered to Belmont, and Dad made the transfer back to his old room.

He remained at Belmont for five months with the aide of a full-time caregiver, until the $10,000 a month upkeep fees finally maxed out his savings and I had to move him to a Medicaid facility.  In the past year we've encountered many more scares, roadblocks, emergencies, heartaches, and just plain frustration than I had anticipated (a caregiver quitting via text message?  Really?)  On January 1st, 2010, I didn't think he would make it another week.  13 months later he's still holding on.

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.