tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102167752024-03-07T22:41:03.988-05:00Susie Parker!My past adventures in being primary (and only!) caregiver to my 91 and 92 year old parents for three years, through home hospice admissions and ultimately to their passing in January 2016 within nine days of each other. I am also writing about what it's like to learn how to embrace a new way of life.Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-72321814911834073712017-06-17T16:48:00.001-04:002017-06-17T20:46:16.460-04:00I Miss You Daddy...Thoughts of Saturday Mornings, Warm Coffee and Pipe Tobacco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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Before dementia began eroding my parents' lives, and even after it began, every single Saturday Morning I would run downstairs, my Mom would be in the kitchen trying to figure out how to put cereal in the bowl but not wanting any help, and I would pour two large mugs of coffee with just a tad of cream, place it on a pewter serving tray that a coal mining executive had given my dad decades earlier, and slip into my parents bedroom. It was usually about 10:30 or 11:00 am, and my dad would be sound asleep. I'd put the tray down, run over to his desk and fill his favorite pipe with the proper amount of tobacco (I learned this from an early age), grab his lighter and then gently scoot in beside him and say, "hey, are you going to sleep all day?". After a few seconds he'd wake up, slowly open his eyes and I'd be holding his mug of coffee. A smile would light up his face. "Well, look at this - room service!! I love you, honey!". We'd settle in and I'd prop him up in bed with several pillows, by now either Sailor or Cleo would be on the bed along with us, and I'd hand my dad his pipe which he would promptly light and another smile would break out as he took possession of his coffee. "Mmmmmmm...now this is good.". </div>
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This became our Saturday and Sunday Morning ritual. After dad was awake enough to draw on his pipe and sip his coffee, he'd begin regaling me with tales...stories I'd heard countless times but with his Jimmy Stewart-esque delivery, I never ever got tired of hearing them. He'd tell me about the time his family moved from Itmann to Keyrock, and how his brothers, Otis and Dick were in charge of walking with their cow, "Old Pet", through the mountains to their new residence and how, when the rest of the family had settled into their new house for the night, his Mom and Dad were getting visibly concerned because Dick and Otis hadn't arrived yet. FINALLY, they arrived just as darkness was falling and the family was reunited. Or maybe he'd tell me about the times he had to "sit up all night with dead", a practice that was common back in the 1930's - 1950's in southern WV. "What in the world would you do, Daddy?", I'd ask every single time. "Well, we ate a LOT of food and situated our chairs around the coffin that was usually in the living room or dining room. We'd tell stories and try not to nod off!". I'd ask him, "why did people do that? what were they expecting to happen?". He'd laugh and say, "I don't know honey, it was just something we did...out of respect.". But he added, "oh sometimes we'd get to telling stories and laugh and have a good time!". I would smile because I knew if my Dad was in the middle of it, it had to be an entertaining evening. </div>
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Sometimes he'd tell me stories about his time in the US Navy...lots of funny stories and a few that would break my heart no matter how many times I heard them. Then, as I often did, we'd bring it back to the 1960's and I'd pull out a diary from, say, 1966 and the first time we vacationed at Wrightsville Beach and the little cottage we rented facing the Sound. He'd always vividly describe my eyes when I first saw the ocean - how mesmerized I was - "You LOVED it! Right away! You never wanted to leave!" and then, we'd marvel at how we lived just a few short miles from that spot and how much history had passed between us. </div>
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I now look back at those Saturday Mornings and I swear I can almost smell his pipe and see the steam coming up from those special cups of coffee. He'd throw his arm around me and always, always we finished up with a hug and he'd look me straight in the eye and say, "thank you for taking such good care of your old Mom and Dad". I drop tears when I remember those golden moments, but I smile as well. </div>
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When you're in the middle of such moments, on some level you know they won't last forever, but you can't and must not dwell too much on that because it will take away from the present, from the magic of it all. I never really allowed myself to consider that this wouldn't go on forever, even though intellectually I knew that it could not. </div>
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On this day before Father's Day, I look around my bedroom and I have a large bookcase next to the secretary that my parents bought around the same time I arrived on the scene. In the bookcase is every single volume of my Dad's diaries; forty-seven years of our shared lives are in those handwritten books. I haven't read all of them - but I look over at them and I feel my Daddy right here with me. Every word he wrote was deliberate and a tangible legacy of the lives we were blessed to share together.</div>
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My Dad was simply the quintessential perfect father - the guy you would surreptitiously connive with to get Mom to agree to something she wouldn't normally acquiesce. The man you could confidently share your dreams and also your deepest fears with in complete safety and without any fear of being made to feel silly or ridiculous. He was the comforting hug as I went through a divorce, the stalwart cheerleader when I acknowledged that it was time for me to get sober, the champion who always figured out a solution to a situation that perplexed me and the guy who made me believe I was so much more courageous, stronger and smarter than I would often feel. He became that voice that challenged me to step up to the plate, no matter what it was, and congratulate me when I did - whether it was finally leaping off a diving board when I was ten years old, or the night before major surgery when I was 34 years old or right before an interview for a job I really wanted. In my eyes, he was as close to the "perfect father" I could ever imagine - a fount of love, encouragement, understanding, humor and delicious mischief!! </div>
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Daddy, this is my second Father's Day without you and even though I miss you as much as I did in the hours after you left this earth, I'm so GRATEFUL for the stock of memories you left me with. I feel your direction, hear your voice and honestly am aware of your presence every single day and what an amazing gift that is!! I miss our Saturday Morning coffee klatches but my gosh, weren't we incredibly blessed to have so many of them?? I know that's what YOU'D say because you always spun grief into gratitude - and I'm learning to do the very same thing. Thank you for being the most incredible father anyone could ever hope to have and for loving and providing for our family through everything. I personally hope you're sipping a cup of hot coffee, drawing on your pipe packed "just right" with your favorite tobacco and holding my Mom's hand because if you are doing those things, then I know you are happy and content. </div>
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I love you, I love you, I love you...always and forever.</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0Wilmington, NC, USA34.2257255 -77.94471020000003134.0156165 -78.267433700000026 34.435834500000006 -77.621986700000036tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-77633227465609036352016-11-20T16:07:00.000-05:002016-11-20T18:07:09.317-05:00Selling and Sailing...Charting a New Course<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJ_tFDGeP-VGMxut4SRPAXj_yNFNDvIhC_rwf26rbCHgdPDA-pRGvTWqoPi4EBVdMieo2XO4z_mRUYQCkkDD-wlR1HGbuSanFPnDXCj-1JP6j6yZjIfTlGn1T8xOWMtVLCPtS2A/s1600/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJ_tFDGeP-VGMxut4SRPAXj_yNFNDvIhC_rwf26rbCHgdPDA-pRGvTWqoPi4EBVdMieo2XO4z_mRUYQCkkDD-wlR1HGbuSanFPnDXCj-1JP6j6yZjIfTlGn1T8xOWMtVLCPtS2A/s200/FullSizeRender%25281%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>My 2016 has been a year unlike any I have ever in my life experienced. It's been the most stomach-churning roller coaster ride I've ever been aboard. In January my mother suffered a fall which set off a chain of events that would ultimately culminate in the loss of both of my parents within nine days of each other. I still find myself in shock by the events of January and I'm even more stunned that I survived them.<br />
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Needless to say I discovered that no matter how much we're hurting, how broken our hearts may feel and no matter how difficult it is to grapple with the raw reality of pivotal losses in one's life, time absurdly marches on; seasons change, flowers bloom, summer heats things up and fall still proffers all things pumpkin. Two days after my Dad died I walked out of <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</i></b></a> on that very chilly Monday night of January 11th which, coincidentally or not, happened to mark my 12th year of sobriety, and as I made my way to the car to head home to grab a few hours sleep, I glanced at the sky and saw a crescent moon. In fact, it stopped me in my tracks. I clearly remember staring at it and wondering how in the world the moon could still shine because my Dad was dead and my Mom was in a pretty precarious condition. I'd been so involved in unexpectedly losing my Dad, seeing my Mom transferred to inpatient hospice and reeling from people asked me foreign but essential questions such as, "<i>who would you like to pick up your Dad's body?</i>", "<i>what cremation plan would you like?</i>" that the sight of the moon dangling up there in an inky black winter sky seemed absolutely inchoate. I guess somewhere deeply embedded in my psyche was the notion that planetary orbits should cease until I made sense of the world again. Of course, that's not at all how things work, and it's testament to the continuous evolution of life that it does not happen that way.</div>
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One of the last conversations I had with my Mom happened a few minutes before I spotted the moon. She was visibly tired from her "rally day" and she took my hand and pulled me close to her face and asked, "<i>Did we have a death in the family?</i>". Yes, I answered a few seconds before tears began falling from my eyes. "<i>Was it Barbe?</i>". Again, I nodded and whispered yes. My Mom then brushed the tears off my cheeks and asked me why was I crying? I told her in a very broken voice "<i>I miss him</i>". Her beautiful blue eyes met mine and she began rubbing my hand...."<i>Honey, that's part of life. He's in a better place. It's ok</i>.". My Mom spent her last coherent moments offering me comfort and reminding me, even before the moon did, that life DOES go on and that it's OK. So typical of my Mom to be reiterating for me that just as we had celebrated the 2014 late summer and fall births of three beautiful granddaughters, painful, unimaginable "exits" are also a part of our lives as well. We come, we go and with the help, love and compassion of a great many people, we somehow learn to move forward. I've been supremely blessed in that department. </div>
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There has been so much about this year that has shocked me out of my wits, comfort zone and basic reality and a lot of it has tested my mettle <i>in extremis</i>. By the same token, a lot of other things have occurred in my life that have vigorously reaffirmed my Faith, lifted me up and literally demanded that I understand that I am not as alone as I thought I would be. Friends I've known for decades, new friends I've made in the course of this year and folks far away from my home base have rallied around and supported me in ways I couldn't have predicted. I'm still in awe of the many people who have crossed my path, deliberately, so they could lend me a hand and literally keep me going. For as dark as it's felt at times, at other moments it's been blindingly bright. I have a heightened respect and adoration for the human race and particularly the many people who have reached out to me, saw a need, and chose to get involved. What incredible life lessons in a year that began with so much sorrow.</div>
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I'm now in the middle of letting something else go. After living in this house for a little over sixteen years, I've come to the inevitable conclusion that it's time for me to move on. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which are economical in nature, but also involve some emotional and physical self-preservation. The reality is that working 40 plus hours a week I don't have the time or interest in attempting to take care of a home much larger than I need, a yard that's way too much for one person, even if that person has a dog the size of a small pony, and a large pool that requires more work than I have time to give. For the first time in my entire life, I'm contemplating a new reality outside of the confines of this house that I've loved and enjoyed for many years, the setting for some of my best memories. But, for as much as I have enjoyed this place, I still have flashbacks. The last few years of taking care of my parents was when my mourning really began, as they lost their ability to do the things they'd so enjoyed. Sometimes I walk into the master bedroom and I'm met with a barrage of visions that are painful to relive. There are times I walk out onto the patio and instinctively look to my right expecting to see Mom and Dad sitting in the swing, holding hands and chatting away - that's a lovely memory but seeing the empty swing still forms a lump in my throat. </div>
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I finally realized a change would do me good and hey, go big or go home, right? The house is on the market and it's bittersweet, scary and maybe even a little exciting. I'm at a point in my life where I can actually imagine living in a new place; smaller, more compact and the chance to continue processing and recover from this whale of a year. Yes, it's weird. Yes, I'm nervous. Yes, I'll be OK. Yes, it's time. Yes, I'll probably cry and Yes, that's OK. </div>
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Yesterday, the first full day after my house was listed on the market, I accepted an invitation to go sailing on a beautiful boat with a good friend of mine. My mind immediately protested with a list of things I should be doing, but I just ignored it. The waves, the wind and the vastness of the ocean worked their inimitable magic. For a few hours my view was an endless horizon dotted by a few other sailboats. The sounds of waves slapping the hull and wind filling the sails was the perfect accompaniment for a stellar sunny fall day. </div>
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On the way out, off Wrightsville Beach, with the confluence of currents and wind I suddenly began to feel a little dizzy. For me, it was the most wind I'd sailed in since 2007 and the sensation was a little disorienting. I asked my friend to take the wheel and sat in the middle of the cockpit for a few minutes. He kindly offered to turn the boat around and head back to shore but I thought about it and was surprised to hear myself say no, let's keep going. The momentary uneasiness passed and I was happy to take the wheel again so he could work the sheets. What a profound and durable lesson from this past year; don't retreat - press on. I was glad to discover there was some untapped steel in my spine. </div>
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Months ago, my daughter <a href="http://www.katiejanephoto.com/" target="_blank"><b><i>Katie</i></b></a> suggested that I sell this house. I wasn't ready to even think in those terms at that time...a few weeks ago another friend messaged me and asked if she could offer me some "unsolicited advice"? She didn't hold back and I'm so glad she didn't - "<i>why don't you sell that house? You can't make a fresh start unless you do.</i>". Thanks Katie for planting the seed and thank you <a href="http://celiarivenbark.com/" target="_blank"><b><i>Celia</i></b></a> for not holding back. And thank you to everyone who has held me up these past ten months - I wouldn't be standing without the support, love, kindness and compassion. Even after such a tumultuous year, I am extremely blessed. </div>
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I am grateful to all of you.</div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-43280626999826986012016-07-10T12:24:00.000-04:002016-09-05T21:30:37.696-04:00The Road Less Traveled Delivers Me To Charlotte...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I'm interrupting the timeline for a non-commercial break, and a huge personal break-through.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9DUXA08MeuqZMGVeZhK9hQjRt_ceghB6_fpnDDOCNiEkrsCPn6B-8FOCutTXO0O_g1HLkH2wRoMxVwnpM3bm1sokhCy0ZKM3j2wym6SLU2FSNYU7oaXTO3dJYarfc4RrG5QMXQ/s1600/IMG_3221.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9DUXA08MeuqZMGVeZhK9hQjRt_ceghB6_fpnDDOCNiEkrsCPn6B-8FOCutTXO0O_g1HLkH2wRoMxVwnpM3bm1sokhCy0ZKM3j2wym6SLU2FSNYU7oaXTO3dJYarfc4RrG5QMXQ/s200/IMG_3221.JPG" width="200" /></a>On Monday Evening of January 11th, 2016, after kissing my Mom goodnight for the evening at<a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i> Lower Cape Fear Hospice & Life Care Center</i></b></a>. I walked out of the building on that chilly January night at about 8:00 PM and I remember looking up in the sky and seeing a shiny crescent moon. I recall my shock at seeing it dangling up in the sky. My sweet Daddy had died two days earlier in the same building I was exiting, and I had spent all day with Mom on what would be, unbeknownst to me at the time, her last lucid day. I had no idea I'd just had my last interactive conversation with my sweet mother. I'm grateful I didn't know.</div>
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I was exhausted, my head was foggy and my heart was broken. I honestly hadn't had time to process my Dad's death. It still seemed completely surreal to me that he could possibly be gone from this earth. When I looked up at the moon as I made my way to the car, I clearly remember wondering how in the world the moon could be shining? I'd lost the most amazing man I ever knew in my life and, frankly, it seemed inconceivable that the moon could rise and I know that sounds strange, but I literally stopped and stared at it for a moment or two wondering how the world could continue to spin without my Dad.</div>
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This would turn out to be one of my first lessons in grief. That night I realized that life was crazily determined to keep going on, even if everything in my life was completely turned upside down and my heart was aching from a place so deep I'd never felt anything like it before. Maybe it wasn't an ache as much as it was a heaviness, a deep, drawn out silent scream. But it was also a sign - a moonlit sign that no matter what deep shit we have to trudge through in this life, the world keeps turning and the moon still shines. The sun rises. We breathe. We learn to live again.</div>
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I've always had a bit of a panic problem. Driving in particular can sometimes make me a wreck (pun intended). I was diagnosed with panic disorder before there even was a "formal" diagnosis of panic disorder and scored my first panic attack when I was 13 years old, about a month before my sister died. As luck would have it, my first attack occurred on a spring break vacation with my parents and grandmother to Chicago to visit my aunt and uncle. Hyperventilating, palpitations, feeling of impending doom - I ran the full gamut and it scared my Mom to death. She didn't know what in the world was wrong with me but fortunately we had a very astute family doctor who listened and had, himself, a history of dealing with panic disorder and he assured her I wouldn't die from it. In 1994 Zoloft was approved for the treatment of panic disorder and a physician in El Paso, Texas prescribed it for me and it literally changed my life. I was able to do so many things that I'd never been able to do before. That's not to say that the symptoms completely disappeared, but they certainly became much more manageable and I've been on a small dose ever since. It's made things like driving, navigating crowds, flying and just living life much easier and most of the time enjoyable.</div>
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After my parents passed away, I was invited by my sweet friends, Jayne and Keith Cannon, to come visit them in Charlotte for a few days. Initially, I honestly couldn't imagine I would ever be at a point where I could see myself driving alone to any point more than an hour away, and the idea of driving to a huge city like Charlotte seemed completely impossible. They say that time heals all wounds and I take exception with that because I don't think time heals the void of losing loved ones. I don't think it's possible to completely "heal" from losing folks we love so much. I think what time does do, is afford us the chance to put one foot in front of the other, allow the searing ache of our losses to eventually recede and makes room for the flow of happy, comforting memories to move toward the front. Time gives us the opportunity to think about rejoining the human race and learn how to live again. After enough time, we can even find ourselves smiling and laughing again. </div>
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When Jayne initially made the invitation, I had to decline because I was at a point where I truly didn't want to leave home. I felt shell-shocked, as if the very foundation of my life had been shaken because, well, it had. Life as I'd known it for the past three and half years was no more, and I had to find my bearings and figure out where and, to some extent, who I was. I'm still working on that part. </div>
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Being a full-time caregiver for several years is a very cloistering experience. The world shrinks, particularly if you can't be away from your home for more than twenty minutes at a time. Even though I was busy taking care of a lot of things and multi-tasking, it was in a very confined space. The world outside of my home became much more distant and there were a few times when I'd go several days without starting my car; I'd find myself in the grocery store and feel as if I must be in another country.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbo_vn6ShWEmyRlLI_8vZ0GLv3v6_EmBhDJB7Q1VpdxTpQgtUxqslVnyGkzyV35nlzWsqQdPuTVSxSKN5bkqYGUBLls3bMBkVDxNKr-habX_Y5FSl5BvGLdO7TOJ_HpEA2oo0tzw/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252843%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbo_vn6ShWEmyRlLI_8vZ0GLv3v6_EmBhDJB7Q1VpdxTpQgtUxqslVnyGkzyV35nlzWsqQdPuTVSxSKN5bkqYGUBLls3bMBkVDxNKr-habX_Y5FSl5BvGLdO7TOJ_HpEA2oo0tzw/s200/FullSizeRender+%252843%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>However, time ticked on and when Jayne again invited me to visit, I found myself saying "yes". It wasn't like me to make such a quick decision, but I had spent several weeks searching for jobs, going on interviews, completely cleaning out my garage (huge!!) and my confidence was slowly beginning to resurface. I'd also started dipping into my Dad's diaries, reading entries about how he and my Mom had felt when my Mom's Dad died which was, coincidentally, on January 9th, 1962, fifty-four years to the day before I lost my own Dad. I had no idea until I read that entry. My Dad wrote so poignantly of the pain of that loss, the memories it evoked for him and gave a glowing account of the man my Grandpa Sturgill was, but he also noted that as hard as it is to lose loved ones, the best thing we can do to honor them is to pick up our lives and move forward. Reading those entries, I could hear my Dad's distinctive voice, the cadence of his writing was almost the same as if he was speaking to me. In fact, I know he was.</div>
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Another huge sign that this trip was a "go" came courtesy of my amazing neighbors AKA as Cleo and Sailors Godmothers, who were available to sit with my furkids. In fact, they enthusiastically encouraged me to go for it. Cleo and Sailor LOVE Pat and Ginger so that was a huge relief. I've loved my dogs since the day I adopted them from the shelter, but I must confess that I would not have been able to get through the silence of these past six months without these two irascible creatures. Just as they kept me sane during my 3 1/2 years of care-giving, they've been with me every step of the way as I've grappled with the grief. I am devoted to both of them and I know they're devoted to me. Their unconditional brand of love have made these past few months bearable, silly and sometimes funny. They demand I go outside, throw the slobbery tennis ball and take in the air and sunshine. What gifts they are. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8SbsyX_9SSMCGKwIo2xlOmBKng3Os-jHgXi8ejVde6IpXjvyUkWF8Ij1Re9chAvLBOh9OkfuGM5yrgh-jCncOW_ErvS_XyyNQKQ03i43lFERaJwEWUsxZvK3ltqjQTAFHtwTVQ/s1600/2016-02-22+17.09.20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM8SbsyX_9SSMCGKwIo2xlOmBKng3Os-jHgXi8ejVde6IpXjvyUkWF8Ij1Re9chAvLBOh9OkfuGM5yrgh-jCncOW_ErvS_XyyNQKQ03i43lFERaJwEWUsxZvK3ltqjQTAFHtwTVQ/s200/2016-02-22+17.09.20.jpg" width="150" /></a>When I set out for Charlotte, after the steering-wheel-gripping fear of crossing the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge which, in my twisted mind, was three times the length of the Golden Gate Bridge and ten times as high, my grip began to relax a little. I had my iTunes cranked up and I began looking around. It had been years since I'd been on any kind of road trip and I began to notice vaguely familiar sights and, along with it, lots of sweet memories. I wore the necklace I have with my parents wedding bands, and I grasped it several times. I had them with me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrlR2Sj_ZyID3dLjzOcWOBYM_mx_iGSr_I5LsR1n4_lctmXs8v6UmlfdKW59x20NF-QknHK_KQqiTAgG8_Y_i3ZHfDJt3iGl70Z2navmXmMtW8atwfiiEXd4p0LnzgAkCZ777rA/s1600/FullSizeRender+%252839%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTrlR2Sj_ZyID3dLjzOcWOBYM_mx_iGSr_I5LsR1n4_lctmXs8v6UmlfdKW59x20NF-QknHK_KQqiTAgG8_Y_i3ZHfDJt3iGl70Z2navmXmMtW8atwfiiEXd4p0LnzgAkCZ777rA/s200/FullSizeRender+%252839%2529.jpg" width="200" /></a>When I got to Whiteville, I stopped at a produce stand. My mom would have LOVED that. I stopped and looked around and wound up with peaches, blue</div>
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berries, a watermelon and fresh corn to take to Jayne and Keith. I got back on the road and realized I was actually feeling a little more relaxed and comfortable behind the wheel. It wasn't one startling moment, it was gradual. But it happened. Each mile became a little easier. I realized I was heading toward friends who understood very well what this little trip represented for me. I was breaking the ice and through a combination of iced tea, James Taylor songs filling up the silence, every single mile registered on the car odometer was a silent but strong affirmation that life DOES go on. That's a wonderful gift of a realization.</div>
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I thought back to that January night and the moon...crazy as it seemed, the moon did rise and I could drive to visit friends. Initially both of those things seemed impossible, but they weren't. It just takes time. Precious, not-to-be-rushed, time.</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-11530440573234704442016-05-19T21:52:00.000-04:002016-05-20T15:32:05.931-04:00Learning to fly...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1-iS108QeNGuDiT4gInE7sucQ_5xdfihtBkARikh3Jkkjjap6kbpTmYske1Nmaj0xO4Qkd-YTTHj3DKriU-s5NIO2SBj6hsEPNmSBUy1C2wIKYq-msdQWIqlmhRwkDRHhmm7JA/s1600/IMG_4067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs1-iS108QeNGuDiT4gInE7sucQ_5xdfihtBkARikh3Jkkjjap6kbpTmYske1Nmaj0xO4Qkd-YTTHj3DKriU-s5NIO2SBj6hsEPNmSBUy1C2wIKYq-msdQWIqlmhRwkDRHhmm7JA/s200/IMG_4067.JPG" width="200" /></a>This is me, opening the door just a smidgen. It's been a heck of a strange, bewildering, surreal five months. Here it is May 2016 and there are still so many moments when I feel as if I've been wrongly cast for a supporting role in a play I didn't audition for and how I got here is still, after all this time, a profound mystery to me. </div>
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If you would have told me on January 6th, 2016 everything that was about to unfold in the next twelve days, I would never have believed a word of it and then, just on the slim chance you knew what you were talking about, I would have run like hell. Fast. I would have sprinted, in fact. Which of course isn't true at all because this was always going to be part of our story. It just wasn't the part that I was looking forward to, but as painful as it was, I honestly wouldn't have traded places with anyone. </div>
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One of my favorite episodes of "<i><b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Andy_Griffith_Show" target="_blank">The Andy Griffith Show</a></b></i>" is one called "<b><i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8BMjtwp8n6A" target="_blank">Opie the Birdman</a></i></b>". While playing with his new slingshot, Opie accidentally slings a stone at a mother bird who has three babies in her nest. The mother bird is struck dead and Opie is devastated. Later that evening at the dinner table, Andy mentions to Aunt Bee that as he was picking up the newspaper from the walk he noticed the dead bird and assumed that a neighbors cat was the culprit. Opie abruptly asks to be excused from the table and Andy puts two and two together. He goes up for one of "<i>those talks</i>" with Opie and confirms his suspicions that Opie killed the bird and reminds him that those three baby birds are waiting for their mother who's never going to come back and take care of them due to his carelessness. (insert tears). The next morning Opie regroups and rescues the baby birds and, after accepting responsibility for his huge mistake, sets about feeding and raising the birds. A few days later, with the birds thriving and fluttering around their now very small cage, he is finding it very hard to imagine not having the birds as pets and doesn't want to relinquish his caregiving role. Once again ole Andy steps in and, while respecting Opie's attachment to his adopted flock, he reminds his son that there's one important lesson left that the mother bird would have taught her fledglings. When the time was ready, she would teach them to fly, even though it meant leaving the nest. (cue more tears and maybe grow a lump in your throat). Opie struggles but realizes his dad is right and screws up his courage and does the hardest part of all - helping the young birds transition from the cage to the wild. I love the last lines of this episode...</div>
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Opie: "<i>Cage sure looks awful empty don't it, Paw?</i>"</div>
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Andy: <i>Yes, son, it sure does. But don't the trees seem nice and full?</i>"<br />
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After my parents died and I walked into this house for the first time, knowing both of them were gone, those last lines from "Opie the Birdman" came to me...slightly edited.<br />
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Me: "Wow the house sure is quiet and empty.<br />
Me: "Yes, but heaven must be brighter today and I imagine everyone is gathered around, listening to my Dad tell the masses how he proposed to my Mom on the third date and how it took her until the fifth date to accept".<br />
Side note: I hope heaven has a pipe smoking section and rocking chairs. </div>
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Of course being around for the "end game" wasn't something I thought about often and when I did, I dreaded the notion more than a mouthful of root canals, but it turns out that a gentle transition is also an important part of care-giving, no matter how much it tears your heart out. And it does tear your heart out. </div>
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It's painfully hard and somehow profoundly beautiful, Such a paradox. Such is life.</div>
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Down deep inside, I knew that someday I would be present and engaged for this part, too. But until January 6th, I chose not to think about it and really it wasn't until January 7th, after my dad collapsed in the bathroom in the middle of the night, that I began to understand Mom and Dad were beginning their own transition. There was no "pause" button - God I swear I searched for it - but just like the transition part of labor that signals the birth of a baby is imminent, my Mom and Dad's transition suggested delivery into a new realm was closing in fast. Inside I was silently screaming, "<i>Whoa...no, wait, slow down please. What's happening here? I'm REALLY not ready for this.</i>" but the reality is that when everything is set in motion, there's absolutely nothing left to do but hold on and simply do the best you can. </div>
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No matter how hard and exhausting the days of taking care of my parents were becoming, both for me and for them, I just couldn't begin to imagine what life might look like without them in it. They were tired and had very limited mobility. My dad could no longer navigate much on his computer and his world was shrinking exponentially from not being able to hear or walk outside unassisted and there had even been a few days when he had completely forgotten to smoke his pipe. My mom was becoming listless and even with substantial pain medication on board she still suffered every time she tried to move from the chair to the bed or the bathroom. They began sleeping more and more, waking up later and going to sleep before dark. While they maintained a sunny disposition right up until the end, they're conversations with each other and with me were becoming shorter. Looking back on it, I believe they were preparing for their next adventure and, as it turned out, they intended to begin it as they had done everything in the past 69 plus years of marriage - they were going to set off together...well, nine days apart, but that's basically together. It always took Mom a little longer than Dad to get ready for a trip. </div>
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Even though I knew deep inside we were on our last legs, I still couldn't fathom or begin to imagine "the end" was looming right before us. I refused to consider how it might happen and determinedly focused my thoughts on micromanaging our dwindling savings and wondering how I could pinch more pennies and just praying over and over that I could keep them at home before our funds ran out. Or, for a change of pace, I would consider what their fate would be if something happened to me, if I got injured or seriously ill and was no longer able to care for them? What would we do? What would happen to them? To consider their deaths...well, I had plenty to distract me from truly focusing on the the end. My days were regimented and packed with meals, meds, hospice nurse/cna/social work visits to juggle, groceries to grab while they were being showered, light distractions to implement and for gosh sakes, I had to DVR "<i><a href="http://www.unctv.org/content/program_listings/lawrence-welk-show-1" target="_blank"><b>The Lawrence Welk Show</b></a></i>" so I could play it for them several times a week!! If something were to happen to me, who would make their ice cream sundaes and play a loop of Lawrence Welk???? To imagine them actually dying? No, I had plenty of other concerns. </div>
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I became the Queen of Denial. I also read a LOT of books and focused on my favorite genre - survival at sea. I've always loved reading about people who beat the odds in the most daunting and challenging of situations, particularly after their sailboat has been knocked down in a storm or rammed by a pod of whales or any other horrible disaster that could put you in survival mode offshore and in the middle of a really powerful, mercurial ocean. Aside from the adventure, books like this are rich with great advice on how to confront dire and horrifying situations; they are chalk full of coping mechanisms and believe it or not, they're life-affirming. They're terrifying but inspiring. </div>
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I have reviewed my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/susiewrites" target="_blank"><b><i>Facebook</i></b></a> postings in the weeks leading up to January 6th and it's crystal clear I was aware of a gathering storm. If our house had been equipped with an "event" barometer, I think ours would have registered in the "<i>batten down the hatches</i>" range. I knew something was about to happen, but I had no remote clue that the "gathering storm" was going to be a dual Category 5 hurricane. Come to think of it, I'm grateful I didn't know. If I'd known what was about to happen, I couldn't have handled it. As it turned out, I actually did handle it and frankly no one was more surprised than me that during the following twelve days I didn't fall completely apart. Rather than a testament to my strength and fortitude the simple truth is that so many things were happening at such warp speed, there was absolutely no time during those days to squeeze in time to fall to pieces. I mean, there just wasn't an opening. It was a luxury I couldn't afford...thank God. </div>
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I know the facts; on the morning of January 6th my mother fell getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. This wasn't new - she'd fallen several times in the past few months and I practically had the paramedics on speed dial - but she always seemed to land well...i.e. no broken bones, maybe a few minor bruises and sore muscles for a day or two but she'd never fractured anything. Yes, she was becoming more feeble and wobbly and watching her walk often made my stomach tense up but I just didn't see this mishap coming. Again with the denial - massive helpings please.</div>
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I was sitting at the kitchen table chatting with my <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</i></b></a> Social Worker, Kim, and my son had dropped in and was sitting on the sofa in the living room. He heard the "thud" and quickly alerted us that Mom had fallen. Kim and I ran to their bedroom and there was Mom on the floor and on the surface it looked just like every other fall except this time...she winced a little. I quickly called our hospice nurse Olga as Justin, Kim and I helped Mom up to the seat on her rollator. Mom denied any sharp pain and simply said her leg "<i>hurt a little</i>" but that she was OK. Olga arrived in short order, along with our CNA Patty who was on a routine visit because Wednesday was "shower day". Olga carefully examined Mom and concluded that although she didn't think anything was broken, she couldn't be sure and felt it would be prudent this time to call the EMT's and take her to the ER at <a href="https://www.nhrmc.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>New Hanover Regional Medical Cente</i></b>r</a> for x-rays. </div>
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Now I was in a quandary. I couldn't leave Dad alone while I went with Mom to the hospital so Patty told me to call our caregiver sitter and see if she could make a quick run to the house. Fortunately she was free and made it to the house in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I made the 911 call and the paramedics arrived for the 2nd time that week. My dad was actually asleep through all this. He hadn't woken up for the "morning" yet, even though by now it was noon. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBV2wwDnfNwxw_LJ_Ww_GSmJxSXiNMZEuAJoNRBxFBhdava9ZbhjO7KCngGYujdVZ3YIeDuXpu3yB9A3SMyu40HeKUPHYxSzvXtkCov8fi0IdDxIkLidXthG146fI47s804OP3tw/s1600/IMG_0465.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBV2wwDnfNwxw_LJ_Ww_GSmJxSXiNMZEuAJoNRBxFBhdava9ZbhjO7KCngGYujdVZ3YIeDuXpu3yB9A3SMyu40HeKUPHYxSzvXtkCov8fi0IdDxIkLidXthG146fI47s804OP3tw/s200/IMG_0465.JPG" width="200" /></a>Shortly before the paramedics arrived, he sat up in bed to find the bedroom filled with people and groggily he realized something was wrong with Mom. I quickly brought him a cup of coffee and explained (loudly because he was almost completely deaf) that Mom had fallen and I needed to go with her to the hospital but that Kathy was going to stay with him and we would be back home soon. He was still sleepy but when the paramedics came in with the stretcher and loaded Mom on it, he snapped to attention. He was scared and confused but everything was happening so fast. Kathy took her position right beside him, held his hand and told him they would get to spend some good time together and she brilliantly diverted his attention to old photos, navy stories and did her best to keep him distracted. Kathy Pope is an angel and was my parents' favorite sitter, hands down. </div>
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Justin was using my car that day so CNA Patty gave me a ride to the hospital. We followed the ambulance and she dropped me off at the entrance to the ER. It was a chilly, gray day, typical early January weather, and I imagined we would spend three or four uneventful hours in the ER, the x-ray would possibly show a deep bruise and we would be on our way back home by dinner time. </div>
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I couldn't have been more wrong on all counts.</div>
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More to come...</div>
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<br />Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-11884617018448531352015-08-12T20:21:00.002-04:002015-08-12T20:30:48.012-04:00The Measure of Our Days - Contributions of a Social Worker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have an extremely tight, close-knit circle of precious family and friends who intimately know and understand what my life at home consists of these days. There's so much of what happens in the day-to-day minutiae that I've never written about, but there are a few folks in my life who are well aware of many of the things that don't make it to my blog entries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some of the scenes from this experience are not anything you'd find in a commercial for "<i><b>A Place For Mom</b></i>", the local <i>Hallmark Store</i> or a warm and fuzzy <i>Lifetime</i> feature movie. Actually, it's more along the lines of "<i>The Twilight Zone</i>" with a smattering of "<b><i>Gilligan's Island</i></b>".</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If that analogy sounds completely bizarre and off the charts, it's because I've been on this island a really long time. We're in an inevitably emotional and surreal period these days. <b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/families/inpatient-facilities/wilmington-hospice-care-center/" target="_blank"><i>Respite care</i></a></b> was a wonderful treat for me but it was almost too sweet and, I must be honest, way too brief. It was difficult to imagine living in my home five days without my daily and nightly care-giving duties and, to be perfectly frank, it was difficult to pick up the key chain I wear around my neck and resume the duties of pharmacist, head (and only) cook and meal planner, grounds keeper, safety inspector, recreation director, television remote control expert (a role I step into at least 20 times a day), laundress and, ummmmm, everything else.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I checked my Mom and Dad into the capable hands of <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>Lower Cape Fear Hospice and Life Care Center</i></b></a> for five whole nights, it seemed like such a huge break - five whole nights of just being in charge of myself, playing with Cleo and Sailor, casually walking in and out of my home without reflexively reaching for one of the many keys I wear around my neck to lock whatever door I transited, striking out for lunch or the grocery store without the pressure of a twenty minute window to grab whatever I needed and get back home before my Dad wakes up from his nap. It was a crazy, carefree, liberating time and just when I was starting to get in the groove it was Saturday and guess what? It was time to pick up my twins and take over the helm again.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know I write glowingly about every member of our LCFH&LCC Team and for good reason - they're all exceptional individuals and they make my life so much easier than it was prior to my parents' admission into hospice, but the member of our team whose focus is slanted more to the caregiver is our Social Worker Kim. Her contribution to our family and particularly me is inestimable. Truly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Early in our admission process, after meeting everyone assigned to my parents' care, I actually wondered why we would even be assigned a <b><i>Social Worker</i></b>. I mean, I've got this, right? I'd been taking total care of both parents for over three plus years and, while I sorely needed the additional nursing care and was positively thrilled to have a CNA come in and take over showers and shaving, I didn't really understand what we could possibly glean from having a Social Worker visit. I wasn't going to turn it down if this was part of the protocol but it seemed like a waste of her time and ours. I just figured fine, I'll sit and chat with Kim, who appeared to be perfectly pleasant. What the heck, I'm sure some "<i>other</i>" families would find the input of a Social Worker useful but really, why?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Was I <b><i>EVER</i></b> wrong.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Where do I begin? You know all of those niggling thoughts, fears and questions that pop up when you're stressed and under a Matterhorn of pressure? Yeah...the stuff you try and tuck into the deep recesses of your mind and work really hard to avoid thinking about because you simply have no answers? After awhile you find yourself working so hard to tamp down all of that unwelcome mental static that it begins to wear you down. It becomes exhausting fending off the fears; you begin to think you may well be going crazy because surely no one else on the face of earth ever felt the way you do. Haven't we all been there? Some of us have been "<i>there</i>" so often we have reserved seating. I know I do.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After a couple of visits with Kim, I found myself impressed with the way she'd handled some of my initial, albeit largely superficial questions and she certainly seemed to have quite a mastery of resources available to hospice patients and caregivers. After a couple more visits, I began to feel a genuine rapport with Kim and suddenly rather than just "<i>accepting</i>" her visits, I began looking forward to them. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Once again, I'm reminded that hospice has a <b><i>LOT</i></b> more experience in this arena than I do and clearly, like so many other caregivers before me, I discovered that hospice realized I had a need long before I did.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNNUYNEzVtsL0oPjDOB4NhgJzJT-vg8NUiMyXgK5zD61jtGwtD_Gc33nZFRqyjZK8sgRse8vIPEbOLHxrbpyTDDnOP4qnLh5Z-o8Akw_yMmGq3ZdlaCfU_Gs_2EHqWAjZYZv2sw/s1600/DSCN2605.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="93" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPNNUYNEzVtsL0oPjDOB4NhgJzJT-vg8NUiMyXgK5zD61jtGwtD_Gc33nZFRqyjZK8sgRse8vIPEbOLHxrbpyTDDnOP4qnLh5Z-o8Akw_yMmGq3ZdlaCfU_Gs_2EHqWAjZYZv2sw/s200/DSCN2605.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Care-giving is, by its very nature, an isolating business. Mom and Dad don't really have the capability to hold a conversation for more than about five minutes and I guarantee that four of those minutes will be taken up by my Mom asking about the weather. And yes, I talk to Cleo and Sailor and they reply with tilted heads, warm snuggles and many invitations to reduce "<i>my</i>" stress by giving them belly rubs and ear scratches. They're just super generous like that and I couldn't survive without either one of them but when I try to engage them in conversation, they tend to nod off. Honestly, I can't blame them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank God for Kim! Talking with her is a huge outlet for me. I can vent, ask questions, explain things that have come up, discuss old fears, new worries and even speculate about what my life might look like someday. I can't begin to express what an hour of talking with our LCFH Social Worker does for me. Not only does she give me a safe place to ask tough questions, reveal scary scenarios my mind conjures up or, sometimes, do nothing more than compassionately listen as I express with a wide variety of colorful adjectives that <b><i>THIS IS HARD AND I'M REALLY TIRED</i></b>!! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">With all of my ranting,venting and "<i>tales from the dark side of my brain</i>", I don't seem, thus far anyway, to have rattled her. And perhaps THAT is the kindest gift I receive from Kim's visits - she validates my feelings, reassures me that I'm not crazy (yet) and maybe most comforting of all, reminds me that other folks in my position have felt and voiced the same feelings and fears I find myself grappling with every single day. That, my friends, is huge. Sometimes the most precious thing you can discover is that there are other people in the same freaking, creaky, leaky boat you're in. A huge measure of peace comes from knowing this. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There is some kind of pixie dust comfort in realizing, or being reminded, that we are not a-l-o-n-e. God, that's just comforting, isn't it? It's almost like inside of all of us, no matter what we're juggling, handling or trying to manage, as long as we know that others have been where we currently find ourselves, some sort of cosmic strength instantly opens up - at least for me it does. Wow...someone has been right (or at least close to) where I am and lived through it. I can't tell you how many rough spots that concept gets me through. It's not magical thinking. I think of it as "<b><i>strengthen thinking</i></b>" (way better than "<i><b>stinkin' thinkin</b>'"</i>). </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I remember back in late-April, during one of my second or third visit with Kim, when I didn't quite understand what her role in our lives would turn out to be. She asked me how I was feeling? Rather than give my usual polite but <i>oh-so-dishonest</i> reply of, "<i>I'm just fine, thank you!</i>", I paused for a minute or so, took a deep breath and said, "<i>Like I've inhabited the role of Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day" and the DVR is stuck on repeat...repeat...repeat. I think I'm going out of my mind." </i>To her extreme credit and remarkable professionalism, she didn't flinch, but she did smile. From that moment on, I felt a connection which sustains me to this day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This whole experience has taught me so much but these past few months, in particular, I've come to truly understand how essential it is to<i><b> keep it real</b></i>; to be as honest as I possibly can with my family, my friends and <i><b>particularly myself</b></i> (hardest of all!). When I need help, I'm learning how to reach out. If someone asks me to do something that I can't fit into my pretty full retinue of daily chores - as much as I REALLY want to say yes, I've learned to say no. If I'm feeling extremely exhausted and spent, I now try and keep things as simple as possible and grab some rest, and when I feel my stress levels inch up, I spend some (guilt-free) time in the pool, watch a few episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" or sit quietly in a corner and pour my focus on a particularly competitive "<i><b>Words With Friends</b></i>" match. I've learned to practice these positive coping strategies much more successfully thanks to Kim's positive direction and influence. I also know that being the stressed-out, weary human that I am, I have to keep practicing these things. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mercifully, my parents seem to be at a stage where they no longer even notice their shrinking sense of reality. I'm grateful that they don't. My dad is now sleeping several extra hours a day and my Mom seems perfectly content to sit in her chair and push buttons on her remote control. The big huge focus for her seems to seriously be the weather. Period. Their appetites are slowly decreasing and actually they no longer really engage in too much conversation with each other and that's understandable - my Dad is now pretty much deaf and my Mom seems to be tired of trying to make him hear her. Breakfast, which for so long was the biggest production of their day, no longer holds any appeal for them. Where they used to take great delight in mixing several brands of cereal and all manner of frozen fruit, they now slowly walk to the table and wait to be served. One morning a couple of weeks ago I realized I had no fruit in the freezer which would previously have been a very serious omission, didn't even register a comment. Eating seems to have become rote for them and it they both eat like birds. I haven't heard either of them say they were hungry for several weeks. Olga reassures me this is to be expected and normal for this stage, but it's sad just the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Through all of these mounting deficits and reductions, the slow trickle of "mourning" continues and it's extremely painful to watch bits and pieces of my parents disappearing right before my eyes. It can't remotely be labeled as "tragic" because they've lived long, productive lives and shared a deep and profound bond but hey, they're my parents. I try and keep all of this in perspective and most of the time, I'm reasonably sure I'm keeping it within the lines but there are moments when some moment or memory will sneak up and the next thing I know my eyes begin leaking.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's tough, bizarre and sometimes it's funny. I cry, I laugh, I shake my head and take another step forward. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thank God for all of those people in this boat with me. </span></div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-24643990415926133812015-08-08T20:23:00.000-04:002015-08-09T15:25:07.174-04:00Recap of Respite Care<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdJnliLKr_F7x2fLCBMhH5IE1wZO7WlYiUuRx5gqZraxoX9Ea4KTDOJD-wTv070XaKrVYcgW9lxHjwWZDtLc_U4BLOwVrI4AYj5jIy71kLdKkoWCoV9uTMl_5KUP_BqpbVMYUXg/s1600/e4e28653-1354-4ae0-9f87-ea70030a99c9.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhdJnliLKr_F7x2fLCBMhH5IE1wZO7WlYiUuRx5gqZraxoX9Ea4KTDOJD-wTv070XaKrVYcgW9lxHjwWZDtLc_U4BLOwVrI4AYj5jIy71kLdKkoWCoV9uTMl_5KUP_BqpbVMYUXg/s200/e4e28653-1354-4ae0-9f87-ea70030a99c9.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My Parents LCFH "Sleeping Arrangements"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">If you follow me on <a href="http://www.facebook.com/susiewrites" target="_blank"><b><i>Facebook</i></b></a>, you no doubt already know that we all survived our five glorious days of Respite Care.<b><i> </i></b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</i></b> </a>once again exceeded my expectations in more ways than I can begin to recount. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My parents were treated as if they were the parents of every member of the LCFH team who cared for them and really, can you ask for more than that?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When I went to pick Mom and Dad up at the appointed time, I wasn't quite sure what to expect but I need not have worried. When I walked into their room, it was apparent they were happy, quite at ease and being tended to with the warmth and compassion that is so deeply ingrained in every facet of care that Lower Cape Fear Hospice generously provides. We experience this every single week as we are visited by our <b><i>CNA Patti, Nurse Olga and Social Worker Kim</i></b>. As it turns out, LCFH also has a beautiful contingent of folks who deliver inpatient care with all the kindness we've been exposed to in our out patient experience. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My first thought is...how do you adequately thank people for treating your family as if they were their own? Not only did they take care of my parents but, by extension, our hospice took care of me. When I asked for updates, I received them. When I was feeling tense and wondered if taking advantage of respite care was the right decision, our outpatient team firmly (but gently!) reminded me that it was the wise thing to do. In every way I can possibly recount, it was an exceptional experience for the three of us and I am profoundly grateful for every single healthcare worker, administration employee and the vast network of volunteers who touched my parents' lives.</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=10216775" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On that first day of admission, when it was time for me to leave Mom and Dad at the care center, I gave them both big hugs and kisses, walked out into the corridor with CNA "Kitty Cat" and Nurse Jane, and proceeded to cry my eyes out. Seriously, I was a mess. I had no idea all of this emotion was welling up inside of me but walking out of their room it hit me like a ton of bricks and clearly Kitty Cat and Jane saw this emotional tsunami coming and they both enveloped me in the most comforting embrace. Even though I'd only met these ladies fifteen minutes prior, they extended such compassion, gave me courage and allowed me to feel the gambit of emotions that overtook me. In fact, Kitty Cat walked me down the long corridors to the front door, reminding me to take it easy on myself in the next five days, to breathe, to rest, to sleep and to find some joy. It was as if she knew every concern and stress even before I could articulate it, and she graced me with solace. I will never ever forget her or that moment. She gave me permission to fall apart and then she held my hand while I put myself back together again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">During my parents' week of respite, they made many new friends. Though their lack of short and long-term memory doesn't permit them to remember names, it was obvious they had experienced a wonderful week. On my first evening "home alone", I received a Facebook message from a woman with whom I share a mutual friend. She introduced herself and explained that she was a hospice volunteer and visited the various LCFH Care Center campuses, sharing her musical talent in the form of playing the folk harp. She then asked me if I would like for her to visit my parents. I was stunned. Talk about reaching out! Of course, I told Carole that I was sure my parents would love a visit with her, as they both love music. A couple of days later, I received another message from Carole telling me about her visit with Mom and Dad and how, upon entering their room and seeing the two hospital beds pushed together, she KNEW she had found them. As she told me about her visit and how much they both enjoyed it, how she even took requests from them and played "<i><b>Country Roads</b></i>", I read her words through teary eyes and a wide smile. There are so many kind and generous people in this world who must share some close lineage to angels. Receiving these messages from Carole warmed my heart and touched my soul. I hope someday to meet Carole and thank her personally for this huge gift. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There were others, too. Nancy, another LCFH employee, called me during my parents' stay to give me a real status update and in doing so, she enabled me to relax and enjoy the rest of my "time off". She told me about an LCFH volunteer named "Mio", who struck up a remarkable friendship with my parents...so much so that she visited them two days in a row. As I understand it, Mio is an artist and Mom and Dad found an instant connection with her. Once again, I don't "<i>know</i>" Mio, but I hope I meet this woman someday so that I can thank her for sharing her time and heart with my "<i>twins</i>". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In another display of going "<i>above and beyond the call of duty</i>", our precious outpatient nurse, Olga, called me during our respite week, encouraging me to relax and take advantage of my time off. In fact, I found out about a week later that Olga had visited Mom and Dad at the Care Center, which is just another example of the quality of care and compassion that we've been exposed to since their admission in April. Even with her busy schedule of other patients to see, along with her own life outside of work, taking care of her family, Olga found the time to stop by and visit Mom and Dad. This clearly illustrates a theory I have that the folks who are employed by LCFH are truly "<i>called</i>" to do what they do. There's no other explanation because these folks do so much more than simply perform duties as stipulated in their job description. Each member of our team is something of an "overachiever" when it comes to care and I suspect their hearts are extra large. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Our <b><i>Social Worker Kim</i></b> is also vital source of strength for me personally. Kim is my "lifeline" and I swear no matter how crazy my days and weeks might be, an hour spent with her is pure therapy for me. Kim is a great listener - in her role as our Social Worker, she is the part of LCFH who ministers to the caregiver, in addition to checking in on the psycho-social health of the actual patients. Kim's visits give me a chance to vent, to express my fears, worries and concerns. In addition to a being the most sturdy, non-judgmental "<i>sounding board</i>" imaginable, she offers me resources, helps me figure out the crazy logistics of the complicated work of being a primary caregiver to two parents and she shares insights. Kim gives me the golden gift of understanding, validating my feelings, reminding me I'm not crazy (yet) and as with every LCFH professional who visits our home, she begins and ends each visit with a warm hug. I can't tell you how welcome those hugs are because, whatever else it is, care-giving is a notoriously lonely business. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In other words, it required an orchestrated effort by a lot of professionals to make my Mom and Dad's respite week a lovely success. In fact, it requires a great deal of work by a good many folks to make any transition from home care to inpatient care a smooth experience. What's strikes me as nothing short of miraculous is that there are so many people who make this possible, who pave the way for the rest of us every single day. It's kind of easy to forget all that's required - the medications, meal schedules, personal care (baths, showers, etc.,), and activities that soothe the soul in the form of music, volunteers and staff visits who engage the mind and warm the heart. It's easy to forget all of the components because our hospice team members, both outpatient and inpatient, make it look so uncluttered and seamless that we don't see how much hard work and collaboration is truly required. It isn't magic. It isn't smoke and mirrors. It is love and commitment, and it emanates from the very heart of Lower Cape Fear Hospice. It's a staff who gives great consideration to the needs of their patients, both physical and emotional, who created a room where my parents could be together, even as they slept. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't know the statistics, but I would say it's a rare event where a husband and wife are admitted to hospice, and to respite care, on the very same day. Rather than treat my parents as a double work load, they were welcomed as cherished guests, tended to as family and discharged as loved ones. As I lead Mom and Dad down the long corridors, Jane, Kitty Cat and so many others stepped out of their routine to embrace them, expressing how much they enjoyed having them and inviting them to come back soon in such a sincere and endearing tone that I found my eyes leaking just as they did when I admitted them five days earlier. You know how you can tell when people are simply following a script, saying what's expected because it's their job and sticking to the company line as outlined in some corporate handbook? There is none of that at Lower Cape Fear Hospice. Mom and Dad left wrapped in a cloak of genuine affection. That brand of caring isn't simply rare...it's priceless. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When we pulled into my driveway after saying our goodbyes, my dad had no real idea where he was. He wasn't even sure where he'd been, but he said he had a really good time. My Mom, a bit more cognizant (at times), reported she'd had a wonderful time visiting with all of her old friends and it was "<i>so good to catch up with everyone!</i>". It took my dad the better part of a couple of days to understand that he was home and it took Mom no time at all to explain that, while she was glad to be home, she really missed her friends. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I guess you could say my parents "<i>week at summer camp</i>" went better than expected. As for me, I wish I'd stressed less and relaxed more, but it was a learning experience for all three of us. We're now back in our "pre-respite" routine of meds, meals, locked doors, and bed times but thankfully we still have our LCFH "home team" lighting our way. Visits from Nurse Olga, CNA Patti and Social Worker Kim remind me feel that I'm not managing this alone...not by a long-shot. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I always wished, particularly in later years, that I had a few siblings to lighten the load and tag team parental care responsibilities and I still envy families where each adult child is doing his or her part but thanks to LCFH, I no longer feel all alone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Right now all I can do is be thankful and deeply appreciative for all of the superb care we've been given these past few months but someday, I really hope to be in a position to give back some of the gifts that have been given to us. I don't ever want to forget all of the support and kindness we've enjoyed and what a positive difference it's meant to all three of us. I hope at some future date, I'm given the opportunity to pay it forward.</span></div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-68880748593481677442015-07-19T13:54:00.000-04:002015-07-19T15:14:20.275-04:00Don't Look Back...Don't Look Ahead...Look At The Moment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Friday at 9:00 AM, I made the call to our <i><b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank">Lower Cape Fear Hospice Social</a></b></i> Worker, Kim. I asked her about the protocol for admitting my parents to respite care. I never imagined making that call. To be honest, I've often thought of myself as fairly indestructible and I couldn't dream of a scenario where I would feel the need for a five day break from taking care of my 91 year old Mom and my 90 year old dad, but this past week, I found myself impatient, snapping at things that wouldn't ordinarily irritate me and weary of never piecing together more than two hours of sleep at a time. I wouldn't say I was near a breaking point, but I will say that I recognized I was drifting a little too close for comfort. </div>
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Kim is wonderful. Indeed each member of our dear sweet precious hospice team is nothing short of exceptional. That's not an exaggeration. I couldn't function right now without their skills, support and inestimable compassion. Seriously.</div>
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This weekend I am trying to keep our routine as "normal" as possible, quite a hat trick in what constitutes a most abnormal existence. I don't know that I'm performing terribly well. I don't think Mom and Dad remotely suspect that they're about to check in to LCFH in a few days, and I'm glad they don't. Trust me, I'm thinking about it enough for all of us. </div>
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You know how in life there are those hairpin points - one second you feel spent and hopeless and then something happens and life makes a 180 degree turn toward the positive and there you go feeling all relieved and maybe even almost smug...and THEN...when you find out you're being granted something you clearly believe you want and need, reality sets in and here comes another 180 degree turn and those knots in your stomach that were just hours earlier untied, reconfigure themselves into different knots and there you are. </div>
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And here I am. </div>
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I can be so completely neurotic and it's not my best trait but I'm so darn accomplished at it. Sad, really. I'm spending this afternoon trying to imagine what my parents will say when I take them in for five days of in-house care. Will they be profoundly confused? Oh wait, they already are. I can kind of accept that - it's how they spend most every single waking moment of every day. But my main focus, my premier mission is to do everything in my power to ensure they're not afraid, that even through the discombobulated dementia haze, they'll still feel safe, loved and cherished...because they are all that and so much more.</div>
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I'm not a prototypical over-achiever, but when it comes to having two of the best parents ever created, I kind of outdid myself. Somehow I managed to spring up from these two incredible souls and I almost feel as if I should come with a tattooed disclaimer that releases them from any responsibility for all the faults I have and mistakes I've made. </div>
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A few days ago I was frustrated, weary and pretty much at my wits' end from the rote nature of taking care of my Mom and Dad. I was wondering if my mental and physical stamina could handle what seems like an endless stream of these days; days where I'm asked about a hundred times a day what the weather is going to be like, if I know who those people are in a photograph, how old my granddaughter Evelyn is, and how much does Cleo weigh and where did I get Sailor? Where's Katie? Why is the door locked? How long are we going to stay here? We need to get back home to West Virginia, can you take us? </div>
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Today I'm remembering stuff - how many times I've taken my parents to Wilmington Health to see Dr. Babiss, how small they both looked in the examination room, how often I remember seeing my Dad push the lawn mower across the yard, well into his 80's - pipe in his mouth, baseball cap on his head, steadily taking one step after another with a determined, steady gait, knocking out one perfectly measured row after another, meticulous and uniform. I'm thinking how many meals my Mom has prepared in my kitchen, a room I had very little use for or interest in. How many steaming, mouth watering pots of chicken and dumplings has she created in there? I never learned how she did it and it wouldn't matter if I had because my primitive offerings couldn't come close to matching her culinary skills.</div>
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Such a history we have. When I was a little girl in elementary school, I used to lay awake at night worried that my parents would die because they were often at least ten years older than most of my friends parents. My Mom was 36 years old when she had me and so many of my buddies had moms and dads who seemed so much younger than mine. I noticed this pretty early on and, being the worrying and anxious kid that I was, I feared they wouldn't survive until I was an adult, when they would attain the ripe old age of 54 (one year younger than I am right now). I wish I could go back and tell my 10 year old angst-ridden self that really, of all the things that might happen in my colorful future, this is the one thing I really didn't need to worry about. </div>
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Such irony. I never gave a passing thought that my sister might die - she was young, seemed healthy and such a possibility never crossed my radar. When I was 13 years old, sure enough, my 23 year old sister died out of the blue. It was a horrible time and cranked up my already panic-ridden self into overdrive. It was a profound loss but at 13, I never thought to realize that when the time came, I'd be escorting my parents into super old age. I missed my sister terribly when she died but NOTHING compared to how I miss her presence now. </div>
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So on this oppressively hot Sunday Afternoon, I find myself struggling to come up with a script. Depending on the availability of beds at <b><i><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank">Lower Cape Fear Hospice</a></i></b>, my parents may be admitted for five days of respite care tomorrow. I won't know until I get the call in the morning. It may be Tuesday or it could be Wednesday because I don't just have one parent to admit, I have two. I'm told this will be a unique opportunity for <b><i>LCFH</i></b> - bringing in a husband and wife at close to the same level of frailty and dementia. I know they'll be well cared for and I have complete faith in everyone employed by our hospice. I'm still nervous.</div>
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I need a story-line, a script, some solid, believable but uncomplicated reason to give them as I suddenly interrupt their routine and introduce them to a temporary new one. I've rehearsed what I might tell them about a hundred times. I've even practiced on Sailor and Cleo, explaining how they are going to spend a few days in this beautiful facility because I have to (<i>fill in the blanks</i>). When I pitch my spiel to Sailor, he listens attentively and then licks my nose. Cleo responds with soulful brown eyes and a tilted head and then takes her massive paw and places it on my arm as a cue to rub her belly. I wonder how my parents will react?</div>
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I just don't know. I'm anxious. I have no idea what to expect. Katie suggested I tell them I'm taking them to camp - hey, it's summer, that's normal, right? My kids always loved going to NASA Space Camp and were excited and happy on the drive from Ft. Lauderdale to Cape Kennedy. </div>
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The LCFH main campus is only about 3 1/2 miles from my house. Should we stop at Brusters for ice cream on the way there? </div>
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I guess I'll find out soon enough how they respond and when the phone rings telling me to bring them in, I certainly hope my story feels more believable than it does now because, right now, I haven't settled on one yet. </div>
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Later today, I need to surreptitiously sneak into their room and grab some of their clothes, underwear, toothbrushes, and bedroom slippers, a couple of pipes, a pouch of tobacco, a couple of lighters and pack their things in a suitcase. I was told to pack light - that should be a new experience for me - and I don't have to bring any of their medications because hospice has all of their medical information and they will supply all of that, which is a blessing. One less thing to worry about. </div>
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Yesterday afternoon I walked into my parents' room and my Mom was moving some pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that she honestly has absolutely no idea how to put together, but still she tries. My dad was asleep on the bed taking one of his marathon naps. Mom looked up at me and asked, "<i>How long are we going to stay here?</i>". The question stopped me in my tracks. I told her I didn't really know, but she'd lived here for nearly fifteen years. She nodded her head and went back to mismatching puzzle pieces. </div>
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This is going to be so strange. I can't wait to see how this story comes out. Prayers and good thoughts are welcomed. </div>
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...to be continued.</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-8715095167279536272015-07-17T07:49:00.001-04:002015-07-17T08:10:00.297-04:00Respite Care: Exploring An "Interval of Relief"...<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><i><a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/respite?s=t" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><span style="font-size: large;">RESPITE</span>: <span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; line-height: 22px;">noun</span></span></a></i></b></div>
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<span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">"A delay or cessation for a time, especially of anything distressing or trying; an interval of relief."</span></i></b></span></div>
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Last night after getting dinner prepared and served for my parents, I took the opportunity to give Cleo a much needed bath in the kiddie pool. You haven't lived until you've given a 110 pound Newfoundland mix a bath, especially one that doesn't care too much for water. Of course, I got in the kiddie pool with her. Having mowed the lawn a couple of hours earlier, I was in need of some cleaning up myself so I thought why not just have fun with it?</div>
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Cleo unhappily, but dutifully, submitted herself to a good lathering and rinse and I submitted myself to several showers as she shook herself multiple times during the process. It was all good clean fun...she emerged smelling better and I came out of it with her black fur sticking to every exposed part of my skin. </div>
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While my parents were eating their dinner, I cracked open the patio door and asked them not to open the doors to the backyard because Cleo needed to dry and I didn't want her in the house until she did. Sailor was watching wistfully through the door, so after a five minute iced tea break I decided he could use a good washing, too. For Sailor, this is not a problem or a fight. I took him to the steps of the pool and without any fight or fuss, his bath was a mere ten minute process. So both dogs were laying on the patio and, again, I cracked open the kitchen/patio door to remind my parents to please not open the doors because the dogs were too wet to go inside. They nodded as if they understood these instructions but I still kept an eye on the doors because my parents collective attention span doesn't quite stretch to five minutes.</div>
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I then decided to hop in the pool and vacuum the bottom. The water felt warm and wonderful and I did a few flips to stretch out my back; nothing unwinds my body, mind and soul like being in the water and the time between 6 - 8:30 is a delicious time to be in the pool - the light is golden, the sun is less punishing and it's just a very zen time to be a mermaid. </div>
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I got the pool vacuumed in short order and decided to swim some laps, execute some flips and just float on my back and look up at the emerging stars in a dusky, summer sky. </div>
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About fifteen minutes after reminding my parents to please not open the doors leading to the back door, just like clock work, my Dad opened the door wide open and out he came to take up his position on the swing, no doubt because my Mom had sent him out there to "watch" me in the pool. As he stepped out, Sailor and Cleo made a fast retreat inside, still wet, and honestly, I pretty much lost it. </div>
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I climbed the steps out of the pool, muttered a few expletives under my breath and shook my head. I grabbed my towel, my iPhone and extreme irritation (I'm being kind - the truth is I was completely pissed off), and I asked my dad why he did that after I'd asked him not to? He calmly looked at me as if he had no idea what I was talking about. "<i>I just came out here to sit down and drink my coffee</i>". I was livid but I held it together...just barely. I walked toward the door and he asked me where I was going? I told him I'd planned on enjoying a quiet swim alone but since that had obviously been interrupted, I was going inside. And with that, I went inside. Steaming, seething, dripping and frustrated.</div>
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I climbed the stairs, headed for the shower and made a very serious realization: I am in serious need of a break. I need a break from being a pharmacist, nurse, chief (and only) cook, house cleaner, lawn keeper, remote control repair-person, laundress and the few thousand other jobs I do in the course of a week.</div>
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<i><b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank">Lower Cape Fear Hospice</a></b></i> most kindly offers a five day respite care option for in home caregivers every quarter and we are into our second quarter of hospice care. I've resisted the notion of taking advantage of this incredible opportunity because I've made the mistake of thinking I didn't need it; that I could handle this just fine and there was no reason to relocate my parents into a facility for five days in order to take some kind of silly break.</div>
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I was wrong. </div>
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I'll be honest, I'm scared and nervous and stressed out at the very notion of taking this step but I'm even more scared, nervous and stressed out by not taking it. I'm beat, tired and spent. </div>
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Today I'm going to call our wonderful Social Worker Kim, and see what I need to do to get the wheels in motion to make this happen. I'm not sure what all is involved but I feel secure that LCFH will guide me in the right direction and we'll all survive this new experience.</div>
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My close friends and a few family members have been encouraging me to do this but, of course, I've resisted and thrown out many excuses as to why I don't really need it but after last night, all I could think of was a million reasons why I do. </div>
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I'll post more after discussing this with Kim. The fact that I've actually arrived at this conclusion is a huge step for me. Feel free to send me some good thoughts. </div>
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In the meantime, after my shower last night I ran down to the garage, fired up my reciprocating saw and fashioned two 34 inch wide boards which I can now install on the track of the patio doors which will prevent anyone from opening the back doors when I'm outside in the evenings looking for a little peace in pool. Elder-proofing is a continuous, never-ending process. At least tonight, I can swim in peace for an hour or so. </div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-60303419363757266932015-07-16T17:17:00.000-04:002015-07-16T17:17:25.476-04:00...These Are The Days Of Our Lives<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've been busy in a kind of "<i>time warp</i>" situation. I've started blog entries at least twenty times and then something has happened and scrambled my brain to the point I haven't been sure if I'm believing what I'm seeing or seeing what I'm believing. Sound confusing? Welcome to my world.</div>
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The past few days I've been doing my 24/7 care-giving gig to both of my parents and then retreating during "<i>quiet</i>" moments up to my room where I have been intensely engaged in about twenty different "<i><b><a href="https://zynga.com/games/words-friends" target="_blank">words with friends</a></b></i>" games while streaming "<i><b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Andy_Griffith_Show" target="_blank">The Andy Griffith Show</a></b></i>" on <i><b>Netflix</b></i> and trying my level best to forget what I am hyper-actively engaged in. It works, somewhat, and for the few moments of sanity it affords me, I'm deeply grateful.</div>
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In the past month, my parents have lost so much cognitive ground that I know I probably sport a "<i>deer in the headlights</i>" expression on my face because even though I'm witnessing every terrifying intonation of Mom and Dad's profound dementia, it still startles the living heck out of me.</div>
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This is where I must first and foremost tip my hat off to<i><b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"> Lower Cape Fear Hospice</a></b></i> because if our team of angels were not holding my hand during this phase of deterioration, I wouldn't be able to function or face any of this. Our incredible nurse Olga, CNA's Patti and Teresa and my own personal angel, Social Worker Kim, help me find the courage to face each new day and whatever terrors it may hold. They dole out showers, shaves, physical check ups and active listening with a compassion that never fails to give me more courage for whatever the next day holds.</div>
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I'm not going to even pretend I'm not exhausted because I am. Physically, mentally and emotionally. Summer has always been my most favorite time of year but this summer will go down has one of the most challenging seasons of my life. I have to work really hard to summon the joy that summer has always afforded me because watching two of my favorite people fade away right before my eyes is heartbreaking. I don't know how I'll look back on this period in my life, but for right now, it's painful.</div>
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And yet, there have been some sparkling moments that have shown up unexpectedly, completely out of the darkness. My dad has always been a big fan of Chrysler Minivans. With all due respect to Chrysler and minivans, I've never been a fan. When we finally convinced my dad a few years ago to give up his car keys, he titled his 2006 minivan, with all of 30,000 miles on it, over to me. I didn't celebrate because it was never a car I cared to own but for insurance purposes, I titled it in my name and tried to pretend I was driving something else. This past May my buddy John, sensing my disdain for the white mess, suggested I drive a car he had restored to practically "show room" new. It's a 2001 Lincoln Town Car and yes, it's HUGE, but it drives like a dream and the back seat comfortably accommodates my 110 pound Newfoundland mix Cleo and the front seat is a favorite spot for the more diminutive Cairn Terrier mix Sailor. To be honest, nervous driver that I am, I feel safer navigating a big car than a small one and so I started driving the <b><i><a href="http://www.lincoln.com/" target="_blank">Lincoln</a></i></b> and felt quite comfortable and safe on the wild, tourist filled roads of <b><i><a href="http://www.wilmingtonandbeaches.com/" target="_blank">Wilmington</a></i></b>. I must admit the leather seats, impressive cooling system and bells and whistles are a lot more inviting than the minivan and I actually enjoy driving around in it. Hey, I could always be an Uber driver in this car because it's a lot like the transportation I take from La Guardia into Manhattan when I visit Katie, John and those adorable twins.</div>
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After a few weeks, John made me a proposition; he offered to trade me the Lincoln for the minivan - straight up, declaring he could strip the van and use it as a work vehicle and I would no longer have to look at it in my driveway. I was stunned and excited...and then, as we got closer to making the trade official, I was blindsided by a wave of guilt and sentimentality. Every time I would go to clean out my belongings from the van, I'd feel a wave of imagined retribution, as if I was somehow betraying my Dad by removing the last vehicle he would ever drive. I'd rifle around the compartments of the van and see the legal pad he faithfully kept of the mileage, gas refills, trips he made and recorded in his shaky handwriting, run across his ziplock bag of pipe cleaners, toothpicks and matches and before I could go any further, I felt wracked with guilt. The miserable minivan may have been titled in my name, but I could feel my dad's presence all over it. I became static - unable to move forward with the trade. John most kindly allowed my delays at heading over to the DMV because I believe he sensed I was involved in some kind of internal tug of war. He didn't push me and for that I'm grateful.</div>
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One evening, about three weeks ago, I caught my Dad looking over the padlocked back gate and when I walked over to him, I asked him what he was doing?</div>
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"<i>Who does that car belong to?</i>", he asked. I explained it was our friend John's and that he'd left it here for me to test drive. I then asked him if he'd like to see inside of it, to which he eagerly agreed.</div>
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I took my Dad's hand and walked him through to the house and unlocked the side door and slowly helped him into the passenger side of the Lincoln.</div>
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"<i>Wow, this is fancy. This is a really nice car!</i>"</div>
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I asked him if he'd like to take a little ride in it and he said yes. I belted him in and backed out of the driveway and drove around a few streets in the neighborhood. He "<i>ooohhhhhed</i>" and "<i>ahhhhhhed</i>" over the smooth ride, the thick comfortable seats and unblemished interior. "<i>This is a really nice car, Susan! And he's letting you drive this for free?</i>".</div>
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I screwed up my courage and said, "<i>Daddy, John said he'd like to trade me this car for the minivan. What do you think about that?</i>"</div>
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Dad studied for a minute and then asked, "<i>How much would you need to pay him extra?</i>" I told him John wanted to do a straight up trade - wouldn't cost me a dime. Dad was incredulous. "<i>You mean you wouldn't have to pay anything extra?</i>" I assured him that I wouldn't - it would just be a matter of paperwork and changing insurance. He was quiet for a few seconds and then leaned back and said, "<i>Well, you better go call him right now and tell him YES before he changes his mind!</i>" I asked him again if he thought this was a good deal and he said, "<i>Oh yes, call him right now and tell him yes!</i>".</div>
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I can't even tell you what my dad's response meant to me. It was like some really heavy chains broke and I suddenly felt free to get rid of that stupid minivan. In fact, I didn't truly realize how encumbered I'd felt until he said those words.</div>
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We pulled back into the driveway, and I helped Dad out of the car and walked with him around the Lincoln, raised the hood and showed him the motor, not that either one of us could truly identify many of the parts, but it looked impressive. I had him sit in the backseat which is a lot like sitting on a huge comfy leather sofa and he just shook his head and said, "<i>And John wants to make an even trade?</i>". I reconfirmed that he did. "<i>Go call that man and tell him yes!</i>".</div>
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I walked daddy back in the house and he went in his room and I heard him regale my Mom with his little adventure in that nice big car. She had no idea we'd left the driveway but she doesn't tend to move out of her chair after dinner so I knew we would be safe taking a quick tour. Twenty minutes later, he was still bragging on his ride and I had to smile as I heard him tell her how nice it was.</div>
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I climbed the stairs and called my buddy John and told him I would meet him at the DMV any day the next week to make it official. I then explained how I'd become paralyzed by getting rid of the last car my dad would ever drive and apologized for taking so long to complete the trade. As usual, John was understanding and kind and said, "<i>Not a problem at all. Glad it worked out.</i>". What a friend.</div>
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I know that might sound crazy, such a love/hate relationship with my dad's car and finding it hard to let go, but the truth is that in the last few months I've lost so much of the true essence of my Mom and Dad that I couldn't control, that when it came time to proactively make a change, I found myself stumbling and dragging my feet.</div>
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Letting go is a tough business. In these long, hot days of the summer of 2015, I'm losing so much that is preciously near and dear to me. Most days I don't believe my parents really know that I'm their daughter. Oh, they are polite and affable, and they know I'm the source of their meals, meds and I'm definitely the "<i>go to</i>" person who straightens out the television when my Mom pushes the wrong button on the remote some twenty times a day, and the expert on dialing the phone on the rare occasions my dad tries to make a call to his sister in West Virginia, but as for truly knowing I'm their daughter, I don't honestly believe they have a clue. I'm "<i>Susan</i>", but not their "<i>Susan</i>". I think that's because their "<i>Susan</i>" is something like 8 years old and engages in dangerous pursuits such as swimming in the pool past dusk and walking outside with the dogs in the backyard after dark. My Mom has identified me as her coworker, good friend, neighbor and nice lady but as for believing I'm their kid, no way.</div>
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It is what it is. I'm grateful for what I've had and those angels among us (great friends, family and of course<i> Lower Cape Fear Hospice)</i> who are helping all three of us as we make our way through this huge transition.</div>
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One of the biggest challenges is fear. Ambiguity. I know what the end game will be, but it's stressful to wonder how that will play out and what it will look like. Those thoughts can really mess with your head and it's a lot of work keeping fear at bay. I'll be honest, I don't really want to see anyone die - who does? The expectation of the imminence of death casts a thick, smothering pall but I do my best to swat it away. Some days I'm better at it than other days and again, remembering to take it all one day at a time is the best defense.</div>
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There's a gazillion lessons in this situation and I'm sure a lot of them will not be known until this is finished. Until then...I take advantage of every chance I get to grab Cleo and Sailor, crank up the Lincoln, turn on the iPod to the <b><i>B-52's</i></b> "<i><b><a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=b+52%27s+love+shack+youtube&rlz=1C1LENN_enUS454US455&oq=b+52%27s+love+shack+youtube&aqs=chrome..69i57j69i64.9042j0j4&sourceid=chrome&es_sm=122&ie=UTF-8" target="_blank">Love Shack</a></b></i>" and smile as we run what I call "micro-errands" if for no other reason to grab an iced tea at Smithfields.</div>
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<span id="goog_2119895195"></span><span id="goog_2119895196"></span>And then, there's this. As sad as it is to watch two people you love lose their abilities, faculties and all that goes with it, I'm grateful that I am allowed the privilege of watching my ten and a half month old granddaughter, Evelyn, learn how to feed herself, grab for my face, pull my hair and burrow her head into my arms when she's ready for a nap. How amazing is that? I'm living in the middle of a crazy circle of life. I'm the Nana to three incredibly precious granddaughters all under the age of one who are learning their way through the first year of their lives and it's just beyond imaginable. As nuts as my present circumstances sometimes are, I have to remind myself that life is springing up all around me in these three precious gifts. Evelyn dazzles me, charms me and makes me laugh often. My hearts sometimes feels as if it will burst from the miracle that she is. I check Instagram several times a day for photos of my NYC granddaughters and before I go to sleep at night, I look at those images and no matter what else might have gone down in my day, I am entranced by these new lives. All three little girls are coming into their own. </div>
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I had to giggle as I woke up this morning - after spending the day with Evelyn yesterday, she'd left her little toy "Minion" in my bed so this morning I woke up to the "ha ha" of this tiny toy...an amusing reminder that life DOES go on and goes on well. </div>
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How can I not feel blessed?</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-84102905211548366032015-06-04T15:25:00.001-04:002015-06-04T22:25:06.102-04:00Helpers...Always Look for the Helpers<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/15/mr-rogers-look-for-the-helpers_n_3088716.html" target="_blank">"When I was a small boy and I would see scary things in the news my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.'"</a></i> ~ Fred Rogers</div>
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What timeless, sage advice Mrs. Rogers gave her son: "<i>Look for the helpers</i>". </div>
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There's not a day goes by that I don't feel a few moments of fear, anxiety and dread. It's part of the territory of being the primary caregiver to my 90 and 91 year old parents who are in the progressively deepening stages of dementia. Most of the time I can duck and weave and slap those feelings away, much as I do the swarm of mosquitoes that attack as dusk approaches and I'm trying to find a few quiet minutes with a cup of tea on the patio swing. But sometimes, my aim is off and a stubborn, relentless wave of fear will take up temporary residence in my head.</div>
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There are many warm, rewarding and heart touching moments to be found taking care of my parents and some of it probably appears like a snapshot on a Hallmark card, but there are some experiences that deposit me on the fast train to crazy town. It is only because of my band of "<i>helpers</i>" that I haven't taken up full-time residency in <i>Nuttersville</i>.</div>
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Yesterday I decided to make a super fast trip to the drive thru of "<i>Cookout</i>" to order dinner for "the twins". After several days of working on the deck in heat indices of over 90 degrees and toting 4 X 4's that felt as if they weighed a ton, I was completely beat. Not that I didn't enjoy the diversion of being outside and helping to create something that improved the look and feel of my backyard (aka my primary source of escape), I was exhausted. I grabbed the dogs and made a mad dash for Monkey Junction. My daughter in law and one of my most coveted "helpers", was planning on dropping by with my granddaughter to hang out with me for a few hours. About five minutes after I left, Stephanie arrived and texted me that she was at my house and couldn't find Pops. Then she texted me back and said she did locate him and he was in the backyard, walking around the pool. </div>
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Stephanie went out to him in an effort to corral him back into the house, teasing him that there was no "<i>lifeguard</i>" on duty and he needed to come inside. Of course he didn't listen and couldn't understand why he shouldn't be roaming wild and free around the perimeter of the pool. He paid no mind at all. When I got home, I saw him walking outside and ran to bring him in. I told him it wasn't very smart for him to be out there alone and in response he petulantly waved his hands and declared he was going to go to his room where he didn't have to listen to such nonsense. Fun fact - it's not a pretty sight when a 90 year old throws a temper tantrum, especially when he's your father and has basically been one of the most reliable figures throughout your entire life. </div>
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Dementia is a mean son-of-a-bitch. </div>
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I've been full-time caregiver to my parents for the last 3 years but when I think of the past two months, I can testify that there is no way on this earth I could be moving through these days without my retinue of helpers. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZl1B7k8n17PSUpnKjnVOPHANUuBypFFBPWWMtcpZeXSgvUcuh_h7XwEJwTJ9U2iiuAYr0wbitFEArtVokJ6qE_MV9SS76O7VJCHg1LpcFu9xPqwwOoax_XkU5uol0_U06t6XPfQ/s1600/IMG_4724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZl1B7k8n17PSUpnKjnVOPHANUuBypFFBPWWMtcpZeXSgvUcuh_h7XwEJwTJ9U2iiuAYr0wbitFEArtVokJ6qE_MV9SS76O7VJCHg1LpcFu9xPqwwOoax_XkU5uol0_U06t6XPfQ/s200/IMG_4724.JPG" width="200" /></a><b><i><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank">Lower Cape Fear Hospice</a></i></b> is first on my gratitude list. Because of them I now have Nurse Olga, CNA Patty and Social Worker Kim. I can't even begin to express how deeply grateful I am for their presence in our lives. I couldn't get through my "<i>to do</i>" list without their assistance, helpful guidance and vast resources and it is no small miracle that my parents were admitted to their care in April. I cried the day I signed the paperwork sealing their admissions. I'd cry even more if LCFH wasn't part of our daily life. Because of them I no longer have to figure out how to get my Mom and Dad to doctors' appointments, pick up prescriptions and address new concerns which arise almost daily. Hospice comes to us, bringing impeccable medical care, listening ears, copious compassion and lots of precious hugs. These "<i>helpers"</i> care for my parents in the same way that I do. With tenderness and compassion toward all three of us, LCFH has become an essential part of our lives and we are so much the better because of it. </div>
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My whole existence right now involves keeping doors locked, medication schedules, meal planning and preparation, constant "<i>elder-proofing</i>" and putting out fires conjured by my parents' misfiring, diseased minds and wild imaginations. Last week my mother stuck 3 sewing needles into the power strip that her television and cable box are plugged into. She denies any culpability but the circumstantial evidence is damning. Two nights ago she swore she was leaving for a trip to West Virginia the next morning. I hid the keys.<br />
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I now jingle when I walk - I feel like Mrs. Hughes on "Downton Abbey" with keys hanging around my neck to fit every door lock, gate lock and the steel safe I keep their meds in. I sound like Santa Claus with all the jingling, but I'm not terribly jolly.</div>
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On top of the day to day stuff, I manage our quickly diminishing funds and usually my last thoughts before drifting off into a fitful sleep involve what will happen when we've run through our last dime and my mortgage company stops being fed. My thoughts turn to cancelling my health insurance - a hefty $520/month but I fear as soon as I do I'll be hit with a blown knee or visited by some devastating and expensive illness that will make $520 look like chump change, even though it's not chump change to me. </div>
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I fear losing my home, my health and my modest possessions, but focusing too much on those things will ensure that I lose my sanity and while I can afford to lose a lot of things, I can't afford to lose my mind, so I don't linger too long on those thoughts. I literally can't afford to do so.</div>
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Somehow, my daughter-in-law Stephanie knows when my emotional well is running dangerously low and just when I need it most, she sends a warm text, makes an unexpected visit and reassures me that she and Justin will always be there for me. She gives me hope, courage and strength and I would be so completely lost without her. Stephanie may be a petite young lady, but she's fierce and I'd trust her with my life. I'm so grateful for her support. What a stellar "<i>helper</i>" this young lady is to me. She provides me with practical solutions and she's always ready to roll up her sleeves and tackle the tough stuff, give me a break when I need it and hold my hand as I navigate these dizzying hairpin turns. </div>
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Another helper that has appeared in my life is a wonderful lady named Kathy. She's a tiny dynamo of a woman who stays with my parents for a very affordable fee and allows me time to get things done that I wouldn't be able to do otherwise. I was so hesitant to reach out for such help but my daughter Katie had been lobbying me for months to get some relief. Our LCFH social worker, Kim, gently but firmly reminded me that taking a few hours off a week to take care of myself would enable me to be a better caregiver to my parents. I admit I was nervous and afraid the first time I left my parents with Kathy, but when I got back home three hours later, my emotional outlook improved dramatically and my parents genuinely enjoyed spending time with someone new who hadn't heard their stories and anecdotes. We were all refreshed and now I rely on Kathy's services to restore my strength and I welcome the opportunity to catch my breath, calm my thoughts and untangle the knots in my stomach.</div>
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Which brings me to another "<i>helper</i>". My buddy John is a man who literally can repair or build just about anything. Since I spend 99% of my time at home, my backyard is truly my onsite "happy place" and since I'm a person that would rather be outside than inside, it's pretty central to my mental health. My backyard sported a patio that was pretty much the ugliest thing imaginable. Since funds have been limited, the challenge of repairing and replacing the 12' X 26' eyesore seemed impossible and it would have been without the ingenuity and assistance of another "<i>helper</i>". John came up with a way to build a deck over the broken concrete by utilizing sales, discounts and some items from his own private material stock and donated hours of hard work and sweat to create a structure that far exceeded my expectations. I could never have afforded the masterpiece he built without his creativity and bargain finding acumen. He also very kindly took the time to teach me how to use a paddle bit, a chalk line, a hammer drill and invited me to join in, Knowing how much I love working outside, this whole deck building has provided a therapeutic diversion. When we wrapped it up I was sore, sunburned, sweaty and riding on a wave of endorphins, including the satisfaction of knowing that I had a hand in the construction. I'm so grateful.<br />
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One of the most incredible aspects of this whole care-giving experience is the magic of discovering so many people who step out of their own sane, unencumbered existences and step into my chaotic life bringing with them home-cooked meals, shoulders to lean on and hugs that literally sustain me. When I feel as if I'm running low or about to hit a wall, my next door neighbors Kathleen and Richard knock at the door with a fully prepared supper; unexpected flowers arrive from my friend Michel in Nantes, or my dear friend Jim who lives 1600 miles west of me in Amarillo, Texas builds an exquisitely crafted handmade wooden sailboat and it arrives on a rainy, grim morning at a moment when I'm wondering how in the world I'm going to make it through another day. </div>
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I look around my room and see the candle and sea glass that my dear friend Karen sent me from Seattle, the sailboat pillow which arrived courtesy of my cousin in West Virginia, a coffee table book featuring beautiful sailboats from another friend Jeanne, who also lives in Washington State, a card from my favorite female sailor Bobbi who lives in Florida, a framed photograph of a frog hanging on for dear life from my dear pal Jayne in Charlotte, a nautical bracelet and daisy planter from an amazing cousin in Florida I have yet to meet in person - (I love you Linda!); on my nightstand is a wooden block with a Vivian Greene quote advising me that "<i>Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain</i>." which was a birthday gift from my daughter, Katie; sweet talismans that gently whisper, "<i>you are not alone - you can do this - you will survive"</i>.<br />
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Don't misunderstand though - it's not just material gifts by a long shot - right now I <b><i>covet </i></b>the prayers and warm thoughts, heartfelt messages and healing energy sent on our behalf from friends, family and people I don't know but who message their concern - those prayers and messages are powerful and it's huge to consider so many people pulling for us! I can't possibly get through my life without those right now. They also whisper survival in my ear...</div>
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...and of course, I will. I'm determined. I <i><b>will not</b></i> be defeated. There are some days that I want to grab the dogs, jump in the car and take off. But there are far more moments where I am reminded of sweetness, a poignancy beyond description, the sound of my Dad telling my Mom, "<i>I love you, I love you, I love you...</i>" with so much feeling and emotion that I'm sure my heart will burst.<br />
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Last week, my friend Sharon and I spent 3 hours on the pier of The Oceanic. It was my second time leaving Mom and Dad with Kathy, and though we had long since finished our lunch, we sat there drinking tea, chatting, sometimes simply being quiet and looking out at the sea. At one point, I looked over toward the north end of the beach and was immediately transported back to June 1966, which was the very first time I met the ocean during a family vacation. Last week I stared at those relentless and familiar waves and for a few moments, with a clarity that almost frightened me, I saw my Daddy holding my hand, teaching me to ride the waves, showing me how to let them carry me to shore and in my mind I could literally taste the salt water spray as I remembered him saying, "<i>Get ready for this one Suz - I've got you! Hold on - here comes a big one! I won't let go...</i>". I looked over at Sharon and shared my memory as salty tears dripped from my eyes. She smiled, handed me a tissue and listened. </div>
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I have so many helpers to be grateful for, far more than I deserve, but I'm not in a position to turn a single one away because each one is a reminder of life, the generosity of the human spirit and a bunch of people holding me up when it all gets to be so heavy and too much. I can't explain the timing and I'll be darned if I can understand how all of this cosmic Grace appears as it does. One thing I know for certain - I wouldn't be standing without the support and love of each person offering their hand and opening up their heart.</div>
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Thank you...so inadequate but deeply heartfelt. Thank you for propping me up. I'd be in a million crazy pieces without my angels.<br />
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-70842621255053554752015-05-20T17:46:00.002-04:002015-05-20T21:06:41.845-04:00Disorientation Orientation: Who is Who and What is What?<div style="text-align: justify;">
We're sliding backward at an alarming rate. It feels like being in one of those "House of Mirrors" you find at carnivals - I think they're called "fun houses" but trust me, there is nothing "fun" going on in this house.</div>
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Our latest escapade began last Friday Morning. I was upstairs brushing my teeth and I mistakenly thought my parents were eating breakfast in the kitchen. My phone rang and it was my neighbor Pat, who lives across the street, telling me that my Dad was in the driveway and walking with a very unsteady gait and she was afraid he was going to fall. I FLEW down the stairs (toothpaste still in my mouth) and bolted out the side door to find my Dad kind of walking in circles and sporting a huge gash on his right forearm with blood dripping all over his shirt. I took his hand and lead him inside. He was terribly disoriented and unhappy to have been "caught". </div>
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My Mom had been on the back deck leaning over the railing, trying to yell at him to come inside but of course he didn't hear her. He can't hear anything. He had no idea she was risking a fall trying to get his attention. Thank God my neighbor spotted him when she did. </div>
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When I brought him inside and sat him down at the table, I tried to explain that he shouldn't have been outside. He became indignant. I brought his cereal bowl over to him and got my mom seated and then I made a cup of tea and went outside on the patio to calm myself down before addressing what had just happened. When I went back inside, I sat down at the table across from him and I tried to explain (loudly so he could hear) that it's very dangerous for him to be outside like that alone and then I pointed to his arm and told him it could have been much worse than a gash. Uncharacteristically my Dad threw down his spoon, looked at my Mom and in the harshest tone I've ever heard him use, he said, "<i>I don't have to take this! I'm going back to my room.</i>". </div>
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He didn't go back to his room. I took a photo of his injury and texted our <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><i><b>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</b></i></a> nurse, Olga, who immediately texted me back that she would be over soon and check out the damage and take care of it. Thank God for hospice.</div>
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I gave my Dad something to calm him down and reduce his agitation and then I gently hugged him and told him that we were so upset because we love him so much and want to keep him safe. He softened a little and when Olga arrived about an hour later, he was much more civil...but completely unrepentant. When Olga asked him how this happened he said he had no idea. She carefully cleaned the wound, applied ointment and then wrapped it in several layers of gauze to protect it from further damage. After she left my Dad asked me who she was. I was taken aback because Olga had been here just one day before to give my parents a check up, but my Dad claimed he'd never seen her before in his life.</div>
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The rest of the weekend kind of went downhill from there. I had a lot of work to do outside and my friend John popped over to very generously donate his time and skills by pressure washing the deck around the pool and then my very long driveway. What a friend! Meanwhile I went back and forth between trying to help John and putting out skirmishes in the house. </div>
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On Sunday, my parents started the day out calm but things got weird as the day progressed. When I was growing up, my Mom always talked about how she'd wanted to be a nurse so she took Sunday to practice. She unwrapped the beautiful dressing Olga had applied not once, not twice and not even three times but a whopping FOUR TIMES. Fortunately Olga left me with some supplies because I was scheduled to change it Monday Morning but my Mom had taken the carefully covered dressing and applied toilet paper and scotch tape - right on the gash. You can imagine how much fun that was for my Dad as I had to take it off and redress the wound with sterile bandages. It was as if my Mom was on some kind of weird loop where each time I would rewrap his arm, she would wait an hour or so and then take it off and put more scotch tape and toilet paper over it. I was completely stymied. I couldn't make either of my parents understand and I would have done just as well talking to a brick wall. I wasn't making "contact". They were both incapable of understanding anything. </div>
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While all this pandemonium was going on, my buddy John was finishing the driveway and allowed me to drive a real car and take it to Harris Teeter and grocery shop - we were out of everything - and it was the first time in months I had been able to walk rather than run through the aisles of a store and stock up on so many staples we needed. That was a real treat and did as much for my mental state as it did for restocking our larder. </div>
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The past couple of days my Dad's mental state has shown further signs of deterioration. I never imagined seeing my Dad in this condition. My dad was, to me, invincible, sharp, witty, savvy and oh so wise. My Mom's downward spiral is no less stunning, but it's taken a less abrupt dive. Her memory is shot and she's frequently confused by just about everything, but my Dad's decline has been much more rapid and dramatic. </div>
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I feel as if I'm on one of those really dizzying rides and I'm trying to catch the attention of the person operating the controls, screaming at him to please slow this thing down because it's making me sick. That's exactly what it feels like. Last Friday I placed padlocks on the gates of my privacy fence to prevent my Dad from slipping through the gate and gaining access to the driveway or street. On Sunday, I completely misplaced the keys to those locks and that's truly not like me. It actually scared me that I couldn't find the keys and I have scoured the house, the garage and the backyard and my only conclusion is that I have hid them somewhere to keep my Dad from finding them. I mean, this weekend alone I had to hide scotch tape, paper napkins and a whole host of other things, not to mention all medication in the house is kept in a locked safe so I guess I shouldn't be surprised that my brain is finally saying, "<i>Whoa...wait a minute...you're pushing your luck!!</i>". My friend John stopped by with his bolt cutters, removed the locks and installed new padlocks and wisely kept an extra key in case I forget where the keys to these new locks disappear. Thank God for friends!</div>
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I'm also extremely grateful to my neighbor Pat who alerted me to my Dad's outside activity which precipitated this weekend from hell. And I'm deeply grateful to my next door neighbors, Kathleen and Richard Canizaro, who graciously provided us with a wonderful dinner on Monday and are providing again tonight. I am surrounded by angels and I can't even express my gratitude for each one of them. I couldn't make it without all of these extra helping hands and caring hearts.</div>
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This latest downturn has left me exhausted and stressed. I wake each morning with a sense of foreboding; I find myself afraid to imagine what might happen next. I haven't been out of this house for more than two hours since last November when I flew to NYC to visit my daughter, son in law and my twin granddaughters. After awhile, all of this confinement will do a number on one's psyche. Chamomile tea, reducing the caffeine and getting more exercise (treadmill) are certainly helpful, but I need a few hours outside of the compound and that's something I'm working on trying to get in place. </div>
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I adore my parents and I'm grateful that I have been able to take care of both of them, but right now this caregiver could use a walk on the beach, an unhurried lunch and just a few hours away from the heavy responsibility. Hopefully in the very near future, I can take a few little breaks to remind myself what the outside world looks like. </div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-28066693499884774312015-04-29T14:56:00.000-04:002015-04-29T19:22:46.630-04:00Dear Becky - Happy 65th Birthday - Wish You Were Here<div style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Becky,</div>
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Happy birthday! I can't believe you'd be sixty-five years old today. You've been gone for forty-two years and wow have you missed a lot of stuff. I couldn't begin to bring you up-to-date, but brace yourself - you're not only an aunt to my son and daughter, you're a great aunt to three incredible little girls who were born last year. Can you imagine your little sister is now a Nana? How crazy is that?</div>
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You would absolutely adore Katie and Justin - I gave Katie your middle name and it suits her. She's happily married to a very tall and kind man named John. They are parents to two absolutely adorable twin daughters who were born on Halloween last year. Katie and John named one of their daughters after our Mom which would please her to no end if she were able to remember it.</div>
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Justin married a lovely young lady named Stephanie. Justin has a heart that is roughly the size of Texas, which happens to be where he was born back in 1986. He and Stephanie are very proud parents to a little girl named Evelyn, who is lovely and sometimes she reminds me of your baby pictures. She was born on September 8th last year, just seven weeks before her NYC cousins. You could say 2014 was a very fertile year for our family. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0JUIk1L8Jk9_NVUJIGlJH1TPyspsnHGPnlO1VealBPZ-AbAdhys4qX9JuhdcKHWQiB_GMt3uIXHuPJsC6nIiQI6vjqn9cEYkKuUo2TbLrwyT0NXyWQxd1i9n5gOBnIYwowzFYA/s1600/21553_241543024472_7966159_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq0JUIk1L8Jk9_NVUJIGlJH1TPyspsnHGPnlO1VealBPZ-AbAdhys4qX9JuhdcKHWQiB_GMt3uIXHuPJsC6nIiQI6vjqn9cEYkKuUo2TbLrwyT0NXyWQxd1i9n5gOBnIYwowzFYA/s1600/21553_241543024472_7966159_n.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a>Our Dad and Mom are now 90 and 91 years old. Can you freaking believe that? They've had an amazing life and are still just as madly in love as they must have been when you were born in 1950. They still do everything together, including snagging dual admissions to <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><i><b>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</b></i></a>. I've been their full-time caregiver for the past three years and I gotta tell you, it's getting kind of tough right now. Our Mom refers to me as "<i>that woman</i>" a lot of the time and she gives me a run for my money, just as you probably remember me giving her a few gray hairs. Daddy still smokes a pipe, still loves ice cream and plots to escape the house when I leave to run to the store. Much of the time they're still graciously affable but suffice it to say, we're losing serious ground down here.</div>
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God I miss you. I'll be honest, given that you died when I was thirteen, there's so much I don't remember about you but there's a few things that I do and I cling to those. You were always the "girly girl" who loved dresses, never had a hair out of place and wore beautiful clothes. Me? I may be fifty-five but I'm still a tomboy, love to work outside and I'm usually disheveled, in sneakers or barefoot and I'm stalked twenty-four hours a day by a small Cairn-Terrier named Sailor and a huge Newfoundland mix named Cleo. I couldn't survive any of this without them. If you arranged for me to meet them at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/NHSOAnimalServices" target="_blank"><i><b>New Hanover Sheriff's Animal Services Unit</b></i></a>, I must thank you. They're both "rescues" but they rescue me on a daily basis. </div>
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Oh, I cook now. Go figure. I never wanted to be a nurse, but it turns out I've become one. Remember how Mom used to take care of our Granny? Yeah, well, I'm doing that times two. It's a little crazy. Everything is a little crazy down here.</div>
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Mom tells me there's a "<i>little girl</i>" hiding in our house and sometimes I wonder if she's thinking of you? Your photos hang in our parents room and they look at them often. I heard my Mom telling one of her hospice nurses about you the other day - she said you were their only daughter and you died a really long time ago. I see Dad looking at old family photos on his computer and quite often he's looking at photos from the 1950's and you're in most of them. They still miss you terribly - we all do.</div>
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I'm not at all sure what it's like where you are, but it's a circus down here. Mom still has your hope chest and it's sitting in the foyer of my home and folded neatly inside are some of your things; your graduation robe and the bridesmaid dress you wore in your best friend Nancy Linkous' wedding. Mom still has some of your jewelry and I even managed to keep a couple of trinkets you gave me before you went away. Years ago Mom made a shadowbox containing your class ring, your charm bracelet, your wedding announcement and a small pennant pin from Welch High School. Oh, and I still have your French Provincial end tables in my living room. I've refinished them and they've held up quite well. </div>
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I gotta tell you, I look at at the sky several times a week, usually after an exasperating encounter with Mom or Dad, and I usually say something glib like, "<i>Wow, you're missing all the fun sister!</i>", or "<i>Thanks a lot!</i>", but really, I'm only teasing. If you're looking down you probably smile a lot. For the most part it's been a pretty good ride but the ride is getting bumpy and winding down and I'm scared a lot of the time. </div>
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I think of you every single day but I become extra sentimental every year on your birthday and, of course, on May 25th. My whole life has been divided into two parts - pre May 25 1973 when everything in my world felt safe and happy and my biggest decisions involved whether to play kickball or go fishing and then post May 25 1973 when you died and nothing was ever the same. Even though I was only thirteen and I didn't understand much about death, having never been around it, it was pretty much the most jarring event of my life. Talk about turning our little world upside down! I know it wasn't your choice either but geesh...that was a really sucky time!</div>
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I hope things are well for you up there and obviously the concept of heaven implies that all is wonderful and happy and I genuinely hope it is. I can't tell you when to expect Mom and Dad, but I'm sure they'll be thrilled to see you and I know you'll show them the ropes and just an FYI - Mom's just as bossy as she ever was, but she's definitely softened with age and when she's not railing to go back to West Virginia, she's incredibly sweet and has mellowed a great deal. Daddy - well - I just hope heaven has a smoking section where pipes are allowed because if they don't, I'm not sure he'll stay. Otherwise, he hasn't changed much at all. He's sweet, kind and for the love of God I hope when he transitions to your world that his hearing is restored because he flat out refuses to wear a hearing aid. Other than that, he's a sweetheart. </div>
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Oh, one more thing - thank you for sending Sharon my way. If ever there was an embodiment of you, it's in my best friend and non-biological "sister" Sharon Pate Batts. My gosh, she has been a great pinch hitter for you - she is supportive, kind, loving, compassionate and not a bit shy about straightening me out when I need it, much as I imagine you would do if you were here. I can't imagine getting through the last fourteen years without her and I thank God she's part of my life. Sometimes I'm sure you're literally directing her advice and actions. You would absolutely love her. I know I do.</div>
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Hey, if I never told you and, given that I was fairly young when you flew up, me being a newly minted teenager and all, I probably wasn't all that great at expressing how much I loved you but please know, you left a huge impact on my life and even though I can't remember a lot of the details about you, I know I loved you lots. I still do. Sometimes I really do feel you with me and I love those moments. I really hope I see you again (sorry, but not any time soon - I have granddaughters to spoil!), but the first thing I want to do is give you a big huge hug and the second thing I want to do is ask you what in the world were you thinking to leave me in this mess?? <teasing></teasing></div>
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Becky, I miss you so much it hurts sometimes. Don't worry though, I'm doing the best I can and now that I have hospice, I have some great help with our Mom and Dad. I won't let any of us down. Promise. I can't say I'm having a wonderful time, but I sure wish you were here.</div>
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All my love to you,</div>
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Susan</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-35169945831788289992015-04-28T11:10:00.001-04:002015-04-28T11:10:34.372-04:00Eldercare - Trying to Maintain Some Sanity!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7uQukHaXERO9n74k0tQbcAWrttfeXJN5AfMe8oLCEKIazrHkKC3vxGDJ8NUpFwb5xOGkt9MMQLJPAmfDKjyc8tbePihCaw8zwveOPnDKETwtz18j8I0N45c31kuF6zfcFE3Mzw/s1600/IMG_4315.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT7uQukHaXERO9n74k0tQbcAWrttfeXJN5AfMe8oLCEKIazrHkKC3vxGDJ8NUpFwb5xOGkt9MMQLJPAmfDKjyc8tbePihCaw8zwveOPnDKETwtz18j8I0N45c31kuF6zfcFE3Mzw/s1600/IMG_4315.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">T</span>his past weekend was one part sweetness, one part sadness and way too many parts straight out of rejected scripts from "<i>The Twilight Zone</i>". Talk about a crazy mixed bag. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My head is still spinning. I have one patient who can't tell me what year it is, can't hear a word spoken from six inches away and refuses to wear anything that resembles a sound amplifier, but let me close an outside door on my way to run a ten minute errand and he magically gathers the ability to plan an escape. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My other patient is basically immobile. She ventures only from the lift chair in her bedroom to the dining room table with rare jaunts to the back patio. However, every single evening following supper, she begins haranguing my dad that it's time for them to go back home (West Virginia) and goes on to explain how she would rather live ANYWHERE else but here. She vacillates between tears and steely anger. She begs, she demands and when she slowly understands that she's not getting anywhere - she retreats bitterly into her chair. It's at these moments that I can appreciate why my Dad refuses to wear any device that might improve his hearing because he becomes frustrated trying to calm her down. My Dad harbors no desire whatsoever to head to WV and when he asks my Mom where she plans to stay on these visits, my Mom draws a blank as she thinks about all the friends and relatives she was close to and how 99% of them are dead. This does nothing to improve her mood.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This past Saturday was just a really bad circus. After making a super fast trip to pick up Stephanie and Evelyn and run in "<i>The Olive Garden</i>" for a quick bowl of soup. Before leaving the house I'd arranged my parents' breakfast, newspaper, fruit, coffee and meds AND told them numerous times I had to duck out for about an hour but I would be RIGHT BACK. I came home an hour later to find my Dad demanding to know where in the world I had been and where are the keys to the doors and what is my phone number and why is the side and front doors locked and on and on and on and on...and on. My mother was much more calm, but when I asked her if she remembered where I told her I was going, she had absolutely no idea and, oh by the way, she wanted to know how Stephanie was and when is she going to have that baby? (I get asked this question several times a day and by my Mom's account, Stephanie has been pregnant for eighteen months even though Evelyn frequently visits and is obviously Justin and Stephanie's baby...obvious to everyone but my Mom. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">After arriving home from my quick errand with Stephanie and Evelyn, I prepped and placed a lovely pot roast in the oven and a short time later, with Steph holding down the fort, I took the opportunity to run to the store and pick up a few essentials and of course, I took Cleo and Sailor with me - they need time out of this nuthouse has much as I do. When I returned home, Stephanie reported that I had barely backed out of the drive way when my parents magically emerged from their room - my mom heading straight for the kitchen, rifling through cabinets and searching for God knows what while my Dad was shaking the side and front doors, frustrated to find them locked and unaware that Stephanie was in the living room. When she walked over to my Dad, he asked her why the doors were locked and where was the key? She explained that I liked to keep them locked for safety and that she didn't have a key (she does, but she wisely pretended that she didn't). He was not happy with her answers. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Mom told Stephanie that she was going to fix dinner!! (something she hasn't done in three plus years). Stephanie stepped up and told her that I had a roast in the oven and we were all going to have a really nice dinner in a short while. I don't think my Mom really believed her, so Mom just kept pilfering the cabinets. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Thank God Stephanie was here. It was one of the rare occasions I could get through a store without the feeling of impending doom and fear of total residential destruction. The fact of the matter is that leaving my parents at home, unattended, is the equivalent of leaving two toddlers alone to fend for themselves. It's just not a good idea and it's a recipe for some sort of ghastly disaster. They are helpless. They have just enough cognition to get them into trouble i.e., "<i>oh, a stove - it cooks things...let me turn these knobs and punch some of these buttons on the microwave!</i>", and then mindlessly walking off. It's just not a smart move. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It's maddening. The agitation and anxiety is becoming more pronounced in both of them and to tell you the truth, it's a little terrifying. I hate it - I hate it for them and I hate it for me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last night we had another epic episode of my Mom's "<i>I want to go back to WV NOW!!!!!</i>" show and she said so many things that broke my heart..."<i>I hate it here. I would rather be ANYWHERE than here. I want to leave! Why do we have to stay here with that woman??</i>". Now, I know...I KNOW in my head that she is truly railing at her lack of ability, agility and she's living in some kind of fantasy where she can cook, clean and do all the millions of things she used to do with grace and ease, but last night, hearing her wails, after spending all day yesterday working in the backyard, I was exhausted, sunburned and just plain tired. I texted my daughter and a close friend - the contents of which I couldn't possibly repeat on this blog, but it did ease my tension and the replies I got back made me laugh, which is why I chose to grace them with my @#$%%^ texts in the first place. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I love my parents, but wow this stage they're both in makes parenting teenagers look like a spring walk through Central Park. When my daughter called me yesterday evening, she was in the middle of putting tired and fussy twins to bed and had to think about getting dinner going, but listening to the sounds from her house reminded me that in spite of all the madness in this crazy house, life goes on and this will pass. She also wisely and graciously included me in yet another <i><b><a href="https://www.fitbit.com/store?gclid=CjwKEAjw3_ypBRCwoKqKw5P9wgsSJAAbi2K9ZdHaOGNvyN3J52Zg0015mefS-p1WP_m_PIo1xTZ62xoC7arw_wcB" target="_blank">fitbit</a></b></i> challenge and God knows I need someplace to spend the energy created by the frustration of getting through these days. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My friend John sent me back texts that literally made me laugh out loud which is pretty awesome considering he has his own hands full with various irritations and his own set of parents to worry about. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My dear Stephanie texted me to see how my day had gone and again, she's juggling a demanding job, motherhood and several furry animals to deal with at home. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I guess that's the secret - we're truly all "<i>in it</i>" up to our eyeballs. Everyday brings a thousand fires to put out and ample opportunities to allow for many a "<i>silent scream</i>" and deep sense of wonder at all the beauty that spring shares with us - green grass, bright blossoms and highly chlorinated pools that begin to clear. Every single day is a combination of the craziness of Van Gogh and the sweet impressionism of Monet...and I guess you have to appreciate both...but try and focus on more on the Monet moments. It's so much more peaceful.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Today is Tuesday and it's the day Patty comes to give showers! Bless her heart and bless <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><i><b>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</b></i></a>. Just having these helpers in the house gives me infinite amounts of strength and many reasons for hope. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last night - my reserves were shot. Empty. Barren. Kaput. Today is a new day - the sun is shining, my hot tea is good and if I'm lucky, it will be at least another hour and a half until my patients get up. I'm looking to restore my peace and get in about 15,000 steps to give a good account of myself. </span></div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-61577768272026818812015-04-21T12:36:00.000-04:002015-04-22T20:46:33.814-04:00Hospice - A Nickel For Your Thoughts...<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yesterday, my doorbell rang a few minutes after one o'clock and in walked lovely Olga. Olga is an RN with <a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><b><i>Lower Cape Fear Hospice</i></b></a> and she breezes in with a warm smile, stylish shoes and an air of confidence. When I found out she was from Moscow and had visited St. Petersburg and we realized we shared a deep interest in Russian History and particularly the Romanav Dynasty, we became fast friends. </div>
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Olga introduced herself to my Mom and Dad and proceeded to give them one of the most thorough going overs that would rival that of any physician. She checked blood pressures in BOTH arms, listened to the arterial blood flow in my Mom's neck and knew even before I told her that my mom had carotid artery disease. Olga was a splendid blend of professionalism and kindness and as I watched her examine my parents from head to toe, I felt such comfort having this woman in our home, particularly taking care of two folks who are very precious to me. </div>
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As Olga was giving my Dad a thorough check up, the doorbell rang again and in walked Patty, who is our new Certified Nursing Assistant. I watched as Olga and Patty exchanged hugs and then proceeded to work together and I realized we have an amazing team (or flock?) of angels. Patty explained she was here to meet my parents and wanted to know about things like personal care, showers, and examine the bathroom to see if everything was in order. When she decided our shower chair was nowhere close to her safety standards, she and Olga put in an order for a shower chair with arms and sturdy legs. </div>
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While these women were discussing my parents' care, the door bell rang yet again and voila! It was a medical supply delivery man bringing in two shiny new rollator walkers, a bed side toilet and Olga and Patty quickly asked him if he had a shower chair on the truck. He did, in fact, but it wasn't the one they wanted so the new one was just delivered a few minutes ago and is quite impressive. </div>
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After Olga's examinations, she and Patty took my parents into the living room with their new walkers and they taught my parents about the hand breaks, the folding seats and how to make full use of their new conveyances. I stepped back and watched and I was so deeply touched by their attitude of caring, compassion, humor and encouragement as they worked at converting my Dad to the idea that his cane was no longer adequate. My Mom was an easy and eager convert - she LOVED that her new walker rolled easily and had a seat to rest on. Dad took a little more convincing but from watching Olga, I could tell she was up to the challenge and knew her way around a stubborn customer.</div>
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After a few test "<i>walks</i>", Olga came over to me and told me that she was ordering some cough syrup for my Dad and some allergy medicine for my Mom. I asked her where I should pick these up and she smiled and said FedEx would be delivering them to me today and that the cost was covered by Medicare.</div>
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Pinch me.</div>
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Patty came over and told me we were now on her Tuesday and Thursday schedule for showers and that she would shave my Dad's ever growing beard. Thank God. He just isn't the beard type and the last time he tried it, he forgot that he had popped the stopper in the sink, left the water running and flooded the bathroom. </div>
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Olga will be coming over again on Friday to do a check up and both women reassured me that if anything came up day or night, help was only a phone call away and they made sure I had the big purple magnet on the fridge with the 24/7 help line. </div>
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No sooner had we said goodbye to Olga and Patty when the doorbell rang again and in walked Kim. Kim is our assigned social worker and she came bearing a different kind of assistance and information. Kim and I sat down at the kitchen table and her queries were for me - "<i>How was I doing, what were my biggest concerns and how did I feel about everything?</i>" </div>
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I took a deep breath and I went on to explain that this was all very new, and that after going it alone for so long, it was going to take a little while to get used to the extra help, but it was a welcome adjustment to make. She was interested in the history of the relationship with my parents, how it came to be that they were living here and she wanted to know how I was coping with being "<i><b>shut in</b></i>" with my "<b><i>shut ins</i></b>". </div>
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On that note, she told me she was putting in a request for hospice volunteers to come and spend some time with my parents for a few hours a week to give me a breather - a chance to go to the grocery store without feeling as if I was on a wild frenzy to collect everything in my cart before some buzzer rang at the end of twenty minutes. Or perhaps a couple of hours to go to the beach and walk and breathe and unwind. Oh my God how I've needed some "<i>free time</i>" - time away from home without worrying myself sick that people were falling, ashes were popping out of my dad's pipe setting something on fire or someone had left a door open and the dogs had taken off. I honestly can't remember the last time I've been able to be away from this house without all those worries. I also told her I couldn't remember the last time I was in the house alone - and upon further reflection, I realized it has been years. YEARS!!!! I don't even remember what that feels like. </div>
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Kim and I chatted for about an hour and it was so <i><b>REFRESHING</b></i> to speak with someone who truly understood what I was talking about and how wickedly crazy the life of a 24/7 caregiver is. I didn't realize how dearly I needed to talk with someone who really "<i>got it</i>". It was a release for me. She gave me some additional information on caregiver resources and she popped in my parents room to introduce herself for a few minutes and then she turned back to me and explained she would be back to visit next week - and I am looking forward to it. It's a wonderful thing to be able to speak to another person who understands the landscape.</div>
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After all of our visits were finished, I indulged in a long, lovely phone chat with my dear friend Jayne. We had some catching up to do. Jayne herself went through all of this a year ago with her sister and just last week, she and her husband had to say goodbye to their dear sweet chocolate lab, <i>Mocha</i>. He had developed an age-related condition that progressed faster than anyone had expected and it was a very difficult week for Jayne and her husband. </div>
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During the course of our phone conversation, my Dad came outside and beckoned me inside. He said he had to give me something and it was very important. I told him I would be right in as soon as I was finished with my phone call, but about ten minutes later he came looking for me again, asking me to come inside. I asked Jayne to hold on and followed him into this room. There, on his desk, he had several pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters - all grouped neatly in currency groups and he said, "<i>Here, your Mom and I want you to have this - all of it.</i>" It must have been all of about $8 in change. I looked at a piece of paper he was holding in his trembling hand and saw that he was trying to figure out exactly how much money was there. </div>
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"<i>Here - there are fifteen nickels in this group - do you know how much that is?</i>" I thought he was teasing me, but I played along and answered, "<i>seventy five cents</i>". </div>
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"<i>Really</i>?", my Dad earnestly asked? "<i>How much is a nickel worth</i>?". I felt my knees buckle.</div>
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My dad who spent his career as an accountant and knew figures inside and out, no longer understood the monetary value of a nickel. As I realized he was sincere and it was very important to him to give me this change, as soon as he calculated just how much it was, my heart broke in a few deep places. I never imagined a day when my Dad wouldn't have the ability to calculate ANYTHING, much less wonder what a nickel was worth. </div>
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After I finished my phone conversation with Jayne, I went back into my parents room and my Dad was still diligently counting pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters. He had a scrap piece of paper in his hand and there were calculations. I glanced down at the numbers he'd scrawled and all of the question marks he'd placed when he couldn't come up with the right answers. </div>
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So many pieces are missing...fading away. The deficits are becoming so much more pronounced and I'm so grateful to have angels like Olga, Patty, Kim and Susan (the weekend RN) to steady all of us as the losses accumulate. </div>
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It's such a long, painful goodbye.</div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-60985161292516228062015-04-19T14:08:00.000-04:002015-04-19T17:07:34.637-04:00Hospice Arrives - So This is What It Feels Like to Exhale??<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Lightning fast. That's the speed with which my focus changed during the first fifteen minutes of my interview with the <i><b><a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank">Lower Cape Fear Hospice</a></b></i>. I entered the process feeling sad and maybe even a little disconsolate that both of my parents were about to be admitted as hospice patients. Just a couple of minutes into the one-on-one interview with the hospice admissions nurse I realized we weren't in the club yet.</div>
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On paper, Lisa shared that the information she had gleaned from their medical records didn't make my Mom and Dad what one might call a "<i>slam dunk</i>" for the program. I filled in what blanks I could with impressions and facts of their past three years of history as my captive patients, but a lot would depend on the admissions nurses clinical impressions. </div>
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After answering something like 45 minutes worth of questions, it was time for the nurse to, literally, "<i>meet the parents</i>". I escorted Lisa into their room. My Dad was still in the middle of an intense two hour plus nap, so I introduced her to my Mom. Lisa was very engaging and my Mom was gracious and accommodating. She allowed Lisa to take her vitals, various measurements and happily answered her questions. "<i>Miss Maxine, who is this lady?</i>", pointing to me. </div>
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My Mom grinned, hesitated and then confidently stated, "<i>She's my...she's my coworker. We get along great!</i>". That was a new one on me - for months I've just been <i>Susan</i> - not to be confused with<i> her daughter Susan</i>, and sometimes I've been "that girl" and "<i>what's her name</i>". </div>
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It was now my Dad's turn and he was still deep into his nap. I sidled up beside of him on his bed and said, "<i>Daddy, you have company. Someone is here to see you. Wake up</i>." Slowly his eyes fluttered and he looked around and saw the pretty lady smiling at the end of the bed and he worked his way into consciousness. "<i>Hello there</i>" he said as he reached out his hand to grasp hers. </div>
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Daddy agreeably consented to the blood pressure cuff, pulse ox monitor and ankle and upper arm measurements, occasionally looking at me with a bit of a puzzled expression. When Lisa asked him who I was, Daddy hesitated and said..."<i>I think she's my daughter. Whoever she is she spoils us rotten.</i>" He answered a few other questions - some of them right and a few of them not so right. </div>
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After about forty minutes of checking over my parents, Lisa thanked them and we headed back into the hall. I searched her eyes for a hint at what she was thinking. She asked if there was a room she could use to go over her findings with the doctor who would make the final decision. I invited her to use my office upstairs. Of course, I pointed out all of the framed photographs of my three granddaughters and she appropriately agreed with me that they were most beautiful babies to grace the earth. (Good job, Lisa!). I then went back downstairs to join my best friend and "<i>executive director of my support and sanity</i>", Sharon. We held our breath, exchanged anxious glances and waited. </div>
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I began hearing the "<i>Jeopardy</i>" theme song humming in my head. Crazy - just two hours earlier I was despondent over the fact that both of my parents were about to be admitted to hospice care and now I was scared out of my mind that they wouldn't qualify. Go figure. It was only 3:00 PM and I'd already been on a mental/emotional rollercoaster of epic highs and terrifying lows. Sharon was perfect; kind and just as concerned as I was, but having her right beside me was the most comfort I could hope for and I dearly appreciated her support.</div>
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After about thirty minutes, Lisa came downstairs and we reconvened at the dining room table. Sharon and I were both scanning her face for a hint at the verdict. Lisa pulled out her computer, two folders and a pen - as it turned out after discussing our caseS with the doctor, we were given the green light. </div>
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Insert a gigantic, relieved and genuine "<i><b>WHEW!</b></i>". I believe Sharon and I exhaled in unison.</div>
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Then came the paperwork - material that Lisa had to explain to us and forms that I had to sign. I had absolutely no idea what all hospice might cover but whatever it was, it would be more than I had and my resources and reserves were running low. Lisa handed me two life preservers and I grabbed them and clung to them for dear life.</div>
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My parents' medical care will now be under the auspices of hospice. That means that if someone falls in the middle of the night, I no longer have to figure out how I'm going to go with one to the ER and wrangle the other one with me because neither of my parents can be safely left alone. When I allowed my mind to take that information in, it was only at that moment that I realized what a paralyzing fear that had been for me. Every night I'd go to bed with a hundred or so possible nocturnal terrors playing a vicious game of tag in my mind and at the moment we were officially accepted into hospice, it was as if a giant, powerful and benevolent playground monitor chased those terrorists away and locked the gate so they couldn't get back in to harass me. Call it hyperbole if you like, but that's exactly what it felt like.</div>
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With a few signatures, I was to learn that if one or both of my parents experienced dizziness or signs of an impending stroke, or fell on the way to the bathroom, or spiked a temperature out of nowhere, or was suddenly incapacitated, no matter what the time of day or night, all I had to do was call the 24/7 hospice number and they would <i><b>COME TO US</b></i>. You have no idea how huge that is.</div>
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Durable medical equipment. Ummmmm, yes, my Mom does need a new walker and I've felt for months that my dad's cane was inadequate for his unstable, wobbly gait. With a few keystrokes Lisa ordered us two new walkers - walkers with SEATS! OMG OMG OMG!!!! Ding, ding, ding, ding - I was beginning to feel that I was the winner of the lightning round of a game show. When she suggested a bedside toilet, I started looking up at the ceiling expecting it would open up with balloons and confetti because I had just been named the GRAND PRIZE WINNER!!!! </div>
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If Lisa would have stopped at "bedside toilet", I would still have felt like the winner of the Powerball, but she went on to inform me that if/when the time came for hospital beds, they would be delivered and guess what? It's covered by Medicare. I looked over at Sharon, who's mouth was open just as mine was and said, "<i>Get out of town</i>.". I also looked to Sharon for confirmation that I was hearing all of this right - I mean, <i>is this for real</i>?</div>
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Now, my reaction to these benefits may appear to be over the top but I assure you it is not. Imagine taking complete and total care of a 90 and 91 year old, who happen to be your parents (so these aren't just any Joe and Jane Doe), who are completely dependent upon you for meals, meds, remote control...control, laundry, beverage delivery to keep the fluids coming and the UTI's at bay, medical visits and oh yes, walking, getting up out of chairs and keeping them out of harm's way and eventually arriving at the point where it's no longer safe to leave them alone with any level of confidence for the 20 minutes you dare take to careen through the grocery store aisles in an attempt to gather enough groceries for a meal or two and return home before the inmates take over the asylum. That's a "run on sentence" because it's been a "run on existence" for the past few years.</div>
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Let me tell you...offers of brand new walkers, a bedside toilet and the promise of a hospital bed if/when the time comes, not to mention a CNA who will be visiting us to assist with showers and personal care (huge!!)... the prospect of new durable medical equipment, visiting nurses, CNA's, nurse practitioners and a few hours a week of someone "<i>holding down the fort</i>" so that I have the opportunity to take care of things in the outside world without worrying if my house is in the process of being burned down - I promise - you would find yourself squealing with delight.<br />
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It's a crazy life where a grand prize of two admission tickets to HOSPICE could be considered a "<i><b>grand prize</b></i>" but, trust me, I'm in the middle of a crazy life.</div>
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Where do I sign, Lisa? </div>
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...and in a moment that could only be orchestrated by a power much greater than myself, the doorbell rings right in the middle of the meeting and a man hands me the most beautiful vase of daisies and small pink roses; a heartfelt gift from a dear, sweet member of my inner circle who lives in Nantes, France and who has been a steadfast source of support and love for over eighteen years. Michel sent flowers to brighten up an extremely emotional, stressful day. I can think of no better time to be reminded that someone is thinking of you and channeling the best of thoughts than in the middle of hospice admissions. That's pretty amazing. I'm completely blessed.</div>
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So yes, the entire process took three hours and throughout the evening I felt my head swimming with all the information I had been given. "<i>Did I hear that right?</i>" and "<i>Did Lisa really say that?</i>", only reconfirmed my gratitude for Sharon's presence, who selflessly donated an entire afternoon, an extra set of ears and questions I didn't think to ask.<br />
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Please don't misunderstand...I know we haven't relocated to "<i>326 Easy Street</i>", but I can tell you that we're in a better place. Besides, I know "Easy Street" is a place of transition and one is never afforded the chance to put down roots there. We're all just getting by the best we know how. </div>
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In addition to Sharon and Michel, I felt the presence and comfort of so many of my friends and family sending me positive thoughts and prayers, text messages and phone calls that reminded me of love and support from near and far away. </div>
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The cherry on the ice cream sundae appeared after dinner Friday Evening. I heard voices downstairs and as I walked into the living room, there was the ultimate stress-reliever in the form of my granddaughter, Evelyn, along with her Mom and Dad. Hugs and smiles from a seven month old sweetheart soothe the jitters of a long day and she worked her magic. My daughter in law and son offered comfort and we all rejoiced that, as many of my Facebook friends suggested, "<i>Angels are on the way!</i>". </div>
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I didn't really understand what all those comments about angels and helpers meant prior to Friday. </div>
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Now, I know. </div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-9449027745800313802015-04-16T14:51:00.003-04:002015-04-16T17:43:44.114-04:00Hospice Referrals Uncover Daughter Denial<div style="text-align: justify;">
My parents had doctor appointments this past Tuesday. Taking my 90 and 91 year old "twins" to the doctor is what I imagine it feels like to run a "mini-marathon". In addition to the patients, there's a walker, cane and two wobbly folks to navigate into the behemoth of<i><b> <a href="http://www.wilmingtonhealth.com/" target="_blank">Wilmington Health Associates</a></b></i>. Upon entering the waiting room, I seated my parents and went up to the desk to check them in. They both remarked what a lovely building it was and swore they'd never been there before. It is a lovely building but they'd probably been there about 40 or 50 times in the last few years however, according to them, this was their first visit.</div>
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In no time at all, we were called back for weights and vitals and then we followed the kind nurse to an examination room where we waited just a few short minutes for <i><b><a href="http://www.wilmingtonhealth.com/profile/paula-babiss" target="_blank">Dr. Babiss</a></b></i>. She soon appeared with her usual sweet smile and kind manner and greeted all three of us warmly. Mom and Dad smiled but were mostly non communicative, choosing instead to hold each others hand. This wasn't lost on Dr. B and she motioned for me to move closer so that we could chat. She wanted to know how they were doing...really.</div>
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I revealed that probably most of the time my mother doesn't really know me and is positive she is visiting from West Virginia, where she firmly believes she still has a home. She rarely moves from the chair in her room and most of the time she seems to be in a daze. As for my Dad, he's begun to wander, but quite selectively. If I'm home, which I am 99.9% of the time, he stays in their bedroom but if I announce that I must run to the store, he immediately grabs that opportunity to do things like walk out back and head for the pool shed, amble around the front yard or, in the case of this past Monday when I made a mad dash for Harris Teeter to pick up dinner, he'd taken a 100' extension cord from the front porch and had it stretched out in a most interesting configuration right where I usually park. I jumped out of the car and asked him what he was doing? "<i>I'm taking care of this cord - it was rolled up on the front porch,</i>" he matter of factly reported. When I asked why, he just shrugged his shoulders. I asked him about his promise to me that he would stay inside with Mom while I was out of the house and he said he had no memory of making such a promise. Oy veh! I might as well been talking to the extension cord he was playing with and twirling around. I grabbed the cord and quickly wound it up and put it in the garage so I could pull the van up to the house. Puzzled but nonplussed, he simply shook his head and toddled inside.</div>
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I told Dr. Babiss that the wandering was becoming worse each day and I'd noticed that as the afternoon transitioned into evening, he was exhibiting agitation and restlessness. Door locks are checked dozens of times as he makes an endless loop from the front door to the side door to the sliding glass doors. In fact, he generally doesn't stop this until I physically lead him back to his room and faithfully assure him that the house is secure and locked tighter than a drum. Even then, I don't think he quite believes me.</div>
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Dr. Babiss tried to engage both of them in some conversation but it was futile. I attempted to assist by asking Mom to tell Dr. B who had visited us last week. My Mom thought for a minute and then said, "<i>I don't remember</i>". I pulled up a photo on my iPad of my Mom holding my daughter and son in law's twin babies with Katie standing on one side of the chair Mom was sitting in on and me on the other. My mom smiled at the photo but had no recollection whatsoever of the visit or anything connected to it.</div>
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After explaining what our lives were like, Dr. Babiss very kindly told me it was time to get some help and she told me she was referring both of them to hospice. She apologized for not having suggested it sooner but there was no doubt in her mind that it was definitely time.</div>
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Upon hearing this, hearing that I would be receiving some help, extra hands, readily available resources, I was nothing short of ecstatic. I was thrilled. She finished up the exams by listening to my parents hearts, retaking their blood pressures and warmly patting them on their arms. They returned her smiles. </div>
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When it came time to check out at the desk, thinking we would be setting another 6 month appointment, the woman who takes care of these things explained that as we were being referred to hospice, they would most probably take over my parents' medical care, prescriptions and all that goes with it. It didn't quite register at that moment, but my initial happiness at expecting care assistance developed a tiny crack. I was too busy to dwell on it at that moment as I had to walk with my parents to the lab for a brief bloodletting. </div>
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When I returned home and helped my parents navigate the steps to enter the house, I put their dinner out, made coffee and then went outside to think about all that had taken place. I still felt very pleased that we now had hospice referrals, but what I didn't realize, didn't count on, was the almost imperceptible sinking feeling that was beginning to trickle into my heart. I couldn't identify it, but there was this quiet heaviness that was invading my body.</div>
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When I woke up the next morning, the tiny trickle of dread had somehow, overnight, turned into a full on flood and it hit me square between the eyes...actually in the eyes because I was crying and it took my mind a few minutes to catch up with my tear ducts and identify the cause.</div>
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<a href="http://www.hospiceandlifecarecenter.org/" target="_blank"><i><b>Hospice</b></i></a>. That word. Initially I didn't tie it to the concept of "<i>final phase</i>". Though it was difficult initially to accept that my Mom didn't seem to know me most of the time, and that my Dad couldn't remember where we lived before we moved to Wilmington or who our neighbors are or where the milk is kept, I'd made my peace with those deficits without even realizing it and apparently I'd just assigned it to aging but not to an end. </div>
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It's sort of like I "<i>knew</i>", but I didn't "<i>know</i>". I went from feeling grateful for incoming help to thinking, <i>Oh My God...this sh*t just got real and it's a double dose of real</i>. Crap - I just wanted help, assistance, a respite, I didn't want to think about death or end stages or continued rapid digression. No, no, no, I just asked for the "<i>help</i>" part. Thinking back to my incredulity of a few hours ago - I can't help but marvel at how brilliantly our minds can construct barriers and vast "mental moats" to keep us from accepting the cold hard facts of life. I mean, honestly, did I think they were going to go on forever and believe Mom and Dad were just drop a few cognitive abilities here and there but still be present and accounted for?<br />
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Apparently I did. </div>
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I called an emergency lunch with my dear sweet Sharon and over Italian comfort food at the O.C., she held my hand and walked me through my sadness and helped me make some sense of it. Additionally, she has offered to be with me when hospice comes to meet with us on Friday - I don't often ask for help but I grabbed at her offer because I need another pair of ears in case mine shut off. </div>
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I have no idea what to expect because we're on a new trail and my internal gps must be reconfigured. I'm treading water right now and I can do that until I'm given my coordinates. I'm sure I'll be given some good direction tomorrow afternoon.</div>
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In the meantime, we carry on. However, I find myself dropping tears all over the place. My mind is a million different places and I feel just a little disoriented but that's OK. I don't like this part of the program but my good friend Bobbi has told me there will be beautiful parts during this stage and she's never lied to me or lead me astray. She's personally been over this course a few times and I trust her. I am buoyed by so many messages from my social media friends who are reaching out and texting and messaging me courage and strength. It's huge and it steadies me. My Cleo and Sailor seem to intuitively know that we're heading for some heavy weather and they are literally circling ever closer to me. Thank God for my faithful furry family. </div>
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I guess I shouldn't be too shocked - my parents have always made it a point to do <i><b>EVERYTHING</b></i> together - so the prospect of dual hospice referrals really shouldn't come as a huge surprise. They are inseparable. </div>
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I'm not sure what the road ahead looks like, but I'll find out sooner rather than later and until then, to quote James Taylor, "<i>I know now, love is all that matters in these days...</i>".<br />
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We'll be ok. </div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-66595708534449898082015-04-13T12:26:00.000-04:002015-04-13T20:11:48.121-04:00For My Parents - "Reality" Really Does Bite<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFyOpPjwuiRkYubS3nW3Rz2WgcmEfGhemtuVODW1tv4pbP_3Y9Vi_RgAdLRvzqWDsorcwG-MEKl19Koyw4Gh7O84KJWDhd3Mzoneq6odO5dse9AjUjgXwf2tZ6Uw9yPmddt-d_8w/s1600/FullSizeRender(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFyOpPjwuiRkYubS3nW3Rz2WgcmEfGhemtuVODW1tv4pbP_3Y9Vi_RgAdLRvzqWDsorcwG-MEKl19Koyw4Gh7O84KJWDhd3Mzoneq6odO5dse9AjUjgXwf2tZ6Uw9yPmddt-d_8w/s1600/FullSizeRender(1).jpg" height="166" width="200" /></a></div>
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We've had a very busy two weeks. My daughter, son in law and my twin five month old granddaughters paid us a most welcome visit over Easter. I can't even express how excited I was for so many reasons. My twin granddaughters were a mere three weeks old when I flew up to visit them in late November and now they had tripled in weight and are wholly interactive little people who laugh, smile and melt hearts without even trying. My first granddaughter, Evelyn, who is seven weeks older and lives with my son and daughter in law here in Wilmington, was able to meet her new cousins for the first time. Imagine the thrill - I had my entire family, including my parents who are 90 and 91 - talk about a generational span! There were so many poignant, funny, absurd, crazy and unexpected moments that can only happen with three babies, four young adults, a fifty something woman and two folks who are wildly confused and over ninety years old.</div>
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We made a lot of memories and there was much laughter.</div>
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As it turns out, the ninety year olds required much more supervision and redirection than the babies. There were times when I'm sure my mother and father understood that these visitors were their grandchildren and great grandchildren but there were just as many times as I'm also equally certain they had absolutely no clue as to who any of these people or, for that matter me.</div>
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Due to a change in normal routine schedules or perhaps simply because their brain synapses are misfiring and short circuiting at a progressively rapid rate, in the days since our company left, my parents' behaviors, questions and perception have all been dramatically altered. In the past few days my mother has looked straight at me and asked me where "<i><b>Susan</b></i>" is and when is she coming home? I tell her that I am Susan to which she replies,<i> "No,<b> MY</b> Susan. I know who you are but where is <b>MY</b> Susan???"</i>, she demands. I usually have a comeback for most things, but this exchange always leaves me wondering what to say?</div>
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Every single day for the past couple of weeks my mother has told me that it's time for them to "head back home" - i.e., West Virginia. She declares they've enjoyed their visit here but they've been away from their "home" way too long and they must get back and will probably be leaving "early in the morning". It is then that I have to be the bearer of bad news and explain that a) they have no home in West Virginia and they've been living in my home for fifteen years; b) they have no car and no valid driver's license and c) they're not going anywhere.</div>
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These statements are always met with the most disbelieving looks imaginable. It breaks my heart to see my Mom try and process the facts I lay out and it's so painful to watch her attempts to make sense of things that her mind must inform her can't possibly be true. She emotionally retreats and for a time the questions stop as she grapples with a reality that is completely foreign to her but is, in fact, the truth.</div>
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I try...oh God how I try...to swoop in with a diversion - ice cream, key lime pie, fresh coffee, photos of our family, bringing in Sailor and Cleo and hoping they'll do something cute (they almost always comply) which will take her attention away from the reality I've just dumped on her. I don't know who wants to run away from these moments more - my parents or me?</div>
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I take "the twins", aka my parents, to see Dr. Babiss tomorrow. I need to explain that these periods of confusion are happening more frequently and for longer periods of time and they are creating a great deal of anxiety for Mom and Dad and God knows I'm on sustained high alert, which can't be all that healthy for me. It's always worse as evening approaches. They seem to become more edgy and unsettled and my Dad has taken to wandering into the far reaches of the backyard. I'm also going to see if we might qualify for some in house Hospice assistance because I think we're most definitely at that point and frankly, every day I'm feeling just a little more overwhelmed and under-qualified. </div>
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I must confess I dread "doctor visit day". They will both swear they've never been to Wilmington Health Associates and while they'll be cordial to Dr. B, neither of them will remember her. It's been six months since our last visit and the mental deterioration is remarkable and profound. I know there is a limit to what medications can do, but I am hoping she has just a few more tricks up her white coat sleeve and will help me find a way to get some extra hands on deck. </div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-58725901493617618272015-03-27T16:33:00.000-04:002015-03-28T13:26:45.260-04:00You Can Lead a Horse to Water...But You Can't Make Him Wear a Hearing Aid<div style="text-align: justify;">
This has been an extremely frustrating week. I've been battling through bronchitis and seasonal allergies and I don't take kindly to inactivity. It's also been emotionally frustrating because my 90 and 91 year old parents, who I take care of full-time 24/7/365/ad infinitum (or so it seems), have been completely oblivious to my not feeling well. I freely admit that I have wished and dreamed of what it might be like to just go to bed for a few days and not have to remember that in three hours I have to give the afternoon meds, or that I've had to listen for the clatter of my Mom's walker as it heads for the kitchen and intercept any attempt by her to play with the coffeemaker, because she has no clue whatsoever how it works and cleaning up her attempts is not a fun way to spend a half hour. I've still had to ensure their dinners and snacks were made and spent a couple of hours each night hearing my Dad "check" each door a gazillion times to see if it's locked; they are all locked, but he makes several rounds in a circuitous route which never fails to cause an outbreak of barking as Sailor and Cleo wonder if someone is trying to come into the house. This usually doesn't stop until I go downstairs and physically interrupt my Dad's path and tell him he's checked everything enough and it's all locked up tighter than a drum. It's compulsive behavior and some evenings it drives me completely nuts. I mean raving crazy lunatic nuts. I shake my head. A lot.</div>
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Last Friday a package arrived that I'd been waiting for with a great deal of hope. My cousins, who take 24/7/365 care of their mother, my Dad's sister, told me about a hearing amplifier that had made a positive and dramatic difference in their mother's hearing. They suggested I check it out and see if my Dad would benefit from it, so I stopped by Radio Shack and inquired if they carried it. Turns out they did, though it was out of stock but could be ordered and delivered to my home. It was only a 39.95 purchase so even though I had my doubts, I felt it would be worth a try. I also picked up a good set of pair of ear buds and a head set so that he would have a choice.</div>
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I went downstairs, opened up the package, inserted the batteries and popped in the ear buds and loudly explained (his hearing is probably 95% shot) how this would enable him to hear better. He sat at his desk and I went about setting it up for him and inserted the ear buds in his ears. Then, I did some tests - standing across the room I asked him in a normal voice if he could hear me? "<i>Yes, I hear you fine.</i>". Great! With the television broadcasting at a normal volume I asked if he could hear and understand the TV? "<i>Oh yes, I hear it just fine.</i>". I was really happy!! I thought we may have had a break through. </div>
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About fifteen minutes later I went back into his room and found the hearing amplifier and the ear buds neatly placed on his desk. "<i>Why did you take it off? Did it stop working?</i>" I asked in the loud voice required to communicate with him. "<i>No, it worked fine, but those ear things hurt.</i>"</div>
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I quickly pulled out the small, lightweight headset I'd purchased and said, "<i>I've got you covered - try this.</i>". I put the device back around his neck and placed the headphones gently over his head. "<i>Can you hear me? Does that feel better?". "Yes, I can hear you just fine."</i>. </div>
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I can understand where the ear buds may have been annoying and uncomfortable so the headset was the ticket. Except that it wasn't. I went back into his room about an hour later and there again was the hearing amplifier and headset neatly stacked side by side. </div>
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"<i>What happened? Why aren't you wearing this?</i>" He shook his head and swept his hands in a horizontal side-to-side motion as one might make if asked if they would care for another helping of a dish at dinner; you know, the one that says, "<i>I've had enough of this - please take the plate away.</i>". </div>
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So that was that. Exasperated, I walked over to him and asked, "<i>You don't want to hear what's going on around you? Don't you miss that? Do you know how loudly we must speak in order for you to hear us?</i>" He looked up at me as if to say, "<i>Not my problem</i>."<br />
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Sometimes it is your circus, and these are your monkeys. </div>
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I left the gadget where he placed it and hoped he might reconsider and try it again, but it never happened. And it never will happen. Ever. It was a $40 experiment and it was a worth a try, but I could have predicted the outcome and it made me angry, frustrated, sad and tired. There were moments in the next few days when, after having to yell and wildly gesticulate for him to understand that he needed to get up and come to the dinner table, I would feel so mad that he refused to do something small which would make a big difference in our daily life. Yes, it made me fume. I kept it to myself - well, no I didn't. My closest friends and my daughter patiently allowed me to vent and curse and vent some more. Not to mention I was still battling bronchitis and not feeling my best which can make anyone's fuse a little shorter than usual. </div>
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I wanted to scream, but that would do no good at all except to make my throat feel worse than it did. The thing of it is, there have been so few times in my entire life where I can honestly say I've been mad or even annoyed with my Dad because he's been a pretty wonderful father and I couldn't have imagined a better one both as a child and as an adult. Barbe Cook has nearly always been patient, kind, funny, amusingly wry and reasonable. My dad's decision to pass on wearing a device which would save our voices and allow him to hear everything around him is not reasonable, but it's his decision. Have you ever tried to argue with a deaf 90 year old? It's a pointless exercise and I promise, you're not going to win.<br />
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That's not to say that I haven't wished I could superglue those ear buds into his ear but it wouldn't work and he'd figure a way to remove them. I'm so tired of playing charades. <br />
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I really wrestled with this and it still annoys me, but I took a step back (and for you BB followers, I remembered <a href="https://groups.google.com/forum/#!topic/12-step-recovery/3eNzMv2tNuc" target="_blank"><i><b>page 417 in the AA BB 4th Edition</b></i></a> which reminded me that "<i>acceptance is the answer to all of my problems...</i>") and I had to let go of it. That doesn't mean I have to like it or that's it's easy and there aren't moments that I resent the holy living crap out of it, but I can't, in all fairness, judge my Dad's decision and action in this one case to color his entire stellar performance as my father.<br />
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Grappling with my disappointment and yes, my anger, I made a conscious decision: I needed to remember that this was still the guy who spent hours treading water in the Holiday Inn Wrightsville Beach swimming pool when I was 12 years old, waiting for me to summon the courage to dive off the board; the man who made me believe I could pass college chemistry when I was staying up all night worrying myself sick that I would fail miserably; the man who took me to the airport numerous times assuring me I would have a great flight and that I would be fine flying across the Atlantic Ocean all by myself; the man who embraced me with so much love after hitting the lowest point in my life courtesy of my drinking and took me home and loved and supported my journey into sobriety, never once allowing me to feel that I could fail or that I would be anything but successful.</div>
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I went searching for a photograph taken at that Holiday Inn way back in 1972 - me standing beside my Dad after triumphantly diving off the board and popping up in the water right beside him, where he promised me he would be when I surfaced. I put that photo right beside my bed and I've looked at it several times since the day he declined to wear a hearing device.<br />
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When put into perspective, declining to use a hearing aid is a mere blip in an otherwise amazingly warm, loving and precious relationship. Oh yes, I still get miffed, pissed and profoundly irritated that I have to yell in order for him to know that his dinner is ready or that it's time for him to take his meds and I imagine I'll need to remind myself many more times that my dad's current actions aren't a true depiction of who he is. He's 90 years old. He's tired. His abilities are waning at an accelerated rate and it's got to be intensely painful and difficult to accept. It's hard for me to accept, too. I miss my Daddy. He's still here, but he's not really the Daddy I've known and enjoyed and derived so many benefits from through so many years. I've managed to reassure myself that when this is all over, this whole "<i>hearing device debacle</i>" will barely register in my memory.</div>
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Until then, we do the best we can, and we continue with our game of charades. </div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-72229887885488540412015-03-21T14:25:00.001-04:002015-03-21T20:57:07.179-04:00Reflections From the Sick Bed - I Remember Mama...<div style="text-align: justify;">
This has been a lousy week. Dr. Dewey Bridger warned me that I was cooking a batch of bronchitis but I was so sure I knew better and disregarded his good advice and, while I did get his prescriptions filled, I brought them home and left them unopened for four days. I was sure it was just a rising pollen count and seasonal allergies and I'd just save that antibiotic and super cough syrup for a future date when I was REALLY sick. I saw Dr. B on Thursday, 12 March. By Monday night 16 March, I discovered I was REALLY sick. I can just imagine him shaking his head and rolling his eyes - he's taken care of me for fifteen years and I'm sure he'd not find this surprising at all. I really wish I'd listened to him and these past four days, I've paid for it. Lesson learned? Probably not. </div>
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I've spent most of this week pushing fluids, heating up canned soup and engaging in saline nasal rinses, gargles and lots of <a href="http://vicks.com/en-us/browse-products/vaporub?utm_source=google&utm_medium=cpc&utm_term=vicks%20vaporub&utm_campaign=VapoRub_Search_Desktop_Brand+Awareness_Exact|VapoRub-Branded&utm_content=sS1SE6vK7|dc_50826876726_e_vicks%20vaporub#" target="_blank"><b>Vicks Vaporub</b></a> - it's been a carnival ride. I didn't have time to come down with this mess because my daughter, son in law and twin granddaughters were scheduled to visit this week and I had carpets to steam, dust to chase, linens to wash and order to restore in high anticipation. When my fever set in Monday Night, I collapsed in bed, but it was a really clean bed and the upstairs of my home has never looked more put together. I decided to spend Tuesday resting since most of the work was taken care of and I was sure I'd be fit as a fiddle by their anticipated arrival on Friday. </div>
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I woke up Wednesday and felt like I'd been knocked down by a wrecking ball (sans Miley Cyrus) but I had a hair appointment and sick or not, I had to have my mop modified so I would at least be able to see - my bangs had grown halfway down my face. I looked more like an Old English Sheepdog. </div>
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On the way to the salon my daughter called to say their flight had been canceled and that she would text me when she knew more about the change in their schedule. Chilling, coughing and shivering through my haircut, I received a text that requested I call her after I was finished; plans had been changed - they could get a flight the next day but it would be routed through Boston, rather than the direct flight they had booked. A connecting flight through a city expecting yet another snowstorm with five month old twins. Ummmmmm, not an inviting prospect. My daughter and her husband decided to put the trip off until Easter week and while I was deeply disappointed at having to wait a few more days to see them, my body begged and pleaded with me to FINALLY get in bed. I finally gave in. My biggest fear was that I would convey my illness to the kids and due to some debris on a runway at JFK airport, I was given a reprieve to recover and I was so grateful because I want to be well and on top of my game when the kids arrive. </div>
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Armed with a 750 ml water bottle, a huge glass of iced tea, a steaming mug of lemon/ginger tea, my cache of antibiotics and bottle of cough syrup, I wearily trudged up the stairs and took to my bed. Except for running downstairs to refill my liquids, make coffee for my parents and see that their meals were prepped (and a quick trip to <a href="http://www.scnbnc.com/" target="_blank"><b>Smithfields</b></a> and <a href="http://www.cvs.com/" target="_blank"><b>CVS</b></a>), I haven't really left my room. For me, that's pretty much unheard of because I can't stand being still but this bronchitis has (literally) sucked the air right out of me. </div>
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I haven't been completely alone, thanks to the faithful loving companionship and concern of Sailor and Cleo. They haven't left my side or my bed. I'm grateful to both of them - once again my "rescue dogs" are rescuing me. </div>
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I've managed to take care of the essentials in terms of taking care of my parents - they haven't missed any doses of meds, pots of coffee or meals, even though they've been eating takeout this past week - it's the best I could do. The funny thing is that each time my Mom has seen me, she says the same thing, "<i>Are you catching a cold? You don't look well.</i>". And for the 78th time I've reported that yes, I went to the doctor last week and I have bronchitis. She remembers this for maybe two minutes. Thursday Night I was summoned downstairs three different times because my Mom had told my Dad she hadn't seen me all day. She had seen me as I delivered meals, meds and checked on her when I'd run downstairs to replenish my fluids or heat up a can of soup, and when I'd walk into her room I'd remind her and then she'd laugh and say, "<i>Oh yes, you, yes, I've seen you...</i>", leaving me to wonder who in the heck she expected to see.<br />
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I_Remember_Mama_%28film%29" target="_blank"><b>I Remember Mama</b></a>. Really, I do. I mean, I know she's still here with me physically, but so much of her is already gone. </div>
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I must confess, it's not fun being sick alone. My mother ruined me a long time ago. When I was growing up my mother turned illness into an occasion of care and nurturing and attention that made room service at the Ritz look lackluster and shabby. She'd prepare trays filled with homemade soup or her famous chicken and dumplings and she was always bringing in pots of hot tea. Mom would plump pillows, arrange blankets and run warm baths and to be honest, it was a lot of fun to be sick around Maxine Sturgill Cook. She was so amazing, creative and tireless. In fact, she was so good at it that in elementary school I would often fake illness and request an audience with the nurse so that my Mom would be summoned to come pick me up and lavish me with all of her great attention and treats. She eventually caught onto my scam, but I freely admit that I was never too sad to catch a cold or sore throat. Even if it meant a visit to the doctor, it was worth a little poking and prodding it if it meant I'd get my Mom's five star treatment. </div>
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All of those memories flooded back to me this week and oh my goodness how they made me smile and brought no small measure of tears to my eyes. My Mom was great at a lot of things, but she excelled at spoiling both my Dad and me. </div>
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"<i>Are you catching a cold?</i>" my Mom asked me so many times this week. Yeah Mom, I feel like crap. I need some of your hot soup, your perfect cups of tea, your hot oatmeal, your fried chicken, your mashed potatoes and hot rolls and could you arrange my bed like you used to and fluff the pillows as only you know how and if it's not too much trouble, could I have some ice cream and don't you think you should set up the vaporizer? God, I miss you Mom. I miss you so much it hurts but thank you for all those years you took such great care of me. While age has taken away your ability to do all those things you used to manage with such warmth and love, it can't tarnish my memories and how lucky am I to have those? </div>
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What I wouldn't do for another plate of your chicken and dumplings. <br />
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I love you, Mom.</div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-59139097589490423792015-03-17T15:42:00.001-04:002015-03-17T16:27:06.333-04:00Excuse Me, You Did What??????<div style="text-align: justify;">
I didn't mean to drag the suspense out, but I've been fighting a little bout with bronchitis and I've had a ton of work to do so today I landed in bed and I can reveal "<i>the rest of the story</i>" from my Dad's Friday Night's escapades.</div>
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Last Friday was a pretty full day with babysitting, running to the store for prescriptions and cooking a family dinner and by the end of it, I was ready to collapse in bed, which I did around 9:30 (early for me). I don't know if it was the infection cooking or just general exhaustion but I laid down and within minutes I was sound asleep. </div>
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Around midnight, my Dad burst into my room with the full knowledge that he had no business climbing the stairs. Had that been the only offense, I would have not come undone. Oh, but there was more - Friday evening it began raining fairly hard so it wasn't a night for anyone...much less a 90 year old man who can't walk well...to take a stroll around the pool to the corner of the backyard BEHIND the shed where I had mentioned Sailor had escaped a few days previous. Ah, well, not to mention the ground was covered in slippery leaves, mud and perhaps there may have been a few snakes hiding about and oh yes, he was in his house slippers. He was sure Sailor had once again "escaped" and he was going to look for him. Sailor? He was inside the living room apparently watching the man walking unsteadily with a cane who was looking for him, having better sense than to be traipsing around BEHIND the shed. OMG.</div>
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OMG OMG OMG OMG.</div>
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It took a few seconds for my brain to snap to and comprehend what he was telling me and he was so amused to imagine that Sailor had "outfoxed" him. Me? I wasn't amused at all. Let me count the ways I wasn't amused.</div>
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Had he fallen into the pool or behind the shed, had I found him missing by the time I woke up, I would have had no idea where to begin looking and most probably behind the building would have been my last guess.</div>
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If he hadn't returned and my Mom had the rare temerity to have eventually realize he was "missing", there is no way she could have climbed the stairs to report that Dad was AWOL. I was asleep and there's no way I could have heard her. </div>
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Say I had finally found him, had he fallen, there's no doubt it would have resulted in a broken limb or two and I would have had one of the "elder twins" in the hospital and one of them here at home, unable to go anywhere (my mother can barely climb into a chair, much less a car). There are two of them and there is one of me. Can you imagine how that would have all worked out?</div>
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Now yes, you're probably thinking, I could "hire" someone to attend one of them when I was with the other but let me let you in on a secret. My savings is dwindling and before this whole thing finishes there's no doubt I will be forced to put my home on the market, depending on how long things go on. I pinch pretty much every single penny twice. Yes, my dad has a pension and while it's certainly respectable, taking care of two parents full-time is expensive. Ah yes, I'll just quickly rejoin the work force (something I would LOVE to do), but do you have any idea how much it would cost to have a full-time caregiver in this house? Ummmm, yeah, pretty expensive.</div>
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When I factored in all the risks he took with this stunt I was horrified. As I was calculating the potential disaster we averted (by the Grace of God), I heard him regaling my Mom with his exploits - <i>"and it was pouring the rain and I kept looking and don't you know that little dog was inside the whole time???</i>". He thought it a fabulous tale. I didn't share his view. As for Mom, well, she strings maybe two minutes of thoughts together on a good day and I heard her laughing as he was telling his tale. I could only shake my head.</div>
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I didn't pick that moment to discuss with him all of the reasons he shouldn't have gone outside on a wet, rainy night to look for a dog that wasn't missing. I couldn't. I knew my admonitions would come out harsh, unkind and I also knew that no matter what I said, I would have as much chance of making a brick wall understand as I would my Dad. </div>
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I'm still appalled by it all. I'll find myself trying to consider how I could discuss his actions in a such a way he would understand the danger and then I realize it's completely hopeless and the only thing to come out of such an attempt would be for my throat to hurt more than it does right now from having to shout each word something like eight times until he would be able to hear me. </div>
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I've worked overtime the past few days trying to shake off what happened - hoping to busy myself to the point I don't have to think about it, which is probably why I feel like crap right now. I'm taking today off, inasmuch as I can take any day off. I mean, there's still meds to dispense, coffee to make, meals to prep and moments where I have to practice parental redirection to avoid more mishaps but otherwise, I'm laying low. I'm exhausted but it's equal measures emotional and physical. </div>
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My friend Cheryl often refers to what I do as "herding cats". She's been here and she "gets it". Let me tell you, there are moments when herding cats would be a far easier proposition than ensuring the safety and care of "elder twins". </div>
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So there you have it - and that's the rest of the story. </div>
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Oh, one other aside. I spent the past couple of days steaming the carpets upstairs in preparation for my daughter, son in law and twin granddaughters much anticipated visit later this week. On three separate occasions my mother has dispatched my Dad to deliver the message that they will "<i>go to a hotel, because I'm having company and she's sure I'll need their room.</i>". I kid you not. Each time I stop what I'm doing and go into their room and explain that it's Katie and her family who are coming and that we have ample room without displacing anyone. I did this twice yesterday and once the day before and she processes the information for maybe two minutes and then poof, it's gone. </div>
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I'm just so tired. </div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-83536000249223723342015-03-08T15:08:00.000-04:002015-03-11T20:59:04.641-04:00"Don't Cry Because it's Over...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-sRFZGXOfXZZb3KP1hbAIP6ZjvpXGMYBBh3SwnApOS04KB6fdQaFngxkcu6Z_rFaAadKtV4Jx8DkkQ9QLbbjGgy12Ap_HYskLnzGK1sCkZlBJLSVmuxDD8bvxh-C-qJhjCWFOg/s1600/10478388_10152287572224473_4348884228982850925_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-sRFZGXOfXZZb3KP1hbAIP6ZjvpXGMYBBh3SwnApOS04KB6fdQaFngxkcu6Z_rFaAadKtV4Jx8DkkQ9QLbbjGgy12Ap_HYskLnzGK1sCkZlBJLSVmuxDD8bvxh-C-qJhjCWFOg/s1600/10478388_10152287572224473_4348884228982850925_o.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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This past week, we lost a dear sweet family friend. Perl Tipper passed away Wednesday, 4 March. She was probably the last of my parents friends from the old days when they all worked together in Kopperston, West Virginia. Perl was a best friend to both my mother and father and they all worked together in the "company store". They knew her before she met the man she would marry and go onto raise six kids; one of those kids lives right here in Wilmington, North Carolina and is also a good friend - Christy Register. Perl came down several times a year to visit Christy and her family and we always looked forward to it because it meant Perl would visit us, too.</div>
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How to describe Perl - well, she was simply one of the most spry, engaging and witty women I've ever met in my life. My own history of "knowing" Perl is brief compared to my parents relationship with her, but oh how much better my life is for meeting her and tapping into her sparkling personality. </div>
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She was tiny, extremely creative and talented and behaved much younger than her 92 years. I loved her hugs. Our last visit with her was this past June and I made a bit of a party out of it, fetching Smithfields chicken and lots of coffee and iced tea. I sat on the patio after serving these three crazy "kids" and smiled as I listened to the reminiscing, the sharing of memories and the genuine laughter that wafted through the house. It was always a special time when Perl was in the house and I loved how these three good friends had renewed their connections through the 70 plus years they had known and loved each other.</div>
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When Perl visited us this past June, she asked me several times for a photograph and I didn't really understand why. In fact, when I didn't produce it, she had her daughter Christy text me to please send her a photo. I sent a snapshot that was taken at my daughter and son in law's rehearsal dinner in NYC. I didn't think much more about it. A few days later when Perl came over to join my parents for dinner, she presented me with a portrait she had painted - I was stunned. I had no inkling that this was why she wanted the photo. It turns out that as she was spending a couple of weeks visiting Christy, she wasn't one to sit idly by doing nothing - so she painted me! I can't tell you how precious this portrait is to me - how much I cherish it. </div>
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I served my parents coffee this "morning" and by morning I mean 12:30 PM - since the time moved forward an hour overnight I knew they'd be extra late waking up. The sunshine was warm and I took my mother's hand and lead her out to the patio table where I had her coffee waiting. The sky was crystal blue and the trees look as if they are budding right before our eyes. Mom smiled in the warm sunshine and then looked at me and said, "<i>Did you know my friend Perl? She died..."</i>. Over the course of the hour that we sat outside in the sunshine, my mother said this to me at least fifteen times. "<i>Yes Mom, I know. We're going to miss her aren't we?</i>". </div>
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"<i>She was my best friend. I knew her before she was married. We used to have so much fun working together.</i>"</div>
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I patted her hand and I tried to imagine what a huge loss this was to my parents because, quite frankly, she was one of the last of their old friends still alive. It must be deeply painful.</div>
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Last night as I was getting ready to make a speedy run for Food Lion, I overheard my Mom and Dad chatting in their room. "<i>Barbe, what are we going to do about Christmas this year? I want to go home.</i>"</div>
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After repeating her question enough times that he actually heard it, he said, "<i>Well, honey, I'll let you know in December - that's ten months away.</i>"</div>
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"<i>I want to go home.</i>"</div>
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There was nothing I could pop in and say. I just listened. My mother's thoughts are scattered and she's not got a firm grasp of seasons or time, but it broke my heart. Right now I'm glad her attention span is brief and her thoughts are fleeting. It would be too sad to imagine otherwise. Everything she knew and all of the things she could do are long gone. Sometimes I wonder how they can possibly deal with it on those rare occasions of clarity. </div>
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Perl visited us a week before Christmas 2013 and again, I served dinner for these three close friends. As I was getting ready to lay out the food I noticed they were all holding hands and my Dad was about to say grace, but what I noticed even more was that they continued to hold hands for several minutes after the prayer. </div>
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Holding hands seems to be the very best way to get through these later years. In fact, when the Star News did a story on adult children taking care of aging parents in January 2014, this photo was on the front page of the Sunday Newspaper that day. It's so emblematic of their relationship.</div>
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My parents have always been warm, demonstrative people who never shied away from hugs and they've turned hand-holding into a natural part of their daily routine. I do the best that I can to make sure they are well fed, meds are dispensed as prescribed and I get their television back on several times a day because my mother LOVES to push buttons on the remote which frequently results in a blank screen. However, the most potent and essential secret to growing old, from my "<i>up close and personal</i>" vantage point, seems to be hand holding several times a day. There are so many lessons I learn, but this simple act of reaching out and holding onto each other is the most powerful mood elevator imaginable. <i>Advil</i> eases the arthritic pain, <i>Lisinopril </i>keeps the blood pressure stable and a small 50 mg dose of <i>Zoloft</i> may do something to stabilize the mood, but from where I stand, holding hands is powerful, preciously addictive and induces peace. The side effects of this act are quite amazing. I can't recommend it enough.</div>
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"<i>Do you know my friend Perl Tipper?</i>"</div>
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"<i>Yes Mom, and we're all going to miss her so very much</i>."</div>
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Godspeed Perl - thank you for sharing your life, your infectious laugh and your talent with us. We will always smile as we remember you with love and great affection. We will "cry because it's over, but we're all certainly smiling because YOU happened. </div>
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Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-44482240013771055432015-03-01T15:56:00.001-05:002015-03-01T16:11:02.071-05:00The Green Mile...<br />
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<i>"And I think about all of us, walking our own 'Green Mile'...Sometimes, the 'Green Mile' seems so long..."</i><br />
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To my closest confidants, I sometimes admit to feeling extreme anxiety when I first wake up each morning. I'm afraid of what I'll find. My parents are 90 and 91 and dependent on me for almost everything.</div>
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When I was a little girl, I used to live in a state of extreme fear because my Mom and Dad were a good ten years older than my classmates parents. My Mom had me at the age of 35 which, isn't anything close to rare, but certainly qualified them as older than the average age of most of the other parents I knew. I would lie in bed at night, scared that my Mom and Dad would die much sooner than most of those other parents of my classmates and this was a particular fear after 1973, following the sudden, unexpected death of my 23 year old sister, Becky. Her death was followed less than two years later by my 83 year old grandmother who had lived with our family from the time I was in first grade. As far as I could tell, my family members were dropping like flies and my response to this was extreme fear and multiple panic attacks. I lived a very fearful existence, just waiting for someone else near and dear to me to suddenly disappear from my life.</div>
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Obviously, this didn't happen - my parents have, in fact, outlived many of my former classmates parents.</div>
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I no longer lie in bed and fear the inevitable in the same way I did when I was 10 or 12 or 14 years old, but I know how my own movie ends. Death is non-negotiable for all of us.</div>
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When I hear the first stirrings of my Mom's walker in the morning or the clop of my Dad's cane, I'm instantly relieved and then in the very next seconds I gear up for another episode of "<i><b>Groundhog Day</b></i>", because frankly, this is exactly what my life is like right now. Every day I answer the same questions about 40 times (no exaggeration) and sometimes I must identify myself. The weather becomes a particularly hot topic because in the span of an hour at the breakfast table, my Mom will ask me, even with the weather on the kitchen television being broadcast in real time, "<i>what's the weather going to be today?</i>". Sometimes I direct her attention to the television set which she'll watch eagerly for maybe 2 minutes and then, as soon as a commercial comes on, she asks me again, and again, and again "<i>what's the weather going to be today? Is it going to snow?</i>".</div>
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Cloudy, cold days are the worst. Not only does the pain my Mom experiences in her joints increase as the temperature slides down, but her whole affect is much less amiable and cheery.</div>
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Today is the first day of March. I heard my mother remark earlier today that it's "<i>looking like fall</i>". There is no real grasp of time and space for her. I'm not sure if that's true for my Dad because his almost total deafness and inability to carry on a conversation unbroken by "<i>what did you say?</i>" makes small talk an impossibility. I hate speaking in a loud voice and while I made a good go of it the first year and a half, I must confess I no longer do. It becomes very hard. That doesn't stop my Mom - from anywhere in this house one can hear her repeating the same question or comment up to 10 - 15 times, directed at my Dad. Most of the time whatever it is she's saying gets lost in the yelling and given her own abbreviated attention span, more often than not she forgets what her original point was when she began.</div>
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Schedules become essential and one tangles with them at a risk. If I serve dinner an hour or so early - say at 4 rather than 5:30 PM, I'll often hear the click-clack of my mother's walker heading to the kitchen, asking me what we're having for dinner tonight? When I remind her that she ate just a short time earlier, she regards me with a quasi suspicious and embarrassed look. Not quite believing me and embarrassed that I might be right.</div>
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Last night I was watching "<i>A River Runs Through It</i>" after I served my parents dinner. About an hour after they had finished, I heard my mother tell (yell) for my Dad to be sure and check the doors. As I was sitting in the living room which is situated right next to their room, I heard my Dad's footsteps and waited for him to "peek" into the living room. I told him all the doors were locked and everything was safe. He gave me a nod and then proceeded to walk to the side door, the door leading to the garage and the sliding glass door in the dining room. I guess he didn't believe me - this is his routine. I smiled to myself and continued watching the movie.</div>
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A few minutes later, my Dad appeared again in the living room - "<i>Your mother said she heard some people talking in here and wanted me to check.</i>".</div>
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"<i>Dad, it's the television - I'm watching a movie. No one else is here.</i>"</div>
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He nodded and headed back to their room with the message.</div>
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Not fifteen minutes later, my Dad reappeared in the doorway of the living room. "<i>Your Mom keeps saying someone else is in here.</i>"</div>
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I pretty much gave up watching the movie by this point. I walked with him back to their room and told my mother personally that there is no one in the house but the three of us, as it is most days and nights. I told her I had been watching a movie.</div>
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Not ten minutes later, their bedroom door opened yet again - it was at this time I believe I looked over toward Cleo and said, "<i>I'm going to stab my eye with a fork!!</i>".</div>
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"<i>Did you lock the doors?</i>"</div>
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"<i>Yes Dad - everything is locked up tight.</i>"</div>
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"<i>Just checking. Your Mom wanted me to make sure</i>," so again he makes the rounds until I seriously find myself unable to sit still and I walk up to him, gently put my hand in his and tell him he's done this already tonight. The house is locked up. No one else is the house. It's time for bed.</div>
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Meanwhile, I go outside and make about fifteen revolutions around the pool and I do this for two reasons. To shake off the irritation and the rote quality of this and every evening for the past couple of years, and to drive up the steps on my Fitbit. I accomplish both goals in about twenty minutes.</div>
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Every single day is both the same and different. The routine is the same but cognition and mental status seem to degrade just a little more. It's sort of like watching paint dry, but it makes me very sad. The intangible loss, the deficits, will break your heart.</div>
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I drink a lot of hot tea in the evenings. I build a fire in the wood stove almost every single night and I have an alarm set on my iPhone set for 7:45 PM so that I can listen to the <b><a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b006qfvv" target="_blank">BBC 4 Shipping Forecast</a></b>. I pull up the maps on my computer and follow along as I listen to the forecast for the gales that are expected at Trafalgar and Biscay, and then I close my eyes and imagine myself bobbing in the small teak cabin aboard a sailboat, holding a mug of hot, steaming tea, tethered to some marina off the Isle of Man, wondering if I'll be able to cast off my lines and head back out to sea. No matter what I'm doing, I listen to that forecast and I visualize that scene. It's a mental image that gets me through another evening after another day of heavy repetition.</div>
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<br />Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-35889545895114956782015-02-26T18:37:00.000-05:002015-02-26T18:39:01.443-05:00T-R-A-N-S-I-T-I-O-N<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><b> T R A N S I T I O N (S)</b></span></span></span><br />
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I thought about starting a new blog about my adventures in caring for my 90 year old father and 91 year old Mom, but it didn't seem necessary. I have neglected my blog for a long time because I've been up to my eyeballs in taking care of "the twins", as I affectionately refer to them, but my posts on Facebook seem to be getting longer and so I feel it's time to get back to my blog.</div>
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In the beginning, this blog was about a 40 something year old woman who found sobriety on 11 January 2004, and learning how to live as a responsible, productive citizen. In the time since my blog began, my son and daughter have grown up, married wonderful spouses and made me a grandma in 2014 - adding 3 new beautiful grandbabies to our family - my son and daughter in law brought their beautiful little girl, Evelyn Sophia, into the world on 8 September 2014 and my daughter and son in law chimed in with identical twin daughters in late October. What blessings!!</div>
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In September 2012, it became necessary for me to stop working OUTSIDE my home and tend to my parents. Memories were failing and medications were screwed up and mother suddenly gave up cooking. One day, she just didn't do it anymore. My Dad is a great man, but he's useless in the kitchen, possessing no knowledge of how coffeemakers work, how bread becomes toast or how to scramble an egg.</div>
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Me? For most of my adult life I had about as much interest in cooking as I did underwater basket weaving. The kitchen was a place I breezed through to grab iced tea, a snack and frankly I took most of my meals out. In September 2012, I became chief cook and bottle washer - because it finally occurred to me that while Smithfields and Pizza Hut are convenient and tasty options, they aren't sustainable in the long-term. </div>
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So my self-taught culinary education began. At first, it was a clumsy, messy and sometimes inedible affair but as with most things, applying time and tenacity and step by step instructions online, I learned how to cook. I must say I've given a pretty good account of myself and as of this writing, no one has incurred any gastrointestinal issues as a result of my culinary offerings (touch wood). In fact, there are some days I find great pleasure in creating dishes and I have learned to look upon this, and so many other things I've been conscripted to take on, as challenges in the "I dare you to try - let's see what you've got" kind of self motivation. </div>
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I've learned a lot of lessons, gained new skills, been made humble and stumbled a few times - but the good news is that I've grown and stretched in more ways than I can count. I'm grateful, but it's not all sunshine and daisies. There are days when I'm sure I'm in my last moments of sanity. There are nights I hit the bed and I'm positive I won't be able to summon the physical and emotional strength to get back up again. Some days I feel as if my head will explode if I hear my dad retell the same stories he's been repeating for the past few years. When upcoming doctor's appointments arrive and I'm tasked with getting both of my parents to Wilmington Health for a visit with Dr. Babiss, I feel as if I'm herding cats - my Mom with her bulky walker and my Dad with his lack of coordination and failure to recognize the building we've visited so many times - asking me if he's ever met "that lady doctor" before. When it's time to dispense my parents' daily meds, my Dad always ALWAYS asks if he's ever taken that pill before and is it for him? He's only been taking that pill for about 20 years and yes, it's for him. We have that same conversation every single day. Every. Single. Day. Not a day goes by that my Dad doesn't see a speck of dust or a leaf on the floor that he doesn't bend over, pipe fully lit in his mouth, and dump hot ashes on whatever it is he's trying to pick up which isn't nearly as noticeable as the trail of sometimes red hot sparks that drop out of his pipe. I remind him daily, please don't bend over with your pipe in your mouth to which he instantly asks me "how come? I won't spill anything!". Ummmm, yeah you do and it's dangerous.</div>
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Watching the mental and physical deterioration of my parents is one of the most painful experiences I've ever been exposed to. It's so heart wrenching at times that it almost physically makes my heart feel as if it's breaking. My parents have been blessed - it wasn't until their late 80's that mental deficits began piling up but when those glitches began happening, they have accelerated so that as I write this in late February 2015, there are days that my Mom doesn't really know who I am. She knows my name is "Susan", but I'm not "her" Susan. She doesn't connect the dots. My Dad will look at his great granddaughter and when I ask him who she is and what her relationship is to him, he'll think for a couple of minutes and exclaim, "She's my grand niece!". This from a man who has devoted most of his retired life to genealogy research and has over 15,000 names on his Family Tree Maker. </div>
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But there are those golden moments, and they never fail to catch me by surprise. I will hear my Dad loudly and lovingly exclaim to my Mom, bending close to her face as she sits in her recliner in their room, "I love you, I love you, I love you!!!!" or, "did you know you're prettier today than the day I asked you to marry me?". There are those moments when my Dad comes over to me and gives me a tender hug and says, "Your Mom and I sure do appreciate how you take care of these two old people...". Some mornings I'll walk in the kitchen to get their breakfast started and he will be ever so gently holding the chair for her and easing her into a sitting position with the greatest care imaginable. Some evenings I'll walk by their room and overhear my Dad patiently answer my Mom as she asks him, "When are we going home? How long have we been here? Do my parents know we're living together here? Can we go to West Virginia and see my brothers?". My Dad tenderly tries to bring her into the present, as much as his own memory has a grasp on it, and with kindness tries to give her comfort.</div>
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This is an emotional gig I find myself in the middle of and tears come with the territory, but I keep them private and out of view. As a 55 year old adult, I understand perfectly what is happening to my parents from a clinical standpoint, but as the only living offspring of these two, I dearly miss my parents a little more every single day. It sucks to see your two most amazing role models, a pair of the finest people you could ever hope to meet, who have guided you and been incredible examples of integrity and love, falter, fail to recognize you, grapple with the simplest of tasks like opening an e-mail, working a simple jigsaw puzzle or turning off a faucet rather than just walking away and leaving it running. </div>
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This is what I want to use my blog for now. As difficult as so much of this is, and for as much as I sometimes imagine myself far removed from this situation, I know there will come a time when I will want to remember so many of the little things. I want to remind myself that we all did the very best that we could.</div>
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I'm not alone by any stretch of the imagination - there are a lot of us baby boomers out there engaged in the same role of caregiver. My situation may be a little unique in that I have no living siblings and I am a full-time caregiver to both parents. I'm outnumbered and on most days, I honestly surprise myself that I've managed another day of keeping it all together, but there are moments I feel desperately tired and I just want a few hours where I'm not in charge of anyone or anything. </div>
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I do have full-time aides who are furry and go by the name of Cleo and Sailor - two rescue dogs that rescue me on a daily basis. They interject "life" into my daily grind. They demand that I go outside and throw a tennis ball and almost every day they insist that I take them on an errand, even if it's nothing more exciting than a trip to CVS or Smithfields or the grocery store. When they see me grab my Doc Martens, coat and car keys, they are front and center and, because I fear my parents may accidentally open an outside door leaving the dogs to take the opportunity to run like the wind, I feel safer taking them along with me on most every outing I make. They are wonderful companions and they also have proven themselves as fantastic therapy dogs to my parents. Their antics, affection and interaction never fail to add laughter and joy to my parents' lives. I couldn't get through my days without Cleo and Sailor. I will forever be in their debt.</div>
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While it's true I have no siblings, I do have an amazing posse of the most generous and steadfast friends one could ever hope to meet. My dear sweet Sharon leads the pack - this woman truly makes my life so much easier and is a constant reminder that I am not alone. Sharon was one of the first friends I made when I moved to Wilmington in August 2000. I knew absolutely no one but it didn't take me long to find her. She watched in horror during the early years of our friendship and pulled me out of many of dicey situation, courtesy of my serious relationship with red wine and when it was finally time for me to confront my drinking and admit that I had become powerless, she truly held my hand and helped me believe that I was stronger than I felt. In the years since I popped that cork back in the bottle, as I've grown and regained so much that my drinking took away, she has celebrated my victories and made me believe in myself. For those reasons alone, she's been one of the most pivotal humans in my life but as I've made my way through this journey of caregiving, she's been not only a staunch source of support, but she's done a great deal of the heavy lifting right there with me. In every way except blood, she IS my sister, along with our buddy Anne, and these two women keep me laughing, cry along with me when it's needed and their support gives me courage; when you're taking care of "eldertwins", you need all the courage and stamina you can get your hands on. These women, along with other angels in my life, deliver in spades. I can honestly say that while the mission of caregiving can be a lonely business, I have seldom, if ever, felt truly alone. My friends make that impossible for me and I'm so dearly grateful for each of them. </div>
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Reaching out doesn't come naturally to most of us. However, it does become necessary. I want to be someone who learns to lend Grace as my own friends have so often and generously given Grace to me. Friends both local and far flung have showered me with so much kindness, packages of spirit lifters, cards, teas, sea glass, sailboat pillows, mugs with sayings that make me smile and feel loved, books that share advice for this passage, notes and cards that whisper comfort and joy. I'm so humbled by these gifts. I'm incredibly blessed by these angels who literally light my path and "walk me home". I can't even express how much this love means to me - a gentle envelope or box of strength that, regardless of what it contains, says, "Yes, you can keep going. You'll be fine.". There are so many wonderful people in this world and when you're in the trenches, you notice them as never before. </div>
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I don't know how much I'll be updating this site, but I want to try and keep it current. If you're in the middle of parental caregiving - feel free to reach out to me. If you're not, feel free to reach out to me anyway. I'll do my best to reach back to you.</div>
Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-52665469022879780102010-08-05T09:14:00.006-04:002010-08-05T12:22:20.646-04:00Tending Gardens...<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5kVYemvSoyHYR0Hs4Fhc4CMR_uHfaXPjlwejUgtonmnmq8S9hDpWEaFVrUCPcSgKwSDQ5T35TTmISi0hLj0XVHCQC_7jvkp61Oy-9J_KKf4rXIY2GhkYmsnQyh3zKD_WAKFosw/s1600/2010-08-02+15.08.45.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL5kVYemvSoyHYR0Hs4Fhc4CMR_uHfaXPjlwejUgtonmnmq8S9hDpWEaFVrUCPcSgKwSDQ5T35TTmISi0hLj0XVHCQC_7jvkp61Oy-9J_KKf4rXIY2GhkYmsnQyh3zKD_WAKFosw/s320/2010-08-02+15.08.45.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501961575826147442" border="0" /></a>It's been awhile. I almost forgot how to blog. A lot has happened since my last post - I believe in that one I had just announced the happy news that my daughter had become engaged way, way back in March 2009. Eons ago. As I write this, her wedding is just a hair over two months away.<br /><br />When last we met, my son was preparing for his wedding in June. Justin and Stephanie have now been married one year and two months. They had a beautiful ceremony on Wrightsville Beach and a lovely, quiet reception in our backyard.<br /><br />A lot has taken place in the past seventeen months. It's been a wonderful period of time. We've all grown in our individual ways and I'm not going to even attempt to pack it all into a synopsis, rather, I think I'll just write the first things that come to my mind because trying to recount history sounds more like an assignment and I've decided that writing should be more fun than that.<br /><br />So here we are in early August 2010. It's hot here in the South and I love this time of year, though June and July are absolutely more favored months because there's more of summer to be spent. By August, we start hearing about fall and those silly "back to school" advertisements run ad nauseum. I used to dread that time of year. I never looked forward to relinquishing my summers. I gave them up kicking and screaming. I still feel like that. I'm not one of those people who can whole-heartedly enjoy Fall because of the looming winter that follows it. Summer fits me so much better.<br /><br />This summer in particular, I have thrown myself into gardening. Flowers and vegetables have captured my attention. I have spent more time this summer with my hands in the dirt than ever before in my previous 50 years of life. I find myself entranced, mystified how you can pop a small seed into dirt and wind up with something as miraculous as a cucumber, tomato, cone-flower or daisy. It's incredible to me. I know it's been going on since forever, but for some reason I am new to this garden party and I just can't believe how crazy cool it is. Sometimes I walk out in the back yard and I just look around at an area that I seeded maybe six weeks or two months ago and I am thunderstruck to discover there are plants, blossoms, edible veggies where there once was a few weeds and black dirt. It's just nothing short of a miracle to me. I mean that with all sincerity.<br /><br />Every evening after dinner, I grab a cup of coffee and Cassie and we do a walk about - making a wide circle through the back lawn...always stopping first at the "black eyed Susan" triangle which flanks the west end of the pool, bedazzled in yellow petals and dark chocolate centers, growing almost as if in a perfect sphere with some purple wave petunias garnishing the edges. Cassie seems as wide-eyed as me as we peruse the petals.<br /><br />Then we amble over to the "true garden" behind the proper fence and through the morning-gloried gable. Inside there, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, mint and yes, big, beautiful canteloupes sit among the weeds and atop the soil. WOW. I can't help but whip out my Android and snap some shots of the bounty. I remember when those things were tiny seeds scattered in soil and they didn't show much promise at all or elude in any way to what they were destined to become. Who knew? Well, God of course. But I sure didn't. Even though I knew that planting can sometimes result in a harvest, I just didn't think it could happen to me. Not to any ground I clumsily tilled and dug around in. I considered myself to the far left of amateurish status and in a way I still do...viewing myself much greener than whatever tint my thumb might be, but there's the evidence and gosh darn it, stuff's growing all over the place in ways I can barely fathom. And I got to be the lucky girl who stuck the seeds in and had fun getting my hands dirty. Now, I'm starting to eat cucumbers and tomatoes that have emerged from that plat. Seriously - I stare at it all and I am incredulous. Baby, I'm amazed!<br /><br />It's both a source of pride and a lesson in humility, all at the very same time because in reality, hands and elbow <leo_highlight style="border-bottom: 2px solid rgb(255, 255, 150); background-color: transparent; background-image: none; background-repeat: repeat; background-attachment: scroll; background-position: 0% 50%; -moz-background-size: auto auto; cursor: pointer; display: inline; -moz-background-clip: -moz-initial; -moz-background-origin: -moz-initial; -moz-background-inline-policy: -moz-initial;" id="leoHighlights_Underline_0" onclick="leoHighlightsHandleClick('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" onmouseover="leoHighlightsHandleMouseOver('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" onmouseout="leoHighlightsHandleMouseOut('leoHighlights_Underline_0')" leohighlights_keywords="grease" leohighlights_url_top="http%3A//shortcuts.thebrowserhighlighter.com/leonardo/plugin/highlights/3_1/tbh_highlightsTop.jsp?keywords%3Dgrease%26domain%3Dwww.blogger.com" leohighlights_url_bottom="http%3A//shortcuts.thebrowserhighlighter.com/leonardo/plugin/highlights/3_1/tbh_highlightsBottom.jsp?keywords%3Dgrease%26domain%3Dwww.blogger.com" leohighlights_underline="true">grease</leo_highlight> are merely tools...like rakes and shovels and sprinkler systems. Gardening has both empowered me and reminded me of my place, all at the same time. I didn't create the miracle of life at all, but I sure got lucky enough to get my hands in it!<br /><br />How did it take me 50 years to figure this out? I don't know, and I don't really even care; I'm just glad I arrived at all.<br /><br />It touches every single sense I have - I get to feel the dirt with my hands, smell the flowers and fresh produce, see the results with my eyes, listen to the crunch as I bite down on a ripe cucumber and taste the finished product. All of that from a seed. Is that mind-boggling or what?<br /><br />It is addictive. Some evenings I have no intention of getting dirty and I may innocently reach down to pull just one weed or pluck a spent flower, and then before I know it, I'm on my knees regardless of what I'm wearing, and I am pulling dollar weeds and crab grass to beat the band and then I just give up and if I start out with a lot of concerns or worries, they wind up with the pulled weeds and my mind magically clears. There's nothing more to it - it just happens and no pharmaceutical company can compound or design a drug that can impart anything close to the feeling of clearing a patch of flowers or veggies of weeds and it's calming effect on one's mind...on one's soul. Side effects? You may have to use a nail brush and gritty soap to remove a little debris. No prescription required.<br /><br />It's just plain good for you. It's so good for me that I have now decided that when this crop is finished, I am going to plant a fall garden - and in making that decision, I have ordered seed catalogs, a garden book from The Farmer's Almanac and a lot of googling of "best plants for fall planting in Zone 8". I've decided that just because summer will be shutting down, my garden doesn't have to and I'm not about to give up the great effects this summer of tending the garden has bestowed upon me. No way. I've got plans to plow it up and set new seeds and be dazzled all over again.<br /><br />And that is what I'm up to these dog days of summer. I get up, I go to work, I get excited around 4:00 and I look forward to coming home, eating a bite and getting into my old shorts and t-shirts and playing in the dirt. If the rain precludes my plans, I just assume that God has decided that my crops need an extra drink and I need a rest...its become one of my healthiest obsessions. It bespeaks calm and it seems to spill over into many other areas in my life and I am grateful for that. A garden seems to produce more than beauty and nutrition...it's feeding me in other ways and satisfying hungers I didn't even know that I had.<br /><br />Green is good. 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</script> </span></div>Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10216775.post-87672261133536643092009-03-22T11:21:00.012-04:002009-03-22T12:40:06.991-04:00Can You Solve This????<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX08O2HVSv2_sf8m5dkJuHUW4r0BXbeegca5Iev4wMAhNI8CXTxhEV6RRWWVLyjvjnt6OSqo4rQeDUuVZxDF1YCaVdSp2bwmibuX9x1cmRi9EpYqucIegDHMymkTJmubQasYsUOA/s1600-h/katie+and+john+london.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX08O2HVSv2_sf8m5dkJuHUW4r0BXbeegca5Iev4wMAhNI8CXTxhEV6RRWWVLyjvjnt6OSqo4rQeDUuVZxDF1YCaVdSp2bwmibuX9x1cmRi9EpYqucIegDHMymkTJmubQasYsUOA/s320/katie+and+john+london.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316034216425711106" border="0" /></a>I love puzzles. I love any kind of puzzle. I'm so weird I even love math word problems.<br /><br />This will be a decidedly short post and because I love puzzles, I'm going to post one - see if you can solve it... :-)<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;">John and Katie</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0MrCtH5hHc-wzoddvoXoibllX7rT38Fjd9WvW74nS7PLnOeHd5lNIb5zIOsjEUkHunSQJVg2lqQDqV_MZ8iDBld1OO470FfLvDHKBmELI8V6XgvuTbwR94rGy3dO2xYUmINJtOA/s1600-h/katie+engagement+ring.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 310px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0MrCtH5hHc-wzoddvoXoibllX7rT38Fjd9WvW74nS7PLnOeHd5lNIb5zIOsjEUkHunSQJVg2lqQDqV_MZ8iDBld1OO470FfLvDHKBmELI8V6XgvuTbwR94rGy3dO2xYUmINJtOA/s320/katie+engagement+ring.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316034706098406450" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); font-weight: bold;"><br />PLUS (+)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />One Engagement Ring</span></span><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153); text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">E Q U A L (=)<br /><br />KATIE AND JOHN ARE ENGAGED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!<br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Needless to say, we are excited, thrilled and happy for both of them. We love them both and wish them all kinds of happiness.<br /><br /></span></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcI-WMH8qczQHGbEFfGCEkS9v9kfGm2ufMvTxPohM7TjaYh1bCsxKmIQ5ioH_HDR6Asd3m1K0mIt12AJXp5OCr81Y-1aN8TkJTIe1ik6_TpqnCj-tc8YwbsH6gFB5-J-xs4LJZQ/s1600-h/P5200098.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzcI-WMH8qczQHGbEFfGCEkS9v9kfGm2ufMvTxPohM7TjaYh1bCsxKmIQ5ioH_HDR6Asd3m1K0mIt12AJXp5OCr81Y-1aN8TkJTIe1ik6_TpqnCj-tc8YwbsH6gFB5-J-xs4LJZQ/s320/P5200098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316038848482740866" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span><span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">This means that my little family has TWO (count 'em two!) engaged couples - one wedding on the calendar (Justin and Stephanie - 21 June 2009) and the promise of another wedding (TBA).<br /><br />We officially, and with great affection, and excitement welcome Stephanie and John to the Cook/Parker clan. I will officially be the grandma to three grandcats (Boo Radley, Olive and Soprano), and I am looking so forward to having a new daughter-in-law (Stephanie) and son-in-law (John).<br /><br />Empty nesting was an adjustment, but it's turned rather exciting. I love the nests my kids are creating and the special people they have chosen to nest with.<br /><br />I couldn't possibly be more happy and pleased. As any Mom will tell you, when the kids are happy - I'm happy!!!!<br /><br />Today is about the endless possibilities and mystery of love.<br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /></span></div>Susie Writes!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14878602191612694316noreply@blogger.com3