The Measure of Our Days - Contributions of a Social Worker

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.

Some of the scenes from this experience are not anything you'd find in a commercial for "A Place For Mom", the local Hallmark Store or a warm and fuzzy Lifetime feature movie. Actually, it's more along the lines of "The Twilight Zone" with a smattering of "Gilligan's Island".

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. Respite care 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.

When I checked my Mom and Dad into the capable hands of Lower Cape Fear Hospice and Life Care Center 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.

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.

Early in our admission process, after meeting everyone assigned to my parents' care, I actually wondered why we would even be assigned a Social Worker. 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 "other" families would find the input of a Social Worker useful but really, why?

Was I EVER wrong.

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 "there" so often we have reserved seating. I know I do.

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 "accepting" her visits, I began looking forward to them.

Once again, I'm reminded that hospice has a LOT 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.

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 "my" 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.

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 THIS IS HARD AND I'M REALLY TIRED!! 

With all of my ranting,venting and "tales from the dark side of my brain", 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. 

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 "strengthen thinking" (way better than "stinkin' thinkin'"). 

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 oh-so-dishonest reply of, "I'm just fine, thank you!", I paused for a minute or so, took a deep breath and said, "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."  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. 

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 keep it real; to be as honest as I possibly can with my family, my friends and particularly myself (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 "Words With Friends" 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. 

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.

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.

It's tough, bizarre and sometimes it's funny. I cry, I laugh, I shake my head and take another step forward. 

Thank God for all of those people in this boat with me.  

Recap of Respite Care

My Parents LCFH "Sleeping Arrangements"

If you follow me on Facebook, you no doubt already know that we all survived our five glorious days of Respite Care. Lower Cape Fear Hospice once again exceeded my expectations in more ways than I can begin to recount. 

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?

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 CNA Patti, Nurse Olga and Social Worker Kim. 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. 

Dad, Kitty Cat and Mom

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.

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. 

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 "Country Roads", 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. 

 Mom, Kitty Cat, Daddy and Jane

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 "know" Mio, but I hope I meet this woman someday so that I can thank her for sharing her time and heart with my "twins". 

In another display of going "above and beyond the call of duty", 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 "called" 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. 

Our Social Worker Kim 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 "sounding board" 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. 

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. 

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. 

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 "so good to catch up with everyone!". 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. 

First Evening Back Home

I guess you could say my parents "week at summer camp" 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. 

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. 

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.

Don't Look Back...Don't Look Ahead...Look At The Moment

Friday at 9:00 AM, I made the call to our Lower Cape Fear Hospice Social 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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

And here I am. 

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.

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. 

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? 

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.

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. 

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. 

So on this oppressively hot Sunday Afternoon, I find myself struggling to come up with a script. Depending on the availability of beds at Lower Cape Fear Hospice, 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 LCFH - 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.

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 (fill in the blanks). 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?

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. 

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? 

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. 

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. 

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, "How long are we going to stay here?". 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. 

This is going to be so strange. I can't wait to see how this story comes out. Prayers and good thoughts are welcomed. 

...to be continued.

Respite Care: Exploring An "Interval of Relief"...

RESPITE: noun

"A delay or cessation for a time, especially of anything distressing or trying; an interval of relief."

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?

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

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 just came out here to sit down and drink my coffee". 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.

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.

Lower Cape Fear Hospice 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.

I was wrong. 

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. 

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.

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. 

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. 

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. 

I need an "interval of relief". Here's hoping.