Saturday, November 25, 2006
What do you do about Christmas...
...when you are so drained you have trouble finding something left to give and can barely, only barely, act on your own behalf? I awoke with this question badgering my mind, this morning; and a few others.
What do you do in "The Season of Giving" when you are so depleted you are floundering in your attempts to give on any scale, let alone the grand scale required by your care recipient? What do you do if you are not Buddha, thus, every word out of your mouth directed at anyone, let alone your care recipient, every act of assistance, every thought of compassionate cooperation and mutual appreciation feels as though you are slicing and offering a bit of finger, here, a bit of cortex, there, bit of heart someplace else?
Give until you are nowhere to be found?
Or, sit back and receive? What if you know, from past experience, that everything you receive will fall woefully short of what you and your care recipient need and will, somehow, put you in a position where you have to give some more...and you have so little left that, if you have to respond with one more "Your Welcome" to one more "Thank You" hurled your way from someplace too distant for you to actually feel its effects, you will surely sizzle, to a crisp, the vestiges of a major organ in order to appear even dimly belit by the Season?
I guess you suck it up and hope that enlightenment finds you before you disappear, before the electric company rakes in its last decorative dollar, despite the fact that you haven't the wherewithal to meditate under the bodhi tree.
That's probably what I'll be doing, this year.
What do you do in "The Season of Giving" when you are so depleted you are floundering in your attempts to give on any scale, let alone the grand scale required by your care recipient? What do you do if you are not Buddha, thus, every word out of your mouth directed at anyone, let alone your care recipient, every act of assistance, every thought of compassionate cooperation and mutual appreciation feels as though you are slicing and offering a bit of finger, here, a bit of cortex, there, bit of heart someplace else?
Give until you are nowhere to be found?
Or, sit back and receive? What if you know, from past experience, that everything you receive will fall woefully short of what you and your care recipient need and will, somehow, put you in a position where you have to give some more...and you have so little left that, if you have to respond with one more "Your Welcome" to one more "Thank You" hurled your way from someplace too distant for you to actually feel its effects, you will surely sizzle, to a crisp, the vestiges of a major organ in order to appear even dimly belit by the Season?
I guess you suck it up and hope that enlightenment finds you before you disappear, before the electric company rakes in its last decorative dollar, despite the fact that you haven't the wherewithal to meditate under the bodhi tree.
That's probably what I'll be doing, this year.
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Originally posted by Deb Peterson: Sat Nov 25, 08:56:00 PM 2006
Gail--I wish I knew! What I DO know is that, for me, this existential fatigue may well drive me to consider Christmas in a different light this year. Maybe it will turn out to be more memorable, more meaningful, more whatever--or maybe not. There are some parts of Christmas that I love, but I find myself tuning them out because I'm not able to compartmentalize, to enjoy them without buying into the "Full Monty" and I don't want to do that. I'm so turned off by the gift-giving, decorating compulsion right now. I don't want to watch "White Christmas" on TV. I'd love it to be more like Thanksgiving--just one day. It's so hard to get off this merry-go-round...
Originally posted by Patty McNally Doherty: Sat Nov 25, 10:48:00 PM 2006
Gail,
While reading your post, I wondered if perhaps there was an answer in your question.
When you give so much of yourself away - your finger, your cortex - perhaps it forces you to ask yourself if you need another body part, like a hand? Two hands, really...but where would they come from? Not family, not friend, but what about someone who wanted to learn how you do what it is you do? How you engage your mother as part of your routine. How you get her to walker. How you get her to answer your questions and discuss her life. How you care for her. How you prepare her food. How you document her vitals.
You and your mom could start a class for training people (nursing students, adult day care workers, surviving spouses, adult children of aged parents, etc.) to care for geriatric patients correctly. You know how to do it and you have raised it to an art form really. Not many people can do that and your journals are a wealth, a trove of information, experience, and expertise. Let the local nursing school send students to your home for one-on-one training. Prepare a curriculum, a guide, explain as you so eloquently do, the true art of caring for your Ancient One. Demonstrate, share your knowledge, make them learn by following your example. Teach them the steps. Train them to notice the little things that are unique signals from your mother that only a most observant person would notice. Teach them to be what we all need them to be - caring, engaged, helpful assistants.
Teach them the Lost Art of Ancient Care.
The exam will be how well your most trusted student does when you take a few hours off, when you go to sit under that bodhi tree, breathing in the necessary distance all of us needs to take from those we love the most.
You have stated frequently, and I completely agree, that many, many of us are afraid of caring for old people. They won't be, when they spend time with you, when they learn from someone who knows not just HOW it's done, but WHY it's done.
And now, I'm going to bed offering a most sincere apology if your questions were rhetorical.
Patty
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Gail--I wish I knew! What I DO know is that, for me, this existential fatigue may well drive me to consider Christmas in a different light this year. Maybe it will turn out to be more memorable, more meaningful, more whatever--or maybe not. There are some parts of Christmas that I love, but I find myself tuning them out because I'm not able to compartmentalize, to enjoy them without buying into the "Full Monty" and I don't want to do that. I'm so turned off by the gift-giving, decorating compulsion right now. I don't want to watch "White Christmas" on TV. I'd love it to be more like Thanksgiving--just one day. It's so hard to get off this merry-go-round...
Originally posted by Patty McNally Doherty: Sat Nov 25, 10:48:00 PM 2006
Gail,
While reading your post, I wondered if perhaps there was an answer in your question.
When you give so much of yourself away - your finger, your cortex - perhaps it forces you to ask yourself if you need another body part, like a hand? Two hands, really...but where would they come from? Not family, not friend, but what about someone who wanted to learn how you do what it is you do? How you engage your mother as part of your routine. How you get her to walker. How you get her to answer your questions and discuss her life. How you care for her. How you prepare her food. How you document her vitals.
You and your mom could start a class for training people (nursing students, adult day care workers, surviving spouses, adult children of aged parents, etc.) to care for geriatric patients correctly. You know how to do it and you have raised it to an art form really. Not many people can do that and your journals are a wealth, a trove of information, experience, and expertise. Let the local nursing school send students to your home for one-on-one training. Prepare a curriculum, a guide, explain as you so eloquently do, the true art of caring for your Ancient One. Demonstrate, share your knowledge, make them learn by following your example. Teach them the steps. Train them to notice the little things that are unique signals from your mother that only a most observant person would notice. Teach them to be what we all need them to be - caring, engaged, helpful assistants.
Teach them the Lost Art of Ancient Care.
The exam will be how well your most trusted student does when you take a few hours off, when you go to sit under that bodhi tree, breathing in the necessary distance all of us needs to take from those we love the most.
You have stated frequently, and I completely agree, that many, many of us are afraid of caring for old people. They won't be, when they spend time with you, when they learn from someone who knows not just HOW it's done, but WHY it's done.
And now, I'm going to bed offering a most sincere apology if your questions were rhetorical.
Patty
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