Friday, December 8, 2006
My mother reads in bed before turning out her light.
Last night she finally finished one of the "Cat" mysteries that MCS sent her some time ago. I think this was probably her second or third reading of this particular mystery. She keeps going back to it, I think, because the cover is red. Anyway, to spice up her night reading and keep her from starting the same mystery yet again, I pointed out to her that she'd finished the mystery, which sat on the top tier of her bedstand, and pulled out books she's been collecting on the bottom tier for future reading. The last book was a history of Christmas I bought for her last year. I noticed that the jacket marked a point about a third of the way through the book where she had apparently stopped reading in favor of something else.
"Oh, look," I said, knowing that, in her role of Mrs. Christmas and in her acute awareness, this year, of the Christmas season, she'd probably be interested in the book, "here's that book on the history of Christmas. This might be a good time to read that."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, and reached for the book.
She opened the book where the jacket divided the pages, at the beginning of a chapter.
"You might not want to pay attention to that, Mom. It's been a year since you read the book. You might want to restart it."
She looked at me as though I was crazy. "Why," she asked, just this side of indignance, "would I want to read something I've already read?!?"
There are many answers to this question, of course, one of which my mother implied in the way she asked it, so I didn't bother to elaborate.
She called me into her bedroom twice during the half hour she spent "reading herself to sleep" to read portions of the chapter to me: One of which discussed the pre-Christian winter solstice feasts, celebrated as an act of faith that the following planting season would yield a plentiful harvest; another that talked about the growing European awareness, notably promulgated by Charlemagne, that warfare was always to be avoided on Christmas. After she read me the second section, she wondered aloud with whom this tradition began.
I couldn't stop myself. "It's probably in an earlier section, Mom. You might consider going back and starting at the beginning," I gently suggested.
"No," she said, "if it was there I would have remembered it."
You and I know "better", the lamppost probably knows "better", but my mother knows herself. Best, I decided to leave her to her remembrance of her memory. It may not be "better" than mine, but it is certainly more astonishing than mine, and much more interesting. And, you know, who knows what she might actually be remembering.
Which reminds me, speaking of her astonishing memory, here's a tidbit I've been meaning to post for ages but continually forget.
Some months ago when I read through Anne Robertson's journal, I came across a post in which Anne talked about a room blessing ceremony, performed on the day her mother moved into The Birches, an assisted living facility for those with Alzheimer's, and blanketing her mother's room with prayer. I was enchanted. I wrote Anne about my reaction, and told her of my intention to talk to my mother about this, since Mom is the daughter of a daughter of a Methodist minister, there are other followers of professional religiosity in her ancestry, as well, and I was curious to see if she remembered such ceremonies. Before I got a chance to talk to my mother, Anne wrote back telling me that Methodist liturgy has many such ceremonies, all contained in The Book of Worship.
This spurred me toward reading that post to my mother and asking her about her knowledge of such ceremonies. I was curious, knowing the extremely conservative bent of her grandfather's services that she often attended, especially when she lived with him during her college years, if she remembered him or any of her other pastoralized relatives performing such ceremonies.
She didn't and said she doubted such ceremonies were recognized "at that time."
"Well," I said, "wouldn't it be interesting if we could get ahold of your grandfather's Book of Worship and see if these ceremonies were recognized, at least in theory? Then, we'd know whether their use was simply out of fashion at that time and ignored, or whether they became a part of Methodism later? Do you know who might have inherited your grandfather's books?"
She thought about this for awhile but came up with nothing and mentioned that she doubted she'd remember. We talked, briefly, about contacting people who were still alive and had been closely connected with her grandfather and his children to see if anyone had kept those books.
The next morning, when she awoke, she announced, without being prompted, "I remember, now, what happened to Grandpa's books."
"Really," I said. "So, who do we write?"
She chuckled. "Well, that's the question. Sometime after I graduated from college, before I went into the Navy, Grandpa retired. Manette (her favorite uncle's wife, now dead) and I were there visiting and Grandpa asked us to clean out the attic for him. All his books were up there."
"Oh, excellent," I said, anticipating that she was about to tell me that Harold and Manette's surviving daughter probably now had possession of the books.
"Well, no," she said. "I remember that we tossed the books out the window. All of them."
"What?!?"
"Yes. He said to get rid of them, so we tossed them out the window."
"But, why? I mean, I guess I can understand getting rid of them, the gods know, I've gotten rid of books, too, but I take them to secondhand book stores. I don't understand tossing them out the window!"
"In those days, when you were getting rid of stuff like that, you threw them out on the lawn and someone would come by and pick them up."
"You mean, just anyone? Or, second hand book dealers or something?"
"No, no, garbage men."
"Oh, my god! All those books were thrown away?!?"
Mom laughed ruefully. "Yes, I'm afraid so. And notebooks with his sermons. And prayers."
I gasped and shuddered. "Was that okay with Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, I remember him telling us to."
"No one wanted to keep them?"
"Well, we didn't ask. Manette and I certainly didn't want them. Now that I'm remembering, I'm sorry we did that."
We observed some moments of mournful silence.
"Well," I said, working hard to assuage my disappointment, "I'm devasted about the sermons, but I suppose we could find a copy of the same Book of Worship Grandpa used someplace, a library, or maybe from the Methodist church."
"You know, isn't it funny that I remember that so clearly," she said. "Like it was yesterday. It was spring, I remember. Manette and I felt so good opening up the attic windows and tossing all that stuff out. I remember stirring up clouds of dust and watching them float through the windows. I remember how good the attic smelled after we finished. I wonder why I couldn't remember that last night."
"Well, Mom, maybe you just needed to sleep on it. Your memory always works better when you're in a prone position," I joked.
But, the thing is, that isn't a joke. I've noticed this before. This was just one of the more dramatic episodes. I remember thinking a lot about this, that night. My mind also works wonders in sleep. It not only remembers incidents I thought had been erased, but sleep is such a reliable way for me to solve problems of all kinds that I often set myself up for solving a specific problem before I go to sleep. I know this is a fairly common phenomenon, no doubt the generation of the phrase, "Sleep on it." I just never imagined that this facility would continue to work within the context of a demented brain.
My mother's brain is not nearly as severely demented as that of many Ancients, but it is squirrelly enough so that I often wonder (and have often written) about the possibility that her episodes of demented phasing, happening so often, as they do, immediately after she awakens, are actually memories so startlingly presented in sleep that she is convinced that the events just occurred...not to mention my theory that when she connects with her Dead Zone Community, it's entirely possible that she actually did, and I'm the one in the household who's hopelessly out of touch.
Brains are such an amazing organ. I hope we don't abolish dementia before we are able to explore and appreciate the wonders of its multiple realities.
Later.
"Oh, look," I said, knowing that, in her role of Mrs. Christmas and in her acute awareness, this year, of the Christmas season, she'd probably be interested in the book, "here's that book on the history of Christmas. This might be a good time to read that."
"Oh, yes," she agreed, and reached for the book.
She opened the book where the jacket divided the pages, at the beginning of a chapter.
"You might not want to pay attention to that, Mom. It's been a year since you read the book. You might want to restart it."
She looked at me as though I was crazy. "Why," she asked, just this side of indignance, "would I want to read something I've already read?!?"
There are many answers to this question, of course, one of which my mother implied in the way she asked it, so I didn't bother to elaborate.
She called me into her bedroom twice during the half hour she spent "reading herself to sleep" to read portions of the chapter to me: One of which discussed the pre-Christian winter solstice feasts, celebrated as an act of faith that the following planting season would yield a plentiful harvest; another that talked about the growing European awareness, notably promulgated by Charlemagne, that warfare was always to be avoided on Christmas. After she read me the second section, she wondered aloud with whom this tradition began.
I couldn't stop myself. "It's probably in an earlier section, Mom. You might consider going back and starting at the beginning," I gently suggested.
"No," she said, "if it was there I would have remembered it."
You and I know "better", the lamppost probably knows "better", but my mother knows herself. Best, I decided to leave her to her remembrance of her memory. It may not be "better" than mine, but it is certainly more astonishing than mine, and much more interesting. And, you know, who knows what she might actually be remembering.
Which reminds me, speaking of her astonishing memory, here's a tidbit I've been meaning to post for ages but continually forget.
Some months ago when I read through Anne Robertson's journal, I came across a post in which Anne talked about a room blessing ceremony, performed on the day her mother moved into The Birches, an assisted living facility for those with Alzheimer's, and blanketing her mother's room with prayer. I was enchanted. I wrote Anne about my reaction, and told her of my intention to talk to my mother about this, since Mom is the daughter of a daughter of a Methodist minister, there are other followers of professional religiosity in her ancestry, as well, and I was curious to see if she remembered such ceremonies. Before I got a chance to talk to my mother, Anne wrote back telling me that Methodist liturgy has many such ceremonies, all contained in The Book of Worship.
This spurred me toward reading that post to my mother and asking her about her knowledge of such ceremonies. I was curious, knowing the extremely conservative bent of her grandfather's services that she often attended, especially when she lived with him during her college years, if she remembered him or any of her other pastoralized relatives performing such ceremonies.
She didn't and said she doubted such ceremonies were recognized "at that time."
"Well," I said, "wouldn't it be interesting if we could get ahold of your grandfather's Book of Worship and see if these ceremonies were recognized, at least in theory? Then, we'd know whether their use was simply out of fashion at that time and ignored, or whether they became a part of Methodism later? Do you know who might have inherited your grandfather's books?"
She thought about this for awhile but came up with nothing and mentioned that she doubted she'd remember. We talked, briefly, about contacting people who were still alive and had been closely connected with her grandfather and his children to see if anyone had kept those books.
The next morning, when she awoke, she announced, without being prompted, "I remember, now, what happened to Grandpa's books."
"Really," I said. "So, who do we write?"
She chuckled. "Well, that's the question. Sometime after I graduated from college, before I went into the Navy, Grandpa retired. Manette (her favorite uncle's wife, now dead) and I were there visiting and Grandpa asked us to clean out the attic for him. All his books were up there."
"Oh, excellent," I said, anticipating that she was about to tell me that Harold and Manette's surviving daughter probably now had possession of the books.
"Well, no," she said. "I remember that we tossed the books out the window. All of them."
"What?!?"
"Yes. He said to get rid of them, so we tossed them out the window."
"But, why? I mean, I guess I can understand getting rid of them, the gods know, I've gotten rid of books, too, but I take them to secondhand book stores. I don't understand tossing them out the window!"
"In those days, when you were getting rid of stuff like that, you threw them out on the lawn and someone would come by and pick them up."
"You mean, just anyone? Or, second hand book dealers or something?"
"No, no, garbage men."
"Oh, my god! All those books were thrown away?!?"
Mom laughed ruefully. "Yes, I'm afraid so. And notebooks with his sermons. And prayers."
I gasped and shuddered. "Was that okay with Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, I remember him telling us to."
"No one wanted to keep them?"
"Well, we didn't ask. Manette and I certainly didn't want them. Now that I'm remembering, I'm sorry we did that."
We observed some moments of mournful silence.
"Well," I said, working hard to assuage my disappointment, "I'm devasted about the sermons, but I suppose we could find a copy of the same Book of Worship Grandpa used someplace, a library, or maybe from the Methodist church."
"You know, isn't it funny that I remember that so clearly," she said. "Like it was yesterday. It was spring, I remember. Manette and I felt so good opening up the attic windows and tossing all that stuff out. I remember stirring up clouds of dust and watching them float through the windows. I remember how good the attic smelled after we finished. I wonder why I couldn't remember that last night."
"Well, Mom, maybe you just needed to sleep on it. Your memory always works better when you're in a prone position," I joked.
But, the thing is, that isn't a joke. I've noticed this before. This was just one of the more dramatic episodes. I remember thinking a lot about this, that night. My mind also works wonders in sleep. It not only remembers incidents I thought had been erased, but sleep is such a reliable way for me to solve problems of all kinds that I often set myself up for solving a specific problem before I go to sleep. I know this is a fairly common phenomenon, no doubt the generation of the phrase, "Sleep on it." I just never imagined that this facility would continue to work within the context of a demented brain.
My mother's brain is not nearly as severely demented as that of many Ancients, but it is squirrelly enough so that I often wonder (and have often written) about the possibility that her episodes of demented phasing, happening so often, as they do, immediately after she awakens, are actually memories so startlingly presented in sleep that she is convinced that the events just occurred...not to mention my theory that when she connects with her Dead Zone Community, it's entirely possible that she actually did, and I'm the one in the household who's hopelessly out of touch.
Brains are such an amazing organ. I hope we don't abolish dementia before we are able to explore and appreciate the wonders of its multiple realities.
Later.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
I'm enmeshed in a labeling frenzy...
...and I don't expect to untangle myself for awhile. If you've checked any of the "Label Index" pages (up for this journal, the Archive and the essay section), you've probably noticed I'm surrendering to extreme wordiness and exactitude. Thus, I noticed, with pleasure, after I finished the Archive and examined that Label Index for errors, my label indexes read like a caregiver's journal in idiosyncratic shorthand.
I know it's not a standard way to label. It also puts a bit of a strain on Beta Blogger, as I'm continuing to receive warnings that I've included more than 200 characters in the "Labels for this post:" dialogue box attached to the post editing facility and find myself having to attach many of my labels through the list of post for edit, rather than within the posts. However, the extremely long names for each label page are going through easily.
I just scanned the essay section label index and noticed that the longer the labels, the harder they are to read and the more likely, I imagine, that people will click in, say, "Oh, brother, not worth it," and click out. In case you're wondering why I'm insisting on long, meticulous labels, they are signals to me of types of posts for which I tend to look when self-referentiating (thanks for that, Mike).
Three minutes to Mom-awakening. Better git.
As I feel like it...
...later.
I know it's not a standard way to label. It also puts a bit of a strain on Beta Blogger, as I'm continuing to receive warnings that I've included more than 200 characters in the "Labels for this post:" dialogue box attached to the post editing facility and find myself having to attach many of my labels through the list of post for edit, rather than within the posts. However, the extremely long names for each label page are going through easily.
I just scanned the essay section label index and noticed that the longer the labels, the harder they are to read and the more likely, I imagine, that people will click in, say, "Oh, brother, not worth it," and click out. In case you're wondering why I'm insisting on long, meticulous labels, they are signals to me of types of posts for which I tend to look when self-referentiating (thanks for that, Mike).
Three minutes to Mom-awakening. Better git.
As I feel like it...
...later.
"Bring tender towards your world...
...allows you to keep your heart open." --quotation on a mug containing an illustration by Debbie Hron (illustration copyrighted 2004)
Yesterday I made an errand run to our local grocery. One of the items I needed was a bottle of dill pickle relish. In order to get to the section with this product, I had to traverse the Christmas section. Normally, I don't pay any more than peripheral attention to items in the holiday section and that attention is reserved for particularly bright or odd items. I noticed yesterday, though, that ceramic coffee mugs were on display, one of which was not only exactly the right size for my one cupper drip coffee attachment, they were on sale ten for a dollar. In addition, they were marked "Lead Free Ceramics" and "Microwave and Dishwasher Safe". I'm always looking for appropriate coffee mugs, as, the longer I have them, the more likely they are to crack or break. I was astonished at the price, so I examined the mugs carefully, assuming they must be particularly fragile (which usually means the handle is rickety or the ceramics were chipped in transit). Nothing appeared to be wrong with them. I was satisfied that, for ten cents, the mugs would be worth trying. I bought one.
I placed it in the dishwasher last night. This morning I took the cup for a trial run. Curiously, I paid no attention to the decoration on the cup until this morning while I was waiting for water to boil for my coffee. It consists of a Christmas tree resplendent with ornaments: Mostly a variety of birds, but there are also some hearts, snowmen, a vaguely Slavic European Santa (my mother collects Santas, so I'm familiar with Santa genre), a cat, a cow, a sheep, hearts, stars and a garland that looks like it was made from cranberries. Each item is distinct within its sort. Then, I noticed the quotation. Intriguing.
It gave me a strong clue as to why the mug has been so drastically discounted. Someone must have noticed the mangled English, brought it to the attention of the store staff and derided it, I decided. I love stuff like this, though, so much that I'll probably pick up another of these cups before they disappear, strictly for display purposes; maybe as a tree ornament.
Then, I looked up the definition of "tender" (although you'd think it would be pretty obvious, wouldn't you; I like to be exact, though). When used as a noun, the word has the following definitions (Oxford American Dictionaries):
Not being familiar with the artist, my assumption was that the quote originated with her and she must not be a native speaker of English. Wondering what the native language was out of which she translated (or, maybe even originated) the quote for and English speaking audience, I first searched her last name for geographic origins (noted here), then definitions, the only one of which I could find on the web here. Then, I searched the artist and found a brief biography (a link to which no longer exists: 9/30/08). Obviously well enough familiar with English, I realized, for the quote not to have originated with her, at least not this version.
I hunted for products with her name attached. It appears that she is strictly a graphic artist (although my search was not definitive) and if she illustrates words, the words are most likely not hers. I had begun to form an imaginary play of someone in China, where the cup was made, poring over a Chinese translation of one of her sayings, rendering it back into English, thus making it a third generation translation, the contemplation of which I found delightful. Probably not what happened, I realized. This quotation may very well be a Chinese standard rendered into English for publication on this cup.
At any rate, I find the translation provocative precisely because of the way it was translated. I'm surprised that I picked up an item with a quote so obviously geared toward caregiving. As well, awkward translations are my favorite, having been, myself, in years past, author of many awkward translations. For me, they offer a more exact flavor of the mind, specifically the cultural thought patterns, out of which the translation arose and invite me to rearrange and expand my own mind. This quote produced an image of someone prying open his or her heart with his or her hands, possibly exposing him or herself to pain, gently fastening fingers around a thoughtfully chosen piece of his or her heart, cradling the piece in his or her hands and delicately, vulnerably offering it to someone in need of heart-care.
This, folks, is the essence of caregiving. Ultimate Caregiving is not hands offering assistance or items to someone, it's hands offering a portion of one's heart. It's a tricky business and sometimes it smarts enough to bring tears to one's eyes. But, you know, even if the piece of heart is handled roughly by the recipient, or, perhaps, not even noticed, in the end the freshened, unobstructed heart that results is worth the trouble.
Yesterday I made an errand run to our local grocery. One of the items I needed was a bottle of dill pickle relish. In order to get to the section with this product, I had to traverse the Christmas section. Normally, I don't pay any more than peripheral attention to items in the holiday section and that attention is reserved for particularly bright or odd items. I noticed yesterday, though, that ceramic coffee mugs were on display, one of which was not only exactly the right size for my one cupper drip coffee attachment, they were on sale ten for a dollar. In addition, they were marked "Lead Free Ceramics" and "Microwave and Dishwasher Safe". I'm always looking for appropriate coffee mugs, as, the longer I have them, the more likely they are to crack or break. I was astonished at the price, so I examined the mugs carefully, assuming they must be particularly fragile (which usually means the handle is rickety or the ceramics were chipped in transit). Nothing appeared to be wrong with them. I was satisfied that, for ten cents, the mugs would be worth trying. I bought one.
I placed it in the dishwasher last night. This morning I took the cup for a trial run. Curiously, I paid no attention to the decoration on the cup until this morning while I was waiting for water to boil for my coffee. It consists of a Christmas tree resplendent with ornaments: Mostly a variety of birds, but there are also some hearts, snowmen, a vaguely Slavic European Santa (my mother collects Santas, so I'm familiar with Santa genre), a cat, a cow, a sheep, hearts, stars and a garland that looks like it was made from cranberries. Each item is distinct within its sort. Then, I noticed the quotation. Intriguing.
It gave me a strong clue as to why the mug has been so drastically discounted. Someone must have noticed the mangled English, brought it to the attention of the store staff and derided it, I decided. I love stuff like this, though, so much that I'll probably pick up another of these cups before they disappear, strictly for display purposes; maybe as a tree ornament.
Then, I looked up the definition of "tender" (although you'd think it would be pretty obvious, wouldn't you; I like to be exact, though). When used as a noun, the word has the following definitions (Oxford American Dictionaries):
- an offer to carry out work, supply goods or buy land, shares, or another asset at a stated fixed price;
- a person who looks after someone else or a machine or place;
- a boat used to ferry people and supplies to and from a ship;
- a railcar coupled to a steam locomotive to carry fuel and water.
Not being familiar with the artist, my assumption was that the quote originated with her and she must not be a native speaker of English. Wondering what the native language was out of which she translated (or, maybe even originated) the quote for and English speaking audience, I first searched her last name for geographic origins (noted here), then definitions, the only one of which I could find on the web here. Then, I searched the artist and found a brief biography (a link to which no longer exists: 9/30/08). Obviously well enough familiar with English, I realized, for the quote not to have originated with her, at least not this version.
I hunted for products with her name attached. It appears that she is strictly a graphic artist (although my search was not definitive) and if she illustrates words, the words are most likely not hers. I had begun to form an imaginary play of someone in China, where the cup was made, poring over a Chinese translation of one of her sayings, rendering it back into English, thus making it a third generation translation, the contemplation of which I found delightful. Probably not what happened, I realized. This quotation may very well be a Chinese standard rendered into English for publication on this cup.
At any rate, I find the translation provocative precisely because of the way it was translated. I'm surprised that I picked up an item with a quote so obviously geared toward caregiving. As well, awkward translations are my favorite, having been, myself, in years past, author of many awkward translations. For me, they offer a more exact flavor of the mind, specifically the cultural thought patterns, out of which the translation arose and invite me to rearrange and expand my own mind. This quote produced an image of someone prying open his or her heart with his or her hands, possibly exposing him or herself to pain, gently fastening fingers around a thoughtfully chosen piece of his or her heart, cradling the piece in his or her hands and delicately, vulnerably offering it to someone in need of heart-care.
This, folks, is the essence of caregiving. Ultimate Caregiving is not hands offering assistance or items to someone, it's hands offering a portion of one's heart. It's a tricky business and sometimes it smarts enough to bring tears to one's eyes. But, you know, even if the piece of heart is handled roughly by the recipient, or, perhaps, not even noticed, in the end the freshened, unobstructed heart that results is worth the trouble.
Monday, December 4, 2006
The first lesson we learn after birth is how to take.
The reason it's the first lesson is because it is the most important. If we don't receive at the moment of birth, we won't survive. This, I think, is why giving is so hard for us to understand.
I was reminded of this while watching a segment of Cheap in America about how "good" giving is for one's physical health, precisely because, the show asserted, it is good for one's mental health. The segment used words and phrases like "high", "feel good chemicals like dopamine", "reward", "energized", "spiritual buzz". Giving apparently enhances all areas of one's life: School performance, work performance, social performance and internal sense of peace.
I can't argue with this. I've felt it. I know it's true. Being a full time caregiver, I also focused on a tiny quote by Steven Post in the show that probably only caregivers of all stripes noticed: "...at the right dose, science says it's very good for you." Italics are mine.
The right dose. How do we know when we've overdosed? Full time caregivers know. It's when you can't contemplate giving without becoming aware of the certainty of pain and exhaustion, both emotional and physical. At that point, you can't give, anymore, until you've received. Additionally, random receiving doesn't work. Somehow, some way, you need to receive something in particular, not something in general.
My Christmas change of heart, I think, is a good example of this. If you've been following along over the last month or so in this journal, it can't have escaped your notice that I've overdosed on giving. I've written about it so acutely that I imagine it seems I am obsessed with this. It's also been obvious that I have assumed that I was beyond cure, since I am clearly, at the moment, beyond giving, cheerful giving, anyway. Anything. To anyone. Except the habitual giving I perform minute by minute with my mother, which, while so habitual that I don't notice pain or exhaustion and I believe it doesn't affect me, clearly affects my ability to give to others.
Then, I was offered two gifts, so similar in quantity as to be indistinguishable but so radically different in quality that the choice of which to choose (I couldn't choose both) was, as the above mentioned segment also states, a "no brainer": The gift of Mom and I being hosted during Christmas. The first offering, while well intentioned, presented me with the gift of giving even more than I already have: Giving Mom as the treasured family jewel to be passed about and admired without the jewel having to be tended, as the jewel's janitor would, of course, be present. The second offering presented me with the opportunity to pass around some of my janitorial caregiver concerns, allow my mother to be treated as a treasured individual, instead of a jewel, and promised relaxation and merriment for both of us.
I was so low in resources that I chose to receive, this year, instead of give. Amazing what happened. My spirit revived before the phone call extending the second invitation was finished. I was so filled with relief that I found myself offering, yet again: To provide part of the holiday feast. Previous to the phone call I had decided that I wasn't going to worry about traditional Christmas giving, this year. The process of thinking about what would delight my people, relatives and friends, seemed so overwhelming that I simply couldn't contemplate it. This is especially painful for me because I'm an especially meticulous gift chooser. It's something in which I take pride and it is especially painful when I not only don't feel like giving but am bereft of internal resources to the point of contemplating giving as painful. Immediately after the phone call, though, I was suddenly inspired with an idea of what to give, as Christmas gifts, to our three hosts. I became so excited about the the pleasure the items would solicit that I dashed out and purchased them the following day. Granted, I still can't think about Christmas shopping for anyone else, and may not find this aspect of Christmas giving revived before it's too late but, you know, it's a start.
So, yes, I've found, in these 13 years of advanced giving, that giving is rewarded. I've received some extraordinary benefits, including those intangibles much hyped by the above show. I've also found that I am not yet so spiritually advanced that I cannot overdose on giving. I occasionally contemplate that being this advanced would be wonderful because it would certainly render being my mother's companion and caregiver much easier and much more joyful, but I haven't figured out a way to get there, yet, and am not scourging myself over this lack of ability. After all, Mother Theresa's nomination for sainthood wasn't proposed because she was she was the ultimate caregiver, although her profession including bouts of caregiving. Her special gift was more along the lines of an inspired CEO, especially talented in talking others into giving resources to her project; thus, she could be said to be the ultimate receiver. The sisters she eventually employed to do the bulk of the caregiving weren't nominated for sainthood.
All of you who know intense needs caregivers, think twice, this year, before you give the gift of an invitation to a holiday get-together to a caregiver and her charge. Turn the tables on yourself. Think about what you're asking them to give as you extend your invitation and what you're expecting to receive. Be aware that The Season of Giving is hard on those who have chosen to give intense needs care. Think about how you can balance the giving/receiving scales for your caregiver. Consider that asking your caregiver to Display the Ancient One During the Holidays is asking them to give, yet again, not receive. Step back and consider what you can give, not only during the holidays, but throughout the year, that will allow the caregiver you know to relax, revive and be able to face the new year with a renewed spirit of giving.
Giving may be good for people, but so is receiving. Intense needs caregivers know this better than anyone, precisely because they rarely receive much of anything and are always giving almost everything. Give yourself the gift, this year, of watching your caregiver flower in the joy of receiving a truly thoughtful gift from you.
I was reminded of this while watching a segment of Cheap in America about how "good" giving is for one's physical health, precisely because, the show asserted, it is good for one's mental health. The segment used words and phrases like "high", "feel good chemicals like dopamine", "reward", "energized", "spiritual buzz". Giving apparently enhances all areas of one's life: School performance, work performance, social performance and internal sense of peace.
I can't argue with this. I've felt it. I know it's true. Being a full time caregiver, I also focused on a tiny quote by Steven Post in the show that probably only caregivers of all stripes noticed: "...at the right dose, science says it's very good for you." Italics are mine.
The right dose. How do we know when we've overdosed? Full time caregivers know. It's when you can't contemplate giving without becoming aware of the certainty of pain and exhaustion, both emotional and physical. At that point, you can't give, anymore, until you've received. Additionally, random receiving doesn't work. Somehow, some way, you need to receive something in particular, not something in general.
My Christmas change of heart, I think, is a good example of this. If you've been following along over the last month or so in this journal, it can't have escaped your notice that I've overdosed on giving. I've written about it so acutely that I imagine it seems I am obsessed with this. It's also been obvious that I have assumed that I was beyond cure, since I am clearly, at the moment, beyond giving, cheerful giving, anyway. Anything. To anyone. Except the habitual giving I perform minute by minute with my mother, which, while so habitual that I don't notice pain or exhaustion and I believe it doesn't affect me, clearly affects my ability to give to others.
Then, I was offered two gifts, so similar in quantity as to be indistinguishable but so radically different in quality that the choice of which to choose (I couldn't choose both) was, as the above mentioned segment also states, a "no brainer": The gift of Mom and I being hosted during Christmas. The first offering, while well intentioned, presented me with the gift of giving even more than I already have: Giving Mom as the treasured family jewel to be passed about and admired without the jewel having to be tended, as the jewel's janitor would, of course, be present. The second offering presented me with the opportunity to pass around some of my janitorial caregiver concerns, allow my mother to be treated as a treasured individual, instead of a jewel, and promised relaxation and merriment for both of us.
I was so low in resources that I chose to receive, this year, instead of give. Amazing what happened. My spirit revived before the phone call extending the second invitation was finished. I was so filled with relief that I found myself offering, yet again: To provide part of the holiday feast. Previous to the phone call I had decided that I wasn't going to worry about traditional Christmas giving, this year. The process of thinking about what would delight my people, relatives and friends, seemed so overwhelming that I simply couldn't contemplate it. This is especially painful for me because I'm an especially meticulous gift chooser. It's something in which I take pride and it is especially painful when I not only don't feel like giving but am bereft of internal resources to the point of contemplating giving as painful. Immediately after the phone call, though, I was suddenly inspired with an idea of what to give, as Christmas gifts, to our three hosts. I became so excited about the the pleasure the items would solicit that I dashed out and purchased them the following day. Granted, I still can't think about Christmas shopping for anyone else, and may not find this aspect of Christmas giving revived before it's too late but, you know, it's a start.
So, yes, I've found, in these 13 years of advanced giving, that giving is rewarded. I've received some extraordinary benefits, including those intangibles much hyped by the above show. I've also found that I am not yet so spiritually advanced that I cannot overdose on giving. I occasionally contemplate that being this advanced would be wonderful because it would certainly render being my mother's companion and caregiver much easier and much more joyful, but I haven't figured out a way to get there, yet, and am not scourging myself over this lack of ability. After all, Mother Theresa's nomination for sainthood wasn't proposed because she was she was the ultimate caregiver, although her profession including bouts of caregiving. Her special gift was more along the lines of an inspired CEO, especially talented in talking others into giving resources to her project; thus, she could be said to be the ultimate receiver. The sisters she eventually employed to do the bulk of the caregiving weren't nominated for sainthood.
All of you who know intense needs caregivers, think twice, this year, before you give the gift of an invitation to a holiday get-together to a caregiver and her charge. Turn the tables on yourself. Think about what you're asking them to give as you extend your invitation and what you're expecting to receive. Be aware that The Season of Giving is hard on those who have chosen to give intense needs care. Think about how you can balance the giving/receiving scales for your caregiver. Consider that asking your caregiver to Display the Ancient One During the Holidays is asking them to give, yet again, not receive. Step back and consider what you can give, not only during the holidays, but throughout the year, that will allow the caregiver you know to relax, revive and be able to face the new year with a renewed spirit of giving.
Giving may be good for people, but so is receiving. Intense needs caregivers know this better than anyone, precisely because they rarely receive much of anything and are always giving almost everything. Give yourself the gift, this year, of watching your caregiver flower in the joy of receiving a truly thoughtful gift from you.
Christmas. Ah, yes.
I've changed our plans.
Late last week MCF called. I've noticed, over the last couple of months, that she's been calling but I've been, well, out of touch with everyone, not answering the phone, a bit dour in public so that no one will approach me, etc. Sometime last week I triggered the ring on the phone, again, feeling somewhat more social, and she called again.
She's used to my silences but she was beginning to worry. "It's a good thing you answered," she said. "If you hadn't, [her sister] and I were going to drive up there next Tuesday and check on you!"
She's the one who keeps an eye on me and grabs me back when I begin to get in too deep, as mentioned here. She is also one of the few people I know whose family took in her dad during the last years of his life.
I confirmed that I've been experiencing a period of self-enforced isolation but that I seem to be inching out of it, off and on, lately, which is why I answered the phone when she called. We chatted, caught each other up, then she asked what Mom and I are doing for Christmas, adding that we were, of course, invited to her house.
I mentioned that I'd accepted an invitation from MPS's family, telling her that I figured I'd better go, since I refused their Thanksgiving invitation; then I began to sob uncontrollably. "I don't want to go," I said. "I'm sure Mom wants to, but I just am not looking forward to all the work it takes just to be there and I still haven't come to terms with all this anger I feel toward my family. It's just exhausting to contemplate. And, anyway, I can't get excited about Christmas, this year, not for anything. I'm seriously considering displaying very bad manners and calling MPS and telling her I just don't have it in me again this year."
"Don't go, then," she suggested. "Come here. It'll just be the three of us (she, her daughter and one of her sisters)."
I didn't hesitate. I knew this was what I wanted to do. I knew Mom would enjoy this, too. I immediately began to perk up.
Why would this alternate invitation be preferable to me? We'd still be traveling. There would still be the extra preparation, etc. Well, let me tell you why. These people know how to be around my mother. They know how to be around me when I am with my mother. They are so good at it that when my mother and I are with anyone in their family, my burden of vigilance, and often many of the chores involved in being with my mother, are lightened because they automatically do what I do with her. They are capable of this because they did it with their dad/grandfather for several years. When Mom and I are at their home on Christmas, there will be four caregiver companions who delight in Mom, know how to be around her, and each of us will be shouldering part the load; thus, all of us will be able to relax; it will seem as though being with my mother is no load at all.
Bad social manners, I know, to accept an invitation then cancel for another, but I suffered no recrimination over the possibility. Nor did I have a problem calling my sister, uninviting us and explaining why I chose for Mom and me to spend the holiday elsewhere.
I was honest with her. I explained everything above. I continued that the difference was circumstantial: MCF's family had the experience that allows our visits to be relaxing for me; MPS's family does not. I'm opting for the relaxing holiday.
MPS told me she understood. She certainly sounded like she did. She expressed that she wanted me to have a good holiday. She mentioned that she didn't want me to apologize. Actually, I hadn't and I didn't...she may not have noticed this. Before I made the phone call I decided not to apologize. Why, I considered, should I apologize for making things easier on myself and guaranteeing a felicitous holiday that I knew I would enjoy, and so would Mom, instead of a holiday I was dreading and knew would be a trial for me?
I did mention that I probably knew enough about how I was feeling that I shouldn't have accepted when she invited us but, I admitted, I also thought I would be up to what would be required; the plans were a month away when they were made. Seems I miscalculated. I also mentioned to her that it is much, much easier on me when Mom and I are with people who are adept at being with Mom. "You guys aren't very good at being around Mom," I told her.
She didn't say anything.
The upshot is that I am feeling quite a bit better than I was at this time last week. I've been triggering the cable to play Christmas music, along with which Mom and I are singing. We've been excitedly discussing the trip and I'm not faking my excitement. We're contributing to the feast, as well, which I hadn't considered in regard to the first invitation; I wasn't up to it. Tonight I set up our fiber optic Christmas tree. We haven't decorated it, yet. The Eukanuba National Dog Show one of Mom's "must see" programs, intervened, and, anyway, this is Mr. Man's first Christmas tree so decorating is going to be interesting and deserves to be done without distraction...probably tomorrow evening. In the mean time, Mom's annual Christmas spirit is thriving, I'm enjoying her, I'm enjoying Christmas possibilities, this year...and, well, my energy is returning and my attitude is reflecting our neighbor's-to-the-east Christmas light display.
In case you're wondering, I did, indeed, discuss this with Mom, with the same detail and directness I displayed with MPS. She had no problem with my decision. A party is a party, Christmas is Christmas and as long as we're with people we love who love us, she's fine.
Extended families of primary caregivers to Ancient Ones, take note: It's important for you to step up to the plate, too, if you want to enjoy your relatives during those holiday visits and care whether those relatives will be able to enjoy you. No excuses. If don't keep up with how to be with your Ancient One, even if your intent is to be with that Ancient One only occasionally and only during holiday family gatherings, I assure you that the member of your family who is the caregiver will eventually find visits so torturous that she will avoid them.
You have responsibilities, too, assuming that you want to keep in realistic touch with your Ancient One and the relative caring for your Ancient One. If you don't acknowledge these responsibilities and find some way to dispatch them you will eventually find yourself in the position of not being able to acknowledge your caregiver-relative or your Ancient One.
Late last week MCF called. I've noticed, over the last couple of months, that she's been calling but I've been, well, out of touch with everyone, not answering the phone, a bit dour in public so that no one will approach me, etc. Sometime last week I triggered the ring on the phone, again, feeling somewhat more social, and she called again.
She's used to my silences but she was beginning to worry. "It's a good thing you answered," she said. "If you hadn't, [her sister] and I were going to drive up there next Tuesday and check on you!"
She's the one who keeps an eye on me and grabs me back when I begin to get in too deep, as mentioned here. She is also one of the few people I know whose family took in her dad during the last years of his life.
I confirmed that I've been experiencing a period of self-enforced isolation but that I seem to be inching out of it, off and on, lately, which is why I answered the phone when she called. We chatted, caught each other up, then she asked what Mom and I are doing for Christmas, adding that we were, of course, invited to her house.
I mentioned that I'd accepted an invitation from MPS's family, telling her that I figured I'd better go, since I refused their Thanksgiving invitation; then I began to sob uncontrollably. "I don't want to go," I said. "I'm sure Mom wants to, but I just am not looking forward to all the work it takes just to be there and I still haven't come to terms with all this anger I feel toward my family. It's just exhausting to contemplate. And, anyway, I can't get excited about Christmas, this year, not for anything. I'm seriously considering displaying very bad manners and calling MPS and telling her I just don't have it in me again this year."
"Don't go, then," she suggested. "Come here. It'll just be the three of us (she, her daughter and one of her sisters)."
I didn't hesitate. I knew this was what I wanted to do. I knew Mom would enjoy this, too. I immediately began to perk up.
Why would this alternate invitation be preferable to me? We'd still be traveling. There would still be the extra preparation, etc. Well, let me tell you why. These people know how to be around my mother. They know how to be around me when I am with my mother. They are so good at it that when my mother and I are with anyone in their family, my burden of vigilance, and often many of the chores involved in being with my mother, are lightened because they automatically do what I do with her. They are capable of this because they did it with their dad/grandfather for several years. When Mom and I are at their home on Christmas, there will be four caregiver companions who delight in Mom, know how to be around her, and each of us will be shouldering part the load; thus, all of us will be able to relax; it will seem as though being with my mother is no load at all.
Bad social manners, I know, to accept an invitation then cancel for another, but I suffered no recrimination over the possibility. Nor did I have a problem calling my sister, uninviting us and explaining why I chose for Mom and me to spend the holiday elsewhere.
I was honest with her. I explained everything above. I continued that the difference was circumstantial: MCF's family had the experience that allows our visits to be relaxing for me; MPS's family does not. I'm opting for the relaxing holiday.
MPS told me she understood. She certainly sounded like she did. She expressed that she wanted me to have a good holiday. She mentioned that she didn't want me to apologize. Actually, I hadn't and I didn't...she may not have noticed this. Before I made the phone call I decided not to apologize. Why, I considered, should I apologize for making things easier on myself and guaranteeing a felicitous holiday that I knew I would enjoy, and so would Mom, instead of a holiday I was dreading and knew would be a trial for me?
I did mention that I probably knew enough about how I was feeling that I shouldn't have accepted when she invited us but, I admitted, I also thought I would be up to what would be required; the plans were a month away when they were made. Seems I miscalculated. I also mentioned to her that it is much, much easier on me when Mom and I are with people who are adept at being with Mom. "You guys aren't very good at being around Mom," I told her.
She didn't say anything.
The upshot is that I am feeling quite a bit better than I was at this time last week. I've been triggering the cable to play Christmas music, along with which Mom and I are singing. We've been excitedly discussing the trip and I'm not faking my excitement. We're contributing to the feast, as well, which I hadn't considered in regard to the first invitation; I wasn't up to it. Tonight I set up our fiber optic Christmas tree. We haven't decorated it, yet. The Eukanuba National Dog Show one of Mom's "must see" programs, intervened, and, anyway, this is Mr. Man's first Christmas tree so decorating is going to be interesting and deserves to be done without distraction...probably tomorrow evening. In the mean time, Mom's annual Christmas spirit is thriving, I'm enjoying her, I'm enjoying Christmas possibilities, this year...and, well, my energy is returning and my attitude is reflecting our neighbor's-to-the-east Christmas light display.
In case you're wondering, I did, indeed, discuss this with Mom, with the same detail and directness I displayed with MPS. She had no problem with my decision. A party is a party, Christmas is Christmas and as long as we're with people we love who love us, she's fine.
Extended families of primary caregivers to Ancient Ones, take note: It's important for you to step up to the plate, too, if you want to enjoy your relatives during those holiday visits and care whether those relatives will be able to enjoy you. No excuses. If don't keep up with how to be with your Ancient One, even if your intent is to be with that Ancient One only occasionally and only during holiday family gatherings, I assure you that the member of your family who is the caregiver will eventually find visits so torturous that she will avoid them.
You have responsibilities, too, assuming that you want to keep in realistic touch with your Ancient One and the relative caring for your Ancient One. If you don't acknowledge these responsibilities and find some way to dispatch them you will eventually find yourself in the position of not being able to acknowledge your caregiver-relative or your Ancient One.
