Friday, January 2, 2009
A New Creative Outlet
This blog on Creative Caregiving has been largely inactive since I returned home in 2007 from six months of caring for my parents. Mom passed away; Dad is in a nursing home; and life goes on. Since then, my caregiving is more long-distance than hands-on, and my creative adventures have turned back to painting, keeping my gallery supplied, helping others with their creative processes, and continuing to develop/refine my own creative process. My new blog, devoted to creative process reflections and tips is http://vitaminCreativity.typepad.com. I hope you'll visit me there.
Monday, September 3, 2007
No place like home
I made it home – all 2,200+ miles in four and a half days. My home, my cats, my messiness never looked so good! After unloading the car, I stretched out on the couch as if to rest. But, with adrenalin still pumping, I couldn’t relax. Instead, I began unpacking, looking for homes for the stuff I brought from Mom and Dad’s apartment, sometimes asking myself “What was I thinking?” when I unpacked an item that seemed to have no value – real or sentimental.
One of the things I unpacked most carefully was Momma’s coffee maker. Making the perfect cup of coffee was as much a ritual for her as a Japanese tea ceremony. I feel honored to have learned it from her and even more honored to be able to use her coffee-making tools. It’s not some antiquated piece of equipment passed down through generations, but a very 21st-century Cuisinart machine, which I promise to take care of and use just as Momma taught me.
As I write this, I’m finishing my second cup of perfect coffee.
Sue
One of the things I unpacked most carefully was Momma’s coffee maker. Making the perfect cup of coffee was as much a ritual for her as a Japanese tea ceremony. I feel honored to have learned it from her and even more honored to be able to use her coffee-making tools. It’s not some antiquated piece of equipment passed down through generations, but a very 21st-century Cuisinart machine, which I promise to take care of and use just as Momma taught me.
As I write this, I’m finishing my second cup of perfect coffee.
Sue
Friday, August 31, 2007
The road home
I’m headed home again, this time with the finality of driving my car and all my belongings back across the 2000 miles I first traveled in early March. This signifies that my own home will once again be my home base and that trips to see Dad will be of the shorter variety via airplane and rental car. I’m finally over my tears and I’m enjoying the drive and audio book.
Yesterday, I made the short trip from Atlanta to Birmingham to visit a cousin I hadn’t seen for nearly 20 years. We had much to catch up on, but we felt the comfortable familiarity of those who had seen each other only yesterday. I left vowing to stay in touch.
With a bountiful sack of lunch, I left her house around 8:30 and today made it through the rest of Alabama, a corner of Mississippi and Tennessee, and all the way across Arkansas and into Oklahoma – more than 500 miles. I was so tired when I finally stopped that I took the first promising hotel without thoroughly searching its features for “free wireless internet.” Therefore, when you read this, it will be at least a day later.
I walked to the nearest restaurant – a Chinese buffet – again too tired to be picky about what they had (or didn’t have) to offer. It was unremarkable. Tomorrow, with renewed energy, I will search out more interesting road food options.
Although comfortably full from too much lunch and enough dinner, I’m now tempted to visit the ice cream store across the street. Then, I’ll retire early to get an early start tomorrow.
Sue
Yesterday, I made the short trip from Atlanta to Birmingham to visit a cousin I hadn’t seen for nearly 20 years. We had much to catch up on, but we felt the comfortable familiarity of those who had seen each other only yesterday. I left vowing to stay in touch.
With a bountiful sack of lunch, I left her house around 8:30 and today made it through the rest of Alabama, a corner of Mississippi and Tennessee, and all the way across Arkansas and into Oklahoma – more than 500 miles. I was so tired when I finally stopped that I took the first promising hotel without thoroughly searching its features for “free wireless internet.” Therefore, when you read this, it will be at least a day later.
I walked to the nearest restaurant – a Chinese buffet – again too tired to be picky about what they had (or didn’t have) to offer. It was unremarkable. Tomorrow, with renewed energy, I will search out more interesting road food options.
Although comfortably full from too much lunch and enough dinner, I’m now tempted to visit the ice cream store across the street. Then, I’ll retire early to get an early start tomorrow.
Sue
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
End of the chapter
Saying good-bye to my father, as I closed up his former apartment and prepared to head back home to my former life, was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. After loading my car and signing the papers releasing the apartment, I sat in the car and cried. No, no, I thought, I can’t be in tears when I say good-bye to Dad. Recovering somewhat, I went into Dad’s building and found him eating dinner in the dining room.
“Dad, you know I have to leave tomorrow and drive back to Utah,” I said. He didn’t look too surprised. Good, I thought, he understands what’s going on. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful, started to say something, but couldn’t find the words. In little bits and pieces, I finally understood that he was frustrated with his meals – not what he ordered. Well, one of the nursing staff, who doesn’t yet know his likes and dislikes, had filled out his meal order form for the week, and, although I had made corrections after it was submitted, my corrections obviously were not followed. When one of the dining staff showed up, I reminded her of Dad’s likes and dislikes. This seemed to placate Dad, but I’ll follow up with an email just in case.
When he had finished eating, I walked him back to his room, got him into his recliner and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He seemed to want to say something but nothing coherent was coming out. Finally, I asked, “Do you want to see what’s on TCM tonight?”
“Sure,” he said.
I turned on the TV. Good, a western! Then, I said, “Well, Dad, I have to hit the road.” I kissed him and said, “You take care of yourself, and remember, I’ll be back in six weeks!”
He said, “Well, you say hello to the folks.” I guess he meant my husband and sons, none of whom are home, but I said I would.
Then, hurrying to leave, I said, “Say prayers for me the next few days.”
He seemed to want to say something else, but by then the tears were coming back and I had to get out of there. “Bye Dad,” I called and hurried from the room, closing the door behind me.
I’m no good at long good-byes, and with Dad’s communication difficulties, there’s no such thing as a short good-bye. I could hear him calling after me, “Hey, wait…” but I was gone, tears splashing down my cheeks as I ran down the hall.
I boo-hoo’d to Buford, a one-hour drive, looking in the mirror at stoplights to see what damage I was doing to my eyes. My already-congested head was impossibly stuffed up, and I kept telling myself to stop, but I guess I needed a good cry, a catharsis. It was as though I was grieving for both my parents, the one lost forever to cancer, the other lost to dementia, though his physical self is still alive.
Tomorrow I will begin a 4-5-day drive to Utah, the end of my creative caregiving adventure. The next chapter will involve caring from a distance, managing remotely, quarterly consultations…at least until the needs change.
Heaven protect me from my negative thoughts, but I have found myself wondering what I will do when I get the call that Dad is in the hospital, or has been diagnosed with cancer, or…. Will I once again pack my car and head for Atlanta for an indefinite period of intense caregiving? I don’t know the answer, but I am thankful for the blessings, in the midst of trauma and sadness, during the past six months.
Sue
“Dad, you know I have to leave tomorrow and drive back to Utah,” I said. He didn’t look too surprised. Good, I thought, he understands what’s going on. “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful, started to say something, but couldn’t find the words. In little bits and pieces, I finally understood that he was frustrated with his meals – not what he ordered. Well, one of the nursing staff, who doesn’t yet know his likes and dislikes, had filled out his meal order form for the week, and, although I had made corrections after it was submitted, my corrections obviously were not followed. When one of the dining staff showed up, I reminded her of Dad’s likes and dislikes. This seemed to placate Dad, but I’ll follow up with an email just in case.
When he had finished eating, I walked him back to his room, got him into his recliner and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. He seemed to want to say something but nothing coherent was coming out. Finally, I asked, “Do you want to see what’s on TCM tonight?”
“Sure,” he said.
I turned on the TV. Good, a western! Then, I said, “Well, Dad, I have to hit the road.” I kissed him and said, “You take care of yourself, and remember, I’ll be back in six weeks!”
He said, “Well, you say hello to the folks.” I guess he meant my husband and sons, none of whom are home, but I said I would.
Then, hurrying to leave, I said, “Say prayers for me the next few days.”
He seemed to want to say something else, but by then the tears were coming back and I had to get out of there. “Bye Dad,” I called and hurried from the room, closing the door behind me.
I’m no good at long good-byes, and with Dad’s communication difficulties, there’s no such thing as a short good-bye. I could hear him calling after me, “Hey, wait…” but I was gone, tears splashing down my cheeks as I ran down the hall.
I boo-hoo’d to Buford, a one-hour drive, looking in the mirror at stoplights to see what damage I was doing to my eyes. My already-congested head was impossibly stuffed up, and I kept telling myself to stop, but I guess I needed a good cry, a catharsis. It was as though I was grieving for both my parents, the one lost forever to cancer, the other lost to dementia, though his physical self is still alive.
Tomorrow I will begin a 4-5-day drive to Utah, the end of my creative caregiving adventure. The next chapter will involve caring from a distance, managing remotely, quarterly consultations…at least until the needs change.
Heaven protect me from my negative thoughts, but I have found myself wondering what I will do when I get the call that Dad is in the hospital, or has been diagnosed with cancer, or…. Will I once again pack my car and head for Atlanta for an indefinite period of intense caregiving? I don’t know the answer, but I am thankful for the blessings, in the midst of trauma and sadness, during the past six months.
Sue
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Ancient whiskey
As we’re cleaning out Mom and Dad’s apartment, it’s not only Mom’s stuff that must be sorted and disposed of one way or another. There’s also Dad’s stuff that he can’t – or shouldn’t – have in his new memory care quarters.
Among our finds were two bottles of whiskey that Dad had collected and saved for who knows how long. One is Sam Thompson Old Monongahela Pure Rye Whiskey, circa 1917, in a pint bottle labeled “for medicinal purposes only.” I’ve been told that 100 proof rye whiskey of that era caused hallucinations. I wonder what it was supposed to cure.
The second bottle is Old Crow Whiskey, made in 1908 and bottled in 1925. Both bottles have been opened, who knows when or for what special occasion. But I can imagine my father in his younger days taking great pleasure in pulling out these collectables and offering a sip to a special guest.
Back then, Dad usually had a bottle of moonshine, too; corn liquor so potent that it would make your head smoke. I can remember when my husband was courting me we’d spend an occasional evening playing poker with Mom and Dad. After many rounds of poker and many drinks (but who’s counting?), Dad would pull out the moonshine. My boyfriend/husband-to-be was impressed and still loves to tell our friends about his father-in-law’s stash of ‘shine.
I’m not sure I want to know how much that influenced his decision to marry me!
Sue
Among our finds were two bottles of whiskey that Dad had collected and saved for who knows how long. One is Sam Thompson Old Monongahela Pure Rye Whiskey, circa 1917, in a pint bottle labeled “for medicinal purposes only.” I’ve been told that 100 proof rye whiskey of that era caused hallucinations. I wonder what it was supposed to cure.
The second bottle is Old Crow Whiskey, made in 1908 and bottled in 1925. Both bottles have been opened, who knows when or for what special occasion. But I can imagine my father in his younger days taking great pleasure in pulling out these collectables and offering a sip to a special guest.
Back then, Dad usually had a bottle of moonshine, too; corn liquor so potent that it would make your head smoke. I can remember when my husband was courting me we’d spend an occasional evening playing poker with Mom and Dad. After many rounds of poker and many drinks (but who’s counting?), Dad would pull out the moonshine. My boyfriend/husband-to-be was impressed and still loves to tell our friends about his father-in-law’s stash of ‘shine.
I’m not sure I want to know how much that influenced his decision to marry me!
Sue
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Momma's mirror
Among the treasures I’ve saved to remind me of Momma is her little mirror. It’s about 2x3 inches in a leather frame. It’s the mirror she kept in her purse and the one she took to the hospital when she had her surgery in March.
After surgery, in which the doctor removed part of her jaw, lymph nodes and the inside of her cheek, I dreaded the first time Mom would look into a mirror. This once ravishingly beautiful woman, still vain in a quiet, understated way, would be horrified and depressed, I feared, when she saw her disfigured face in the mirror.
Yet, I couldn’t stop her from looking, or protect her from her own reality. Nor could I control her feelings. All I could do was pray for courage and acceptance. Prayers were answered. A day or two into her recovery, she asked for the mirror. She studied herself, moving the mirror this way and that to get a full perspective. She didn’t cry or express any of those emotions I feared, emotions I was feeling myself. She accepted and fought for her precious life – in the ICU, in the rehab hospital, and in the nursing facility – up until the very end.
I told Sis I would be the keeper of the mirror, our symbol of courage. I told her that if either of us ever faces disfigurement – or just ugly old age – the mirror will be there for us, to remind us of Momma’s example
Now all of this presumes that as I age and grow ugly, for whatever reason, my mind will still be intact. Will I remember the mirror? Will I know where to find it? Will I be too confused to care?
You may not be around for that late episode of this story, so you’ll just have to remain in suspense.
Sue
After surgery, in which the doctor removed part of her jaw, lymph nodes and the inside of her cheek, I dreaded the first time Mom would look into a mirror. This once ravishingly beautiful woman, still vain in a quiet, understated way, would be horrified and depressed, I feared, when she saw her disfigured face in the mirror.
Yet, I couldn’t stop her from looking, or protect her from her own reality. Nor could I control her feelings. All I could do was pray for courage and acceptance. Prayers were answered. A day or two into her recovery, she asked for the mirror. She studied herself, moving the mirror this way and that to get a full perspective. She didn’t cry or express any of those emotions I feared, emotions I was feeling myself. She accepted and fought for her precious life – in the ICU, in the rehab hospital, and in the nursing facility – up until the very end.
I told Sis I would be the keeper of the mirror, our symbol of courage. I told her that if either of us ever faces disfigurement – or just ugly old age – the mirror will be there for us, to remind us of Momma’s example
Now all of this presumes that as I age and grow ugly, for whatever reason, my mind will still be intact. Will I remember the mirror? Will I know where to find it? Will I be too confused to care?
You may not be around for that late episode of this story, so you’ll just have to remain in suspense.
Sue
Fuzzy photos
My parents’ packrat tendencies must have been passed down to Sis and me for we simply cannot toss the detritus of their lives without carefully examining it for practical or sentimental value. That includes boxes and boxes of photographs.
The most intriguing photos are fuzzy with age (or is it our eyes?) – photos of Dad and his family at the beach, circa 1932, our none-too-svelte grandmother draped glamour-girl style on the hood of an old Ford, with approximately 10-year-old Dad standing solemnly to the side; photos of Mom’s mother and classmates from college, circa 1917; and photos of grandparents and unrecognizable aunts, uncles and cousins. What’s the fascination with pictures of people we never knew? I suppose I have some hope that as I piece together the family history, I’ll have faces to go with the names. Yet, most of the photographs are not labeled and, unless we connect with some long-lost cousin who can identify them, we may never know who they are.
There are also boxes and boxes of photos of Maggy, the miniature Schnauzer that dominated Mom and Dad’s life after we kids had left home. When I confessed that I had been jealous of Maggy, Sis said she felt the same way. When we’d invite Mom and Dad to come and visit us, Maggy was often their excuse for not traveling. As we looked at hundreds of Maggy photos – at the groomer, at the vet, posed on a fur rug, wearing a sweater, or fetching the newspaper – Sis or I would exclaim, “They never took pictures of us at the pediatrician or the hairdresser! They never posed us on a fur rug!”
But we don’t really begrudge the love Mom and Dad focused on their dear Maggy. It’s the same love and nurture that characterized their whole lives, including love for us kids and their many friends.
Sue
The most intriguing photos are fuzzy with age (or is it our eyes?) – photos of Dad and his family at the beach, circa 1932, our none-too-svelte grandmother draped glamour-girl style on the hood of an old Ford, with approximately 10-year-old Dad standing solemnly to the side; photos of Mom’s mother and classmates from college, circa 1917; and photos of grandparents and unrecognizable aunts, uncles and cousins. What’s the fascination with pictures of people we never knew? I suppose I have some hope that as I piece together the family history, I’ll have faces to go with the names. Yet, most of the photographs are not labeled and, unless we connect with some long-lost cousin who can identify them, we may never know who they are.
There are also boxes and boxes of photos of Maggy, the miniature Schnauzer that dominated Mom and Dad’s life after we kids had left home. When I confessed that I had been jealous of Maggy, Sis said she felt the same way. When we’d invite Mom and Dad to come and visit us, Maggy was often their excuse for not traveling. As we looked at hundreds of Maggy photos – at the groomer, at the vet, posed on a fur rug, wearing a sweater, or fetching the newspaper – Sis or I would exclaim, “They never took pictures of us at the pediatrician or the hairdresser! They never posed us on a fur rug!”
But we don’t really begrudge the love Mom and Dad focused on their dear Maggy. It’s the same love and nurture that characterized their whole lives, including love for us kids and their many friends.
Sue
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