Home » Posts tagged 'caregiving' (Page 5)

Tag Archives: caregiving

Dreams

Posted on by | Leave a comment
highrise city scape

image source: fineartamerica.com

In the dream, I’m in the middle of towering steel and glass highrises in a large, downtown city, the sky’s blue reflected from building to building.  I’m not aware of any particular sounds or smells but street traffic is heavy and sidewalks are crowded with busy, rushing people.

I’m anxious.  I’m to start a new job in one of these highrises.  Will I be able to deal with the new work environment?  Will I succeed?  Where will I live?  What part of town?  Will I be able to support myself?  How much style will I have to sacrifice to find a place that is affordable?  Will I be able to build a retirement income?

I vacillate in the dream from being energized at the prospect of a new challenge to feeling out-of-place and aware that I no longer belong in this busy, downtown world.

The dream never seems to go beyond that point and when I wake, I’m surprised that I dreamed of a new city and a corporate job.  Is it San Francisco, Downtown Los Angeles, Beverly Hills, Nashville, or perhaps, Dallas?  I can’t pinpoint the city.  I’ve worked in highrises in all those places but it’s been thirty-three years since the first day I walked into a job in a highrise and eighteen years since I left the corporate world for self-employment.

Strange that I never had the dream until after I’d retired from selling Real Estate and moved back home to care for my elderly parents.  Perhaps that’s the point.  I left the outside work world of highrises and busy downtown streets and took on a job that is primarily contained within the four walls of this suburban house.

I’d had the dream a time or two before I realized it was a stress dream.  It typically came the night before I had some task to which I had committed myself but about which I was uncertain.  The times of the dream that stand out in my memory are the nights before Daddy’s Memorial Service; before I drove to UCLA the first year I went to the Los Angeles Times Book Fair; the night before singing a solo, also the night before I started my first writing class in West L.A. with the highly regarded writer and teacher, Jack Grapes.

Dream - beach scene

image source: google images

A few nights ago, I had the dream again.  This time, there were people at my new job in the highrise.  They weren’t faceless, but I couldn’t tell you much about them.  Again, the city was unknown, but everything was bright, shiny, modern and exciting.  I asked a thirty-something man where he lived and what the housing options were in town.  He told me about the trendy, beautiful, large and upscale apartment he rented in a building with all the amenities: pool, spa, exercise rooms, doorman, cleaners, restaurant, WiFi, grocery, roof gardens.  He said it was downtown in walking distance to my new job.  Wow.  Sounded wonderful.  And expensive.  Probably far more than I could afford.

“How much do you pay, if you don’t mind me asking?”  I asked.

“Three Hundred and Forty-Eight Dollars.”  He said cheerfully.

“What?”  Surely, I’d heard wrong.  “Three thousand, Three Hundred and Forty-Eight?”

“No.  Three Hundred Forty-Eight.”

I was ecstatic.  I was starting a great new job and I’d have a wonderful place to live.  This was thrilling!

When I woke later, I was amazed at the change of my stress dream to a dream of possibility and excitement of great things to come, things of challenge as well as enjoyment and ease and comfort; things bright and shiny and new, surrounded by blue sky.  But why had it changed?

I’d gone to bed in the wee hours of the night, tired but happy after posting to my blog and getting positive feedback from family and friends and even strangers with blogs of their own.  The dream hadn’t changed because I had learned all I needed to know about writing well; nor because I’d crossed the goal line of maximum impact with my writing footprint on the big, wide, world.

Rather, I had begun.  I had pushed against the fears of not being good enough, of having nothing to say, the fear of saying something offensive or politically incorrect that would end any chance of being considered a successful writer.

Jeremiah 29:11

image source: Photobucket

As I thought about the dream, positive as it was, the unknowns lurking there were clear.  Will there be enough income to take me through retirement?  Enough for some of life’s finer things, like travel or a lovely place to live?  Was there significance to the age of the man who told me about the apartment?  I was successful in the corporate world in my thirties and forties.  Am I now too old to accomplish anything of worth or value?  By the time Mother’s days on earth are finished, will it be too late for me to travel and to embrace once again, the outside world?

Yet, when you boil it all down, is there anything new here?  Don’t we all have the same needs for significance, safety and security?  None of us can see the future and a dream of stress or a dream of promise won’t change what happens, but my dream reminds me that I’m to push forward against the fears, all the while resting firm in what I know to be true:

“I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord.  Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.  Plans to give you a hope and a future.”  Jeremiah 29:11.

God will be there to walk with me into that waiting future.  What else could I need?

To value or not to value….

Posted on by | 1 Comment
image source:google images

     image source:google images

Monday night TV at our house is PBS and Antiques Roadshow.  First, the      original show that is recorded in Great Britain, which is especially fun because those antiques are really old.  Next is the American version with relatively newer antiques, followed by a new show this season, Market Warriors, which is about four buyers who hit flea markets and sale houses to find treasures that are then auctioned off, hopefully for a greater price than what the buyers spent to purchase the items.

The fun in watching these shows is to see if that stuff around the house that you thought was junk is just junk, or if that loved item that some ancestor was sure was valuable, really is valuable.  I like to test my knowledge and see if I can recognize the item before the expert tells us what it is.  I know what I like, but I also know that most of the ‘tells’ that indicate value or worthlessness are mostly Greek to me.  If I can learn by watching and guess the designer or manufacturer then maybe I can move beyond my ignorance. That isn’t the real reason though, because ignorance isn’t that big a deal; everyone is ignorant about something.  To change that, you just have to learn.

But can I move beyond an upbringing that was filled with cast-offs, cheap, mass-produced functionally adequate furniture, clothing, housewares – all devoid of any real beauty or value?  Can I move out of the cookie-cutter suburbs and into something that actually has some class?  We had no money, no class and no fine culture.  Can I cover up that basic beginning with a coat of sophistication like you’d cover over a cheap, pressed cardboard backed dresser with a new finish?  Will I then feel valuable?  Will I then BE valuable?

And what is real value?  Mother grew up with even less that we had when I was a child and she loves these shows as well.  Is that because she sees the beauty in things, whether of value or not?  Like the three-quarters finished paint by number canvases we found when going through stored boxes looking for the oil paintings she did years ago.  We hung her oil paintings in the house and I sat the paint by number canvases in the box for Goodwill.  Mother took them out of the box and keeps saying she is going to get some double stick tape and put them, unframed, up on the walls of her bedroom; walls that already have hanging on them the original oil paintings that she did as well as oils done by friends; walls that also have outdated calendars with pretty pictures but which can’t be thrown away because they’re pretty.

Why would she even care about the old paint by number paintings?  Is she able to see some beauty that I can’t?  Doesn’t she know how tacky they will look on the walls?  Actually, I can see the beauty of the scene, if you stand far enough back that you don’t key in on the paint by number aspect, but there’s no monetary or resell value to it.  So, why keep it?  Why clutter up the full walls with one more thing that is cheap and mass-produced?

The clutter that covers every space in the house drowns out all beauty for me.  It’s too much.  It threatens to close in on me, so my mind’s eye tries to shut it out and it becomes some dark, busy background that drives out the air and leaves me feeling stifled and I find myself breathing shallowly, barely existing.

And then, some person on Antiques Roadshow brings out their treasured tchotchke and the appraiser tells them it’s worth hundreds or maybe thousands and as I look at it my childhood memory is jogged.  Mother turns me and says that the one she has, that is just like the one on TV is in the cedar chest, and “don’t forget to keep it, don’t send it to Goodwill.”

image source: google images

image source: google images

My breathing expands, I take in more air.  There is value, right here in all the clutter.  Right here in my classless childhood.  Not really because there’s something here that’s worth some monetary amount, but because Mother, whose family survived the Dust Bowl, the depression and years as itinerant workers, recognized value and held on to it.  And I see that she has a classiness that I had missed before.  A classiness that has nothing to do with things and everything to do with the intrinsic value we each have.  We’re God’s creation.  We are the thing of value.  All the stuff that fills up life, whether it’s sophisticated and expensive or classless and cheap is just that, stuff.  Once again I see that I do have value, and with that reminder, I have hope that I can look beyond the things and recognize the true beauty around me and the real value within.

Blog Dragon slayed! (or at least wounded)

Posted on by | 9 Comments

Everyone tells you to do it.  All the experts and seminar teachers and convention speakers and writing gurus.  You must write every day and you should be blogging and driving traffic to your work.

If not simple, it at least sounds doable, right?  Somewhere in between doing the washing, cleaning the house, doing the shopping, putting food on the table, picking up prescriptions, trips to Mother’s doctors, managing my own health needs, calling repair men, praying for Mother, paying the bills, exercising, managing my rental properties, feeding my own soul through prayer and Bible study, keeping up with family and friends on facebook, sending out family birthday and anniversary cards, house rehab projects, trying to fix Mother’s ailments and getting to the church on time; somewhere in there, while tuning out the ever present TV noise of cooking or gardening or painting or travel shows; somewhere in there, is time to write.  And blog and comment on discussion threads and enter contests and read the latest writing magazines and do rewrites on my novel(s) and write a short story for the next contest.  Somewhere, there is time.

At least at this time of year I can blissfully ignore the yard but that extra time won’t last for long.  Another few weeks of cold weather, if I’m lucky, will delay what’s coming but a few days of mild temps and then Mother’s litany of yard projects will start – transplant the strawberries, water the gardens, plant some flowers, chase the feral cats out of the yard so that the birds will come to the birdbath, water the gardens, buy tomato plants, chase the cats away, water the gardens, put out flower seeds, water the gardens, chase the cats away, manage the sprinkler system, put up the hummingbird feeder, water the fruit trees, chase the cats away, pick the fruit and get it canned or frozen or given away, water the gardens, chase the cats away, feed the plants, and on and on until next winter when it gets cold enough to not be outside every day.

But I digress into the swirling morass of all the stuff to do and away from the goal: write, blog, write, enter contests, comment on discussion threads, develop my writing craft and build a following, get my novel(s) out there, find an editor and get published.  It’s a good goal and one that gives me an escape from the Pomona mundane to a glimpse of the world outside these walls and to a possible future where this life and these walls no longer require so much of my attention.

The goal, however, can loom ahead like a towering dragon: somewhat at peace until you even think about disturbing it, at which point it rears its head and growls menacingly.  And overwhelmed, I back off to a lesser goal.  Yet, somehow in the last few weeks, through the grace of God and prayer of my creative encourager, Julienne, I broke through the dragon’s lair and started journaling every day which led to starting my BLOG!  With links to two social media sites, I even had some comments and just getting feedback made it all exciting and inspiring.  I want to write and write and blog and write and figure out all the details of managing my blog and my website and take those initial baby steps towards the future: becoming recognized as a writer.

I’ve seen how all this is beyond me and I’m aware I need more than my human power to get it done.  The best news of all is that I’ve also seen how by God’s grace I can learn and grow and be more than I was before.  That includes the peace of trusting Mother and her needs and personality into God’s care.  It’s not my job to “fix” her, it’s my job to love her and see that the needs she can’t meet, but that I can, are met.

And that frees up my soul and spirit to find the creativity that is God given and that has been hiding somewhere inside.  Find it and set it free.  I will Blog!  I will write!  I will keep pushing forward because the outcome will lead to surprises of joy and probably some pain and disappointment but definitely to a life worth living.

Fudge Roller Coaster

Posted on by | Leave a comment

Mother had been saying for weeks that she and Winzona had made easy and wonderful fudge one year and she wanted some fudge.

“If no one sends us some fudge for Christmas, then I’ll make some.”  She kept saying.source:DeanFamilyPhotos

“Ok.”  She probably shouldn’t push herself that hard and besides, it had dairy in it which meant I shouldn’t eat it, so I’d just as soon she didn’t make it.  I love fudge and having it in the house would be torture.  When she put the extra needed ingredients on the grocery list and I got them, hoping she’d forget.

As I concentrated at the computer, I slowly became aware that through the door behind me Mother was moving around in the kitchen.  And it was more than just putting her dirty breakfast dishes in the sink.  She was getting pans, pulling things out of the cupboards and the refrigerator.

“What’cha doing?”  I asked, without turning around or moving from the computer.

“Making fudge.”  There was no talking her out of it now.  I should have ordered that gluten and dairy free fudge I found online last week but I kept hoping we’d get the box of homemade goodies that Holly, my nephew Andrew’s wife, said she was sending.

It was probably at least thirty-five minutes later that I left the computer to see how Mother was doing with this “easy” recipe.  It was true there weren’t many steps or many ingredients but her sighs of fatigue over expended energy had finally penetrated my concentration.

“It’s the stirring over low heat that takes the longest time.”  She was standing at the stove stirring and looked like she could fold at any moment.  It may have been leaning on the spoon as she stirred that kept her upright.

The fudge looked thick and rich and wonderful.  “Do you want me to stir for you?”

“No.  I think it’s ready.”  She turned off the burner, reached for the greased Pyrex dish and began to pour the hot fudge into the dish.

She was at the sink running water into the mixing bowl and pan when I came back through the kitchen on my way out the back door.  The fudge looked luscious as it cooled in the Pyrex dish.

“I have to go sit down before I fall down.”  She turned off the water and reached for her cane.

“Good idea.”

I got back from the post office and headed to the dining room with the stack of mail.  The house had a wonderful chocolate aroma.  Mother was in her normal spot at the table, wrapped in a gray sweater with her new brown and teal electric heated lap robe over her lap and legs.  She was sound asleep, ink pen in hand, the crossword puzzle she had been working on the table before her, the TV turned to a cooking show with the sound muted, the radio on the sideboard behind her playing classical music.  She looked all of eighty-five, half folded over like that, her hair graying more all the time.

She woke with the sound and movement of the mail being dumped on the table.

“That stirring was hard work.  It wore me out.”  She said as she straightened some in her chair.  “Oh, that kills my neck when I fall asleep like that.”

“Look what Holly sent us.  Fudge!  And some gluten free goodies!”

Mother sorted the mail into piles and started opening Christmas cards.  “I wanted to make fudge.  So I did.”

“Good for you.”  There was no point in telling her now that it was too hard on her.  “I’m sure it will be delicious.”  My resolve had been slipping since the very first aroma of the cooking fudge and with this box of Christmas goodies the last of any resolve faded away.  Christmas goodie binge, here I come.  I would pay for it, I knew, but at the moment, I didn’t care.

Ten days later, we had consumed all of her fudge, and I had consumed most of Holly’s chocolate and peanut butter fudge, the gluten free chocolate covered pretzels and some of the cookies she’d sent.  The last remaining pieces we boxed up and sent along with a Christmas food basket to a needy family.  My body fared better than expected at first on all those goodies but the sugar and chocolate stimulant withdrawal had begun and I was beginning to feel its effects.

Mother, meanwhile, had spent ten days exhausted and house bound, her arm aching from all the stirring.  She missed church and spent some of everyday sleeping in the recliner with her feet elevated until she finally began to feel like herself once again.

“Making that fudge did me in.”  She said

“Me too, Mother, me too.”