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Archive for the ‘van gogh’ Category

Do you hear the tick, tick, tick of the death clock?

What’s the death clock you ask?

The death clock, is a website that calculates (with a little information you add in) the exact day you will die.

Sounds morbid, right?

I agree, but take this as a bit of fun and not too serious.

Playing with death–trying it on for size is one way humans deal with the tragedies of life–kind of like playing dress up with your mother’s high heels and your dad’s jacket.

So, I went to www.deathclock.com, (there’s also a few others– http://www.findyourfate.com/deathmeter/deathmtr.html, http://deathdate.info, http://www.death-clock.org/) and put in my numbers.

I didn’t really want to know when I’d die. But I have to admit, I was curious.

How can you not be curious?

I was raised in a uber-religious home and this sounded like fortune telling–something stricly forbidden to dabble in–which means it’s even more tempting, dangerous, and oh so fascinating…(yeah, I’ve got a bit of a rebellious streak in me, I can’t deny it).

So I typed in my info, and you know what? I feel better!

It says I’m going to live until I’m 100 years old.

Instead of feeling depressed about knowing my “D day,” I felt expanded.

100 feels pretty far away. I’m not quite half there. I still have a a whole lotta livin’ to do. 

I do take in account I could get hit by the proverbial bus at any time–that lightening could strike me for visiting that heathen site, (sorry, Mama!) or a myriad of other diseases and accidents could come barrel my way–but I’m not the type of person to be paralyzed by the “what ifs” of life. 

But I’ve seen the dark side of agin. I know what Alzheimer’s looks like, about the challenges that come with aging.

My dad died of heart disease at 78, and my mother lived with Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s and died at the age of 92 (they were my adoptive parents and older than most parents). I was her primary caregiver and she lived with my family and I the last three years of her life.

I wrote every day my mother lived with us.

I wrote what it’s like for her to live with this disease, what it was like for me, her daughter to struggle with the challenges of being a sandwich generation-er. I wrote about our fears, our fights, our hurts, our day-to-day challenges, and the truth about the guilt and resentment caregivers and families are afraid to say out loud.

Our story became a book, Mothering Mother and has been read by thousands.

The fact is, if you live long enough, you stand a real strong chance of getting Alzheimer’s.

Deal with it. Sounds cold, but what I mean is…do what you can now to take care of yourself.

Eat healthy, have a good attitude, walk every day. Forgive.

Those are the best ways I know of to stave off that dreaded disease.

And even if you get a diagnosis, don’t just crawl up and die. You still have time–love your family–leave a legacy. Don’t spend your precious time worrying.

I don’t know if you want to try the death clock–if it all seems like a bunch of hoo-haa.–but if you’re feeling brave, then take a twirl with the grim reaper and give it a try.

A few years ago, I wrote a “100 Things To Do in My Life” List.

I wrote it while we were on vacation. I wrote it around the margins of an old Rand McNally atlas we had in the car–apprapo, I guess.

I wrote things like:

  1. Go back to college and get my BFA
  2. Design and make a bronze sculpture
  3. Visit the Vincent Van Gogh Gallery in Amsterdam
  4. Publish books (plural)
  5. Take a cooking class in Napa
  6. Repaint all my favorite Van Goghs myself
  7. Create cool yard art–and sell it
  8. Be paid 500 bucks an hour to speak and inspire people
  9. Be on the board of a charity/organization and help make a difference
  10. Design an Italian garden
  11. Have a 30+year writing career
  12. Be a GREAT grandma
  13. Speak French, Italian and Spanish fluently
  14. Live in the South of France for several months
  15. Win a PEN award
  16. Stay married, stay healthy
  17. Forgive and not grow bitter

I wrote this in 1999. I was dreaming big,. I packed it away and didn’t look at it for more than five years. My heart and my words guided me intuitively.

There are 126 items on my master list.

Of the 16 I listed here, 11 have already come to fruition.

I have 53 years to achieve the rest.

A friend of mine said she saw The Bucket List this week and that she loved it, but a friend of hers said they wanted a list of all the things they didn’t want to do–a “Chuck It” list. I like that idea too.

Or you could do an “anti-list.”

Remember that edisode on Grey’s Anatomy when that guy found out he was dying and decided to video-taped himself chewing out all the people he hated/who had hurt and humiliated him? This is what he chose to do before he died.

How cleansing! To leave this world feeling like you said your peace. Perhaps is he had done this sooner, he wouldn’t be dying.

What would be on your anti-list?

I’d love to never ever have another root canal…how about you?

So maybe I should rename the Death Clock to the LIVE clock.

After all, I have a list that needs a whole lot more check marks. Instead of counting down the days until I die, I should count each day I’m living.

Instead of following the old cliche, “Live a little.” I think I’ll rewrite it:

Live A lot!”

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

Kunati books, www.kunati.com/motheringmother

Family advisor at www.Caring.com

Syndicated blog at www.OpentoHope.com

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This June, my mother will celebrate her sixth anniversary “on the other side.”

I can hardly believe it’s been that long. I spent the first year in grief and rebuilding my life.

That’s normal, and you can’t rush it or fix it. It was more like two years, and that’s also “normal.”

That’s how long it takes to assimilate a death, process your emotions, and begin to incorporate your loved one into your being. Of course, averages are just numbers and each person’s process if different, but you really shouldn’t expect much from yourself during those first two years–at least that long. 

For me, that time was a mix of guilt, regret, longing, lostness, mania, and vacillating between lethargy and intensity. To the outside world, I might not have looked like I skipped a beat, but what choice did I have?

I was a sand-gener–I had daughters to finish raising, to get into college. I returned to college myself, lost 30 pounds, stayed married, wrote my book, wrote short stories, essays and articles–I looked busy. I was busy. But there was a whole lot going on under the surface.

But only in retrospect can we see the bigger picture.

Now, I can look back and see where I’ve been and what I’ve learned.

It’s a laundry list and I can’t say when I learned what.

There’s no order, only this is what I know–about caregiving, life, death, mothers, daughters, families, faith, and surviving.

What I Learned:

  • I’m glad I didn’t know what was ahead–if I did, I would have never gone on this journey. 
  • Believe that caregiving has come into your life to heal you, show you things about yourself, give you a chance to work on old issues–and that in the end, you’ll emerge a better person.  
  • To accept myself and my mother and our relationship “as is.” It’s okay not to try and fix things.
  • Forgiveness are like small pebbles you pick up along the way–nothing big and monumental–just a gathering of what I choose to keep–and what I leave behind.
  • Doctors and nurses aren’t gods and I don’t have to do everything they say. I can speak up, ask for somehting different. I know my loved one much better than they do–and I have to make–and live with my decisions.
  • For the most part, going into the hospital in those last few years only made things worse. It wore me out, and there is a time to just accept that your loved one’s health is falling apart and let it.
  • Live with the chaos, the dishes, the laundry–sleep whenever I can–there are times to just get by.
  • Stop worrying about what my relatives or our neighbors think. Unless you’ve been a caregiver, youy can’t fathom what this is like.
  • To ask for more and more and more help. I tried to do too much alone and on my own.
  • Trust that I will bounce back from caregiving. Don’t drive my health to the absolute bitter edge (just almost), but then reclaim my health, my life, and my sanity and move on.
  • Guilt and resentment take up too much time and energy–stop giving my power away by mulling on things I can’t change.
  • You might not want to piss off all your doctors and nurses because you might eventually need them–so be savvy about how you deal with them.
  • If you’re forced choosing between your health, your marriage, your sanity, your children–and your elder–then choose your life to put first. Not theirs. As cold as that sounds, life moves forward. This doesn’t mean you ditch them on the side of the road, but in your mind and heart, put your life first.
  • Don’t just tolerate things you can’t stand. Stop being passive agressive and complaining about it later. Do something about it. Pitch a fit. Tell off your sibling. Fire a home health aide. Scream for help. Be a bitch. It probably isn’t the first time–nor will it be your last. You get what you tolerate, so stop tolerating so much. (I’m talking to myself, here)
  • No matter how religious a person may have been in their life, it doesn’t mean they aren’t fearful of death. Fear, or lack of, has more to do with a person’s psychological make up, and a way they’ve practiced seeing and responding to life–and this will determine how they handle death.
  • Realize that those last few years, months, or weeks may be more about semantics–that their spirit has already left this earth and the shell, their body, just hasn’t left yet. Be okay with taking care of that shell–but don’t make it hard, and don’t over think.
  • Understand that anger is sometimes a useful emotion–it’s a way we protect ourselves, but there’s also a time to lay anger down.
  • Laugh whenver you can–at whatever you can. Be irreverent, be snarky, other than downright cruelty, laughter is so good for you that you need to see the humor and crazyness of your situation.
  • For the most part, go with your gut. Do what feels most natural, particularly after your loved one passes and you’re grieving. Sleep, eat, cry, run a marathon, join thepeace corp–whatever is driving you, let it drive you–it’s part of your journey, and other than truly dangerous behavoir, you can’t screw up, so go for it.
  • You feel really lost after losing your mother. You wonder who you are without them to help define you. Later, you might even feel free-er, less confined.
  • Missing someone hurts, but sometimes it’s good to hurt.
  • It may take a few years, but eventually, let go of the exhaustion, resentment, guilt, and begin to enjoy your new relationship with your loved one. People “on the other side” still teach us, guide us, speak to us–and realize that they are now a part of who you are. You carry them with you.
  • Understand that you may have to care give again–a spouse, another parent, a sibling, who knows? Begin to think–how would you do it different?

Here I am, almost to June. Six years ago I was at my mother’s bedside.

It was grueling, and the weeks were dribbling by.

It rained every day, and my mother was in a coma. It felt like she’d never die. That may sound cruel, but I was beyond all human niceties. It also felt like I’d never live. Practically speaking, I knew I couldn’t fix Alzheimer’s. I knew her living would keep her in a place of perpetual lostness, and I didn’t want that for either of us.

I hated everybody–hospice, me, my mother–and then I let go and just allowed.

The barometric pressure felt off the chart. ‘

Death had to come, but when? Mother had quit eating and drinking, and I let her. That was an excruciating decision, but I chose to let her leave this world. I chose not to intebate her, to do a feeding tube. I knew that this decision would be one I would have to bear alone. I would have to sit there, every minute and see the ramifications of my choice. I did, and as hard as it was, as many times as I wanted to panic, jump up, run out, beg for intervention, I didn’t. I stayed firm.

My world grew calm, my movements quiet. We waited.

And here I am–six years forward. Blogging. I had no idea I would wind up blogging every day. I doubt I even knew what a blog was at the time.

My book, Mothering Mother has been out a year. I’ve talked to hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of caregivers. I’ve been featured on CNN and other tv and radio programs. I’ve written a novel about Vincent Van Gogh, and finished my prequel, Said Child. I graduated from Jacksonville University and danced at my daughter’s wedding, and buried our beagle. Life is full. It swells and ebbs.

What I’ve learned is to accept each day, the power of now. Each season. To be alive with what is given to me at the time. To realize I’m not so much in control as I am in the flow. I am a part of what is happening, not orchestrating it.

Caregiving gave my life a deeper meaning. It revealed things about me, how I think, how I handle life–things I’m proud of and things I’d like to address.

One thing for sure, caregiving changes you in ways you can’t imagine.  

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

Family Advisor at www.Caring.com

Syndicated Blog at www.OpentoHope.com

Publisher: www.kunati.com

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The latest stats released by the Alzheimer’s Association paint a grim picture.

USA Today reported that ten million are expected to get Alzheimer’s over the next 2 decades.

Most boomers I know are a bit stunned. 1 in 8 will get Alzheimer’s.

I started bunching people I know in eights. Terrible, I know.

My husband has 8 siblings. Which one?

I mentally grouped my friends and imagined myself visiting them, trying to rouse the remnants of our relationship.

It was so much easier in my imagination for it to be somebody else other than me!

I felt like those people in the Titanic lifeboats. The boat’s too heavy, who’s going to get the ole’ heave ho! We always kid about poor Leo’s icy fingers being pried off one by one. My husband says he can see me doing that. I tell him I’ll sing him a Celine Delion song and wave to him as he sinks to the bottom of the Atlantic. Just kidding.

I walked around for days living too far into the future, speculating too much about whether or not I’d be the one in eight.

Then, I remembered the quote:

“To tell a man his future is to condemn him to one.”

That’s kind of what this news did. Maybe it didn’t mean to.

I assume their reasons for imparting this knowledge was to spar research, educate the masses, but I wonder if they know what they’ve done?

It doesn’t take long for the rebellious inner child to stand up and yell, “Hell no!” I’m not going without a fight.

I’ve already seen Alzheimer’s up close and personal with my mom. She had Parkinson’s for 15 years and Alzheimer’s for at least the last three years of her life. That’s when I brought her into my home, so I know how brutal it can get. What I’m not willing to face is a two, three, four decade old bully poking at me, taunting me, telling me over and over he’s gonna get me in the end.

Are you worried about getting Alzheimer’s too?

One thing I’ve done is to go ahead and play my own devil’s advocate.

So what if I get it? What will life be like?

Many scenarios here: I could be mean and belligerent. Doesn’t sound half bad, I’m kind of tired of being nice all the time.

If I just had one day where I told people what I really think…

It could be scary. That’s what I don’t want. To be on the edge. Nervous, agitated, restless to no end. Paranoid. Angry beyond consoling. To that, I say, drug me. Drug me in a stupor if you have to. By then, I promise you, I’ll have had a good life, and if it’s too awful for me or for you, then I give you permission to gork me out of my…mind. If the last couple of years are a throw away then so be it. If it’s painful to watch, then don’t.

Go live a big, bold, purpose-filled life. That’s the best way I can think of being honored.

I’ve told this to my husband and my girls and it’s going in the “important drawer.”

If you love me, then do something meaningful with your life–in my honor, if it makes you feel better.

But, if I’m just in la-la land, rambling around in the past, and I’m rather amiable, then let me enjoy it.

Don’t remind me who’s dead or that I’m nearly there myself. I don’t expect you to play along and mess up the delicate balance of reality you’ve scrambled for–just make me comfortable. If I think I’m sixteen, or twenty four, or forty-four, then let me enjoy it.

I learned the hard way with my mom that most people fear Alzheimer’s (both as caregivers and for themselves) because they can’t control it. It scares them, rattles their nerves. Their loved one acting “not like themselves,” angry, sexually explicit, fussy, playing in feces–it unnerves people. Is it really all that bad? My brain went kaflooey. It’s not a reflection of the kind of person I chose to be–we are in fact, what we choose. It’s not a reflection of our relationship or of you. It just happens.

Brains go haywire and you can’t control it any more than you can control your dreams, your nightmares, and all those random blips that you dare never admit or mention to anybody. It’s just random electrical spasms of disconnected thoughts and of all the other thoughts you’ve suppressed. We all have it inside us, don’t kid yourself. We have to eventually make peace with our humanity, and our lack of humanity.

We have to make peace with this base self, animalistic, driven, insatiable self.

This isn’t even the bad part.

Alzheimer’s does a lot more to the body and mind than simply making a person different or moody or playing in their poop. You think that’s your biggest hurdle at the time, it’s not.

The forgetting grows like a fertilized weed and it begins to invade a different part of the brain and a person’s life: recognizing not only those they love but even themselves and what it means to be here, recognizing objects like what to do with a spoon, what to do with the food someone placed in your mouth, or when your body forgets to take its next breath.

 That’s when you wish for your fiesty loved one to return to you–memory intact or not. We have to come to terms with this too, and this is much harder and deeper. This is when chaos collapses in on itself. This is when as a loved one, you get quiet. You stop talking about it all, complaining. You’ve shed so many tears you don’t have any left. 

This is Alzheimer’s.

I kidded with my girls on Easter Sunday. I told them if I have mild dementia or Alzheimer’s, that I want a dress-up box–with a fireman’s hat like I had as a child, and French beret (we always had a dress-up box when they were little) I want a boa, and lots of make up, and a yellow rain slicker and golashes. I want a cat, I’ve always had a kitty. I want paints and crafty things. I want my room filled with Van Goghs. I want to work in a garden. I want to dance. A lot. I want loud music and me in my boa and fireman hat clutching a bouquet of forget-me-nots and a kitty in a windowsill looking thoroughly disgusted with it all.

We laughed. They said they would. Then they argued as to who would get me. They said they all took their turns with Nanny (my mother). I told them if I had known that would do them in, (trust me, I was the primary caregiver, not them), then I’d have let her fend for herself (joke, we’re quite a facetious bunch).

Each of my daughters have their attributes. At my youngest daughter’s house, I’ll be a fashionista–coach purses and Italian scarves. She promised me we’d make tents in the living room out of sheets and blankets.

At my middle daughter’s house, she’ll clean out my ears and under my nails. My clothes will be folded neatly–neater than they’ve ever been folded. We’ll color a lot there, and I’ll finally be on time wherever she takes me.

My oldest daughter will feed me anything I want. She’s a candy-aholic. We’ll stay in our pjs and watch movies, and she will kick butt with doctors, let me tell you.

While all this is “play talk,” it’s a good way for families to start easing into the more serious conversations.

I do this on purpose. To open the doors. To make everything not seem so ominous.

We all have living wills. We kid about what we want, but we also have the serious stuff in writing–about sustaining life, feeding tubes, and issues no person should have to make for another.

Am I worried about getting Alzheimer’s? Sure, but I fight it.

Are you? It’s only natural, but I hope you find your own ways to work through some of the fears.

I hope you turn the light on the bully monster in the closet and let him know you don’t plan on being intimidated for the rest of your life.

As I’ve mentioned in other blogs, I know what to do to prevent it as best I can–but life’s still a crap shoot.

I think I’m better off concentrating on having some big adventures, some wild tales and daring feats.

If I’m going to eventually forget everything, I plan on having a lot to forget.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

www.kunati.com

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 If you’re below the age of 65, you may worry about Alzheimer’s, but most likely, you’re not affected yet. 

Alzheimer’s is rare at that stage of life, affecting about 1 person in 1000 in the general population, but over the age of 65 it affects about 1 in 20. 

And the odds increase with age.

According to the very latest research found in the journal of neuroepidemology, that if you live to the golden age of 85 nearly 1 in 2 will have the disease. (Alzheimer’s currently makes up about 70% of the broader category known as dementia) Vascular dementia is the second highest form of dementia and about 10 percent of Americans aged 71 and up, or 2.4 million people, have Alzheimer’s disease and 1 million more have some other form of dementia

Here’s what a “brain on Alzheimer’s” looks like:

Women have a slightly greater chance of developing Alzheimer’s than men. Two factors of Alzheimer’s are plaque and tangled neurons. Both cause the brain to “shrink” and not make the proper connections. Memory, judgement, disorientation and logical and rational thinking are affected. Alzheimer’s can occur as early as in your 40s whereas dementia doesn’t usually strike before your 70s and is more of a gradual process.

Yikes. Makes me consider opening an extreme sports company and call it “When I’m Eighty-Four.” (named after McCartney’s “When I’m 64″) 

I’d rather go out bungee jumping, hang gliding, or mountain climbing.

I’d rather everyone stand around at my funeral saying, “You’ll never believe how she went!”

Remember the movie, Second Hand Lionsand the airplane through the barn? Sounds exhilerating to me.

But the fact is, we have very little say-so about whether we get Alzheimer’s or not.

It’s not like the connection between lung cancer and smoking. All we can do is make good personal, psychological, emotional and physical choices today–and then do a lot of hoping. (aka praying)

There’s very little you can do to avoid Alzheimer’s. There’s been some speculation with aluminum, but that’s still up for debate, and the experts also suggest to avoid getting hit on the head, but then again, they’re neurologists. What else are they going to say?  If both parents get Alzheimer’s, well, don’t try to think about that. Bottom line is, we know very little about this baffling disease.

 So here’s my personal guide to avoiding Alzheimer’s:

  • Maintain a good attitude about myself and others (my mother had a theme song, “I love me, I love me, I’m wild about myself…)
  • Forgive and let go on a daily basis (this is truly my mantra, to become a sieve and let all the anger and hurt and disappointments of life to flow through me)
  • Drink a little wine and celebrate life every chance you get (Salute!)
  • Eat dark chocolate often (I’m game)
  • Make love and maintain a loving long-term relationship (I’m assuming they mean with your long-term relationship partner)
  • Have friends and enjoy lively conversations, even debates (Hey, it’s an election year, surely you’ve got something to debate about!)
  • Learn new things: a new language, how to wire your ceiling fan, how to program your remote control (will someone please please teach me how to use my universal remote?)
  • Dance! This is a great way to avoid Parkinson’s, too. (That’s it. I’m signing up for those ballroom lessons I keep putting off!)
  • Surround yourself with beauty. Research has shown that the taste a person has in art or music is still there after they have Alzheimer’s. (In other words, if you’re like me and love Van Gogh, his work will still move you even if you can’t remember what a telephone is)
  • Take trips. Research has proven that taking trips is a great way to de-stress and a satisfying use of money. (I plan to see fill my heart and my brain with as much of the world’s beauty as I can cram in there)
  • Value sleep and don’t skimp on it. (I try not to wake to an alarm clock and I’ve created a sanctuary of a bedroom that’s glorious to fall asleep–or wake up in)
  • Get a dog, pet the dog, walk the dog–30 minutes a day (mine’s asleep under my chair right now)
  • Eat real food–veggies, fruits, lean meats, avoid processed foods–and cook in cast iron (I still have my mother’s)
  • In downtime, play soduku and chess and crossword puzzles–things that keep the ole’ brain fetching information (I hope blogging counts)
  • When you retire, get involved and stay involved with life–teach a class, start a second career, volunteer.  Don’t let your brain or your heart think your life has no purpose. Your body is smart, and if it thinks its usefulness is over, then it’ll begin to shut down. (Remember? I’m opening that extreme sports company)
  • Make plans now. Say what it is you want–do that living will and five wishes–don’t be afriad to talk.
  • Say ALL YOUR I LOVE YOU’s NOW and KEEP SAYING THEM

    Get a sense of humor! Humor heals. Watch funny movies, buy a joke book/ Get bawdy, humor is the sign of higher intelligence (I knew that, that’s why I’m so funny….looking)

If you get Alzheimer’s, take your meds and trust that your family will take care of you the best they can.

Tell them they’ll have to love and remember for the two of you.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother, available in hardback or on Kindle

www.caroldodell.com

Author of Mothering Mother, available in hardback or on Kindle

www.caroldodell.com

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Are you stuck at home?

Stuck hours at a time in a hospital / care facility with a loved one?

Do you own a snap front house dress and wear it with socks and house shoes? (Guys…come on, fess  up.!)

Then you might need a caregiver re-invention!

It’s kind of like an intervention–you know, when your loved ones all get in your face and tell you your life has gone to pot and you need professional help….

If you’re not careful, you’ll lose yourself in the vortex of caregiving.

I know, been there–my mom had Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s and lived with me (and my family) the last almost three years of her life. 

I had many, many days when I was too tired, lethargic, zombie like to do much of anything past cut pills, serve meals on trays and wash bed sheets.

But caregiving didn’t come in your life to drag you down. It also can provide incredible, unique opportunities.

If you’ve had to quit your job/work less hours/move or have your loved one move in with you, chances are you’re not going to be able to go back to your old life. Life has changed. You’ve changed.

The average caregivers spend 4.5 years caring full-time for a loved one–and 70% of all caregivers do it at home–and go it alone. Sad. Caregiving need not be that isolating.

You have to think creatively. Use adult day care while you can. Hire a sitter–a neighbor–someone you trust–while you can. There may come a day when you can’t. Even if you do have to put your loved one in a facility, you still have to check on them all hours of the day and night to make sure they’re receiving good care.

But…in the few snatch and grab minutes you have during the course of 24 hours a day–why not try something new?

  • start that memoir or write a poem–even a sappy one
  • buy a hummingbird feeder and take pictures of them–you don’t even have to go outside
  • buy some yarn, some knitting needles and a book
  • cook something you saw on the Food Channel
  • try an online college class
  • take up chess or soduku
  • try a home repair yourself–get a book from the library
  • buy a yoga DVD and do 5 minutes a day–build from there

Now, none of this is going to change the world, but it can brighten yours.

Before you go all snarky on me, grumble, complain you don’t have time–or energy for such malarky…give it a try.

No one’s watching.

Caregivers need a break and  no one’s going to give you a break until YOU give you a break.

I know it’s difficult to think about, but one day, your loved one will not be on this earth.

And you need to go on. You need to come out of caregiving a different person–with new skills and interests.

Caregiving happened for a reason, for many reasons–some of them good.

Reinvent yourself. You just might like the new you.

~Carol D. O”Dell

Author of Mothering-Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

by Kunati Publishing

available on Amazon and in most bookstores

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