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Posts Tagged ‘memoir’

Mike Wallace died April 7, 2012. His last few years were spent in the confusing and tangled maze of dementia. He was 93 and  was a newscaster most known for anchoring 60 Minutes and in the media for over six decades. He’s a prime example that if you live long enough, you just might get dementia or Alzheimer’s (Alzheimer’s is a type of dementia). Your odds increase exponentially with age. According to the Alzheimer’s Association your chances of developing Alzheimer’s doubles about every five years after age 65. After age 85, the risk reaches nearly 50 percent.

So our first challenge is to survive (or hopefully skip over) heart disease and cancer.

The major causes of death (in order) are: heart disease, cancer–both of these way out in the lead–lower respiratory infections, stroke, accidents, Alzheimer’s diabetes, flu and pneumonia, and self-harm (suicide).

As scary as Alzheimer’s is, heart disease and cancer take far more lives.

But Mike struggled with other demons–several years ago he shared that he struggled with depression and even attempted suicide. His honesty helped to shed light on depression, something millions face in silent shame. His life, like most of us, was a mixture of great highs and devastating lows. He was by all means a success, but he also lived through the death of his son (he had a falling accident in Greece when he was just 19), divorce and death of his wife, and several physical and mental challenges.

He was known as a fierce interviewer and was often referred to as an interrogator. He interviewed many of the world’s top and toughest leaders–and he never flinched.

I heard one of his colleagues say that he recently visited Mike and that he didn’t remember anything about 60 Minutes or what he had achieved as a broadcaster. In some ways, that’s sad, but I take it as a cautionary tale. Appreciate life now. Honor your journey. Celebrate it now. None of knows what tomorrow brings. While that sounds ominous, I don’t mean it to be, just that there aren’t any guarantees.

Life is today. What will you remember of your life? Who knows. The point is what you’re doing right now. Live it. Celebrate it.

Mike, tonight we celebrate you.

~Carol O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother, available of Amazon 

Carol D. O’Dell’s Mothering Mother is a frank, unflinching true story of a daughter coping with the role reversal when her sick and aging mother moves in. Carol holds back nothing, offering up hilarious moments alongside the poingnant and the heartbreaking.
More than a memoir, Mothering Mother will inspire, entertain and hearten anyone facing the challenges of caregiving. Through it all she must find the time to escape and nurture her own body and soul while caring for her children, her mother, and her marriage.
Written with wit and sensitivity, Mothering Mother will help others survive–and thrive family life, including the caregiving experience. Mothering Mother was originally written from Carol’s daily journals and captures the reality of everything from driving issues, jealousy, doctor and medical care concerns,, hospice, grief, family dynamics and the joys and challenges found along the way. Mothering Mother is perfect for the sandwich generation, multi-generational households, and for those who care for loved ones and want to face each day with purpose, joy, and hope.

Resources:

http://www.cbsnews.com/8334-504803_162-57411009-10391709/a-look-back-at-some-memorable-mike-wallace-reports/?tag=cbsnewsMainColumnArea.1

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5jadeEUfpe-0vNVtCIM-ETbcl9o-w?docId=123741572d8e44cbb208611f8e3c6e06

http://www.alz.org/alzheimers_disease_causes_risk_factors.asp

http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/lcod.htm

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This is part two of a three part blog about the art of conversation.

If you haven’t read my first post, you might want to–click here.

The art of conversation starts with what you bring to the table.

The best conversationalists have a great sense of emotional intelligence, are easy, approachable, mix humor and poignancy, and can slide from subject to subject at a blink. It’s got a lot to do with a deep sense of confidence. There’s nothing sexier, more alluring, more satisfying than to be with someone who “sits deep in their own saddle.”

What the heck does that mean, you ask?

My middle daughter used to ride horses–and studied the art of dressage.

They call it horse ballet. It’s formal, in many ways, and when people compete at dressage, it’s very fancy–they dress in coat and tails–and a top hat. My daughter’s instructor used to tell my daughter to sit deep in the saddle (this is typically true for all types of horseback riding)–which meant literally to tilt her hips back and down, sink her heels as far down as possible, and plant herself in the saddle. I adopted this metaphor for my own life.

For me, it means to recenter myself, be present, own my own worth and where I am in life so I won’t get “bounced off” at every little bump in the road. 

Side note: Personal confidence has nothing to do with cockiness. Cockiness is a cheap knock-off. Confidence is elegant, generous, patient, and aware. A confident person can’t be easily threatened so they’re not coming from a fear based position. So giving a compliment is genuine, and letting someone else shine is a pleasure and doesn’t take away from their own worth. If you are privileged to be in a conversation with someone like that, then you leave feeling better about yourself–and you don’t even know why.

What’s this got to do with caregiving?

Everything.

When any of us feel our own worth, we attract goodness, and people treat us better because we exude grace and respect–for ourselves and others. My mother had this–she felt her own sense of worth that Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s couldn’t take from her.

How do you become a good conversationalist?

  • Take some slow, deep breaths before you enter a room or situation
  • Envision who you will be talking to
  • See the two of you at ease–engaged in a natural conversation
  • If it’s an important conversation, plan out 2-3 points–no more
  • Really listen. Pay attention to what they repeat, to their body language, to the way their face changes at certain thoughts
  • Don’t play psychologist–no one likes to be analyzed
  • If it’s a casual conversation–a dinner, get together with friends, then relax and be yourself. Don’t worry about every little word. Let others talk, but a little over-talking-interrupting is normal when things really get rolling. Forget how you look or trying to sound deep or witty and just trust your natural instincts.
  • Don’t play the “one up” game–that’s when they tell  story about being st or hurt–and then you “one up” them by telling a story about something worse that happened to you
  • Ask open ended questions–ones that can’t be answered with a “yes” or “no”

But what about those difficult conversations–the one you need to have with your loved one?

Caregivers and family members have to eventually ask their loved ones some tough questions:

  • I think it’s time for us to plan for the time when you’ll no longer drive. Now that doesn’t mean you can’t still live at home or enjoy your same activities, but can we talk about some alternative transportation?
  • How do you feel about a living will? Do you know what that is? If not, I can explain it to you.
  • Have you thought about what you’ll do if you can’t continue to live in your own home? Have you made plans?
  • You remember we went to the doctor’s last week, and the doctor said you have Alzheimer’s. Have you thought about that? Do you have questions? I’d like to talk about how best to help care for you…
  • How do you feel about hospice? When the time comes, would you rather stay at home and have hospice here–or at a hospital?
  • Have you thought about your memorial service? I know it’s uncomfortable, but I’d like your thoughts–how you’d like to be remembered.

These are difficult conversations, and perhaps the most difficult part is just getting started. Think about what scares you the most. Are you afraid they’ll get mad? Shut down? Refuse to ever talk about it again? That you’ll hurt their feelings?

All that might be true, but some conversations need to take place regardless of how someone will take it.

You have to risk the fight, the pouting, the temper tantrum, the silent treatment that may come. If they get mad, let them. A few days later, ask again. Keep asking. Just act oblivious to the fact that they get upset. Contrary to popular belief, you will not die from being uncomfortable.

In the end, it’s better to deal with the few minutes, hours, days of hurt than to have to make decisions for someone else–and then feel guilt and resentment and forever wonder if you did the right thing.

This might help kick-start a difficult conversation:

I’ve actually done this–if you know you have an uncomfortable/difficult conversation coming up–do a dry run. The next time you get in your car, talk out loud and practice your conversation.

Say it all verbatim–exactly as you would if they were in the car with you. You can even add in their part–play out different scenarios–one where they argue with you, whine, cry, pitch a fit…and one where they listen to you, hesitate, but don’t completely discount what you’re trying to say.

Do this dry run several times until you get used to your own words. You need to hear yourself say it. You need the practice–and it really helps!

Get used to talking–about everything. It’s okay to have differing views. It doesn’t mean you can’t love each other–even democrats and republicans have been known to get along–under the same roof.

The art of conversation can benefit your life in so many ways.

Nothing feels better than to leave someone’s house or restaurant after having a good talk–laughter, tears, banter, stories, memories…this is what binds us to those we love.

My next blog post will focus on the hardest of all conversations–communicating with our loved ones when they have Alzheimer’s or dementia or Lewy Body, or a brain injury, or having that last conversation with those we love in their final hours.

I’m Carol O’Dell, author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon. I hope you’ll join in the conversation.

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Halloween is just for kids? Who says?

Our elders really get a kick out of Halloween. They love to see the kids dress up and enjoy handing out candy, or at least watching the parade of adorable angels, fairies, pirates, and ghosts walk by.

Easy Ways to Enjoy the Fall and Halloween Season:

  • Pick up a pumpkin at the grocery store. Even if you don’t cut it, it’s still pretty sitting on the front porch.
  • Decorate your house with a few spooky bats. Use some black construction paper or even use some purple, red, or green wrapping paper–who says bats have to be black?
  • Hang a ghost from a tree–all you need is a sheet and two black eyes and some string.
  • Buy a witch’s hat at a discount store and walk around with a broom and cackle. Your mom or dad will perk up, I promise, if you greet them with their afternoon meds as a witch!
  • Splurge on a little Halloween candy. Get something your mom or dad can eat. A couple of marshmallow pumpkins won’t hurt anything. We all have a sweet tooth–at any age. My mom had a thing for Little Debbie snacks–and I couldn’t help but let her enjoy herself with a couple of swiss cake rolls every once in a while.
  • Plan ahead, bundle up your senior, and either sit outside or near the front door and pass out candy.
  • Light some candles or even string a few Christmas lights around your door–you can leave them up for the next two months and they give off a nice glow.
  • Make it a point to meet a few of your neighbors. If you don’t know your neighbors, you need to–and what better way to strike up a conversation than over a cup of hot cider or commenting on how cute their kids are.
  • Do you know that young couples miss their grandparents and would love a surrogate grandpa or grandmother for their kids to look up to?
  • Let your mom or dad be the candy passer-outer. That will allow them to see the children’s costumes and they’ll enjoy the festivities.
  • Consider renting a oldie–but goodie. How about the Bride of Frankenstein–or the old Dracula? If you mom or dad don’t seem to be up for being frightened, then try a little Planet Earth–the one about all the bats in the caves of Mexico scared me more than any scary movie ever could! For a G-rated film, try Charlie Brown’s Halloween Special.
  • Make a pot of veggie soup–or chili. Mix up some cornbread and enjoy the fall chill in the air.
  • If you’re near your grandkids, then consider going to their house and enjoying the fun. This is how you make family memories–and it’s worth the trouble.

I read this great short story once about a daughter who took her mom, who had Alzheimer’s, to a Halloween party. Her mom loved it–and totally got into the masks and charades and felt free–not to have to be one person or another–to be concerned with knowing someone, recognizing someone. For Halloween night, she could be anybody she wanted.

I have a favorite Halloween memory of my mom and me. It’s a bit unusual since I grew up in a strict religious household–my mom was a minister–so you don’t exactly think they’d buy into the whole Halloween thing, but she did. I’m glad she didn’t take it too serious because to this day, and I still love to dress up.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, SAID CHILD, which is the prequel to Mothering Mother. (SAID CHILD is about being adopted at age four, and my search for my birth family–and how I learned to love both my adoptive and birth family). 

 

               Daddy had been in the hospital for back surgery on Halloween when I was about eight or nine years old. It was an especially cold Georgia Halloween night and I fidgeted beside his hospital bed, tired of coloring and wanting to go home and get on my fairy costume and go trick-or-treating. By the time Mama and I kissed Daddy goodbye and we made it out of the hospital and hit the cold night air of the parking lot, I realized it was long since dark. The cold bit into my chest.

“Don’t worry, I have an idea,” she said as she walked a little faster.

We hurried home and I moped around, standing on the heater grate, curling my sock feet over the metal edges for warmth. Mama burst out of her bedroom,

“Count to one hundred, and then come knock on my bedroom door.”

What was she up to? I did as I was told.

“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred.” Knock, knock.

Mama cracked open the bedroom door. She peeked out with a sheet over her head,

“Ohhh!” She moaned like a ghost. I squealed and giggled.

“I am a Halloween ghost!” she said in a low voice spooky voice. “Would you like some candy, little girl?”

I ran and got my orange plastic pumpkin bucket and thrust it toward the door. Mama dumped in a handful of Bit-O-Honey candies. She leaned down and whispered for me to count to one hundred again with my eyes closed, and then go to the bathroom door and knock. She motioned for me to turn away as she ran to the next room.

Mama opened the bathroom door wearing Daddy’s trench coat and hat and a mustache she must have drawn on with her eyebrow pencil. I laughed until I fell down and then held out my plastic pumpkin as she emptied Bazooka bubble gum into it.

We ran from room to room and each time Mama appeared as a new character—a maid with apron and spoon in the kitchen, a lady in a evening gown and fancy hat in the closet, a little girl with curlers in her hair and a teddy bear when she emerged from my room.

 

Mama wasn’t so boring after all. As regular as a clock, she kept my childhood in order. She made sure I scrubbed under my fingernails and practiced my times tables. But she was also a mother capable of a surprise or two–especially on Halloween. 

***

Have a Happy, Safe, and Fun Halloween!

~Carol O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother

Family Advisor at Caring.com  

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You don’t have to like your mother to love her.

Jess is a friend of mine. She’s in her mid-thirties, and like most young women she’s had a couple of decades of feeling like she had nothing whatsoever in common with her mother. Now, within the past few months I’ve noticed she talks about her mom differently.

Jess’s mother is flying in for her wedding shower and they’re going shopping all day at the outlet mall while she’s in town. She calls her mom several times a week as she’s driving home from work–just to chat. This wouldn’t have happened even three years ago.

Why the change?

The mother-daughter bond is resilient.

It’s not a warm, cuddly blanket, but a sinuous cord that connects us. At times, it’s the jet fuel we need to grow up and move on with our lives. We “use” our mothers. We hate them in order to love ourselves. We swear we will never be anything like them. We despise them when we don’t want to admit we despise ourselves. We lash out in words and actions knowing it cuts like a serrated knife. We think it will always be like this–us, way over here–them, way over there.

The resiliency of the mother-daughter relationship that grows stronger over time isn’t a surprise. Pennsylvania State University conducted a study of midlife daughters and their elderly mothers. Researcher Karen Fingerman, Ph.D., found that “despite conflicts and complicated emotions, the mother-daughter bond is so strong that 80 percent to 90 percent of women at midlife report good relationships with their mothers—though they wish it were better.”

Whodathought? After all those years of bickering, name calling, not calling at all…that we actually love each other underneath all that bravado. And…we actually want a better relationship with our mother! I never throught that day would come for me, but it did.

Suddenly, through birthing a daughter, a woman finds herself face to face not only with an infant, a little girl, a woman-to-be, but also with her own unresolved conflicts from the past and her hopes and dreams for the future…. As though experiencing an earthquake, mothers of daughters may find their lives shifted, their deep feelings unearthed, the balance struck in all relationships once again off kilter.

~Elizabeth Debold and Idelisse Malave

We need something to propel us into our own lives and identities and we push off of our mothers like they’re a springboard–the laws of physics at work in relationships. Our “you weren’t there for me’s,” and “why are you always so controlling” can take years to leave our systems. We stew in our own toxic venom.

Were they bad mothers? Perhaps. At times. But that doesn’t diminish their power or our need to have them in our lives. Even if for a few, our mothers are object lessons, they are still in our lives for a purpose.

Eventually, most of us learn to make at least a measure of peace with mothers–and mothers with their daughters. It’s not a conscience thing. It’s not an “I should.” It just is. It’s biological.

Mothers and daughters can fight, argue, cry, blame, and complain–and their bond gets stronger. You don’t even know it’s happening–you think you’re a million miles away. We can even ignore our mothers and go on with our busy adult lives, and that bond is still there. Genetics is one powerful pull.

I’ve seen it countless times–family members who have been hurt find a way to forgive. Daughters who are disgusted with their mother’s choices begin to understand why, and through their own poor choices, they offer a morsel of mercy.

Mothers who seemed hard, controlling, and fussy finally become real people to their daughters. Their daughters begin to realize the that their mothers have lives, dreams, and quiet heartbreaks no one knows about. Mothers loosen up over time and become somone their daughter confides in.

Again, why?

You can’t make peace with yourself, with who you are, with all that you’ve done that had made you ‘you,” until you can begin to accept your mother, your past. She is your key.

What the daughter does, the mother did.  ~Jewish Proverb

Our mothers, our daughters define us. We are who we are because of them–good or bad. We look into their faces and we see ourselves–past and future.

We forgive, tolerate, and accept things our mothers or daughters have done. We know them, bear their secrets, absorb their transgressions, and even speak our truths into their lives no matter how tough and gritty it is.

Caregiving comes into play in regard to the mother-daughter bond. When our loved ones need us–really need us–we come back. We help out. We lay down our grievances and rally to the cause. But it’s more than that–caregiving gives us a reason to make up, to let go, to “get over it.” As our mothers need us, we return and answer the call.

Whether our relationship is strained or easy, hostile or amiable, we need our mother if only in memory …
to conjugate our history, validate ourfemaleness and guide our way.

~ Victoria Secunda

Something happens when our mothers lives begin to grow smaller either physically, emotionally, or financially–a power shift occurs. We (the daughters) gain strength and power–and this time to “be on top,” allows us to feel less threatened–and when we’re not threatened–we can be generous with our love.

Eventually, the scales balance.

After years of our mother’s having dominance over our lives (the childhood years), we’ve built up resentment, and finally, as time rolls along, we come into our own, we tower above our mothers for a short time, and that isn’t as fun as it sounds. If we’re lucky, and our mothers live a little longer, we become equal bookends, each of us strong in the broken places and worthy of respect.

And then, just when we make peace, our mothers die. It surprises us. It shocks us. This is too soon, we cry.

We realize how ironically close we really were–all along–even when we thought we weren’t. We realize we loved them in a deep-bone way. We lose ourselves in grief. We just found ourselves in and through and mothers, and then they leave us. We feel abandoned, lost, maybe even angry.

Looking back, I realize I’ve lost two mothers four times.

My birth mother had schizophrenia and I was taken from her as an infant when the voices told her to hurt herself and her children. I lost her again when I was adopted at the age of four. I didn’t know it would be forever. I lost her again when I was 23, and found my birth family only for them to tell me that my mother was dead–she had died one year before I found them. I cried that day, that week, that year–I cried for the mother I would never know.

I lost my adoptive mother to Alzheimer’s before death took her. To look into the face of someone you know so well–someone who you’ve screamed at, cried and fought with, only to have a disease eat away at her brain like battery acid–and to know that she doesn’t know you, remember you, you hold no emotion, no connection. You might as well we a cardboard box. It ravages your soul and all you believe.

And then death came. In a way, a welcome relief to the heartbreak of Alzheimer’s. I knew it would never give me my mother back.

Why now? Why do we lose our mothers just at the point when we can sit beside them and feel at ease, a give and take? Just when we can be ourselves in the presence of our most formidable foes, our most dependable ally, we lose them.

I have no answer for this. The only solace I can give you is that my mother’s life is now my example, her stories, her “ways” ripple through my own life. I don’t idolize her or think she was perfect. That would be an insult to such a great woman. I see her as complex and confounding as ever–but that’s what I like about her, about me.

In a bigger sense, I haven’t lost her, or lost me. We sit side-by-side. Equals. I hear her so much more clearly these days. I feel her respect. I listen.

And now, I have three grown daughters. The torch has been passed. They rail against me at times.

I let them. I know the journey they must take to get to their own place of acceptance and strength. I’ll be here. Waiting.

The woman who bore me is no longer alive, but I seem to be her daughter in increasingly profound ways.  ~Johnnetta Betsch Cole

I’m Carol D. O’Dell, the author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon. I explore the adult daughter-mother relatiohnsip in my book, and I hope you’ll check it out.

 

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It’s the simple things I miss about my mother.

Just two women shopping. Someone to be with. Someone who knows me better than I wanted her to.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom.

I’ll always miss you, and I’ll always carry you in my heart.

I hope you enjoy this excerpt from my book, Mothering Mother:

When I Miss Her

I miss Mother when I go to the grocery store. Since I’m no longer eligible to park in the parking spaces for the handicapped, I must walk by the light blue and white lines as I head across the parking lot that no longer takes me ten minutes to cross. I see Mother grip the handle of the grocery cart and remember the freedom this rolling walker gave her.

 

I still see her curved spine dipping, her stockings slowly sagging from above her knees and eventually bunching around her ankles. I see her silhouette, complete with a bright blue nylon cap and its hundreds of petal-shaped pieces that made her head look like a massive flower. Some people loved her hat, others made fun of it, snickered about it behind our backs, but there were a few who found her and her blue hat endearing.

 

I miss her as I pass by the bananas. She said they gave her potassium and ate one a day. I had to buy seven a week—not six, not eight—though I often cheated, hoping to tide her over a day or two. Sometimes I get the urge to eat one in case I, too, am low on potassium. Any fruit she ate had to be peeled, cored and washed until it practically no longer resembled anything that ever lived. Apples were pale and tinged brown, grapes looked naked and embarrassed without their skins.

 

I miss her when I pass the Little Debbie display. Her face would light up at the sound of me opening the cellophane wrapper of an oatmeal pie.

 

I miss not picking up her half gallon of milk, her apple juice and her frozen dinners. I knew which ones she liked—the meatloaf, beef tips and flounder, nothing with pasta, very little chicken. Ice-cream bars remind me of her dying, not living. I can’t bring myself to eat one, or even buy them anymore.

 

I miss her small talk with the cashier, the slightly condescending way she treated the help, and the times she surprised me with genuine kindness and humor. As time went on, she took forever to get out her wallet, and two forevers to pull out her credit cards. She could no longer differentiate a Visa card from a debit card, from a license. She’d just let them pick, holding the plastic squares out innocently like a hand of playing cards. I always tried to catch her before she let strangers rifle through her entire wallet and checkbook. By then, some of her prejudices had diminished and she chitchatted with anyone who caught her eye, regardless of race, which was a pleasant change, though unreliable. She insisted the baggers carry our groceries to the car, no matter how few we had, and she saw no need to tip them. I’d slip them a dollar or two after buckling her in. Tipping never was her thing.

 

Now I just go to the store like anyone else. No one to slow me down, no one to check on, no bananas to count, no Little Debbies to hide so she won’t eat them all in two days.

 

It’s just ordinary, and what once seemed a bother, is now missed.

 

~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

www.kunati.com, Publishers

 

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In most families, there is a primary caregiver no matter how many siblings there are. Some try to divvy up the responsibilities, but it’s rarely equal distribution because of differing people’s lives—jobs, distance, abilities, etc. In many families, one sibling gets the brunt of the responsibility.

 

And even if you agreed to it, over time, resentment can build.

 

I know of so many families who are torn apart because of this very issue.

Why won’t they help out?

 

Here are a few reasons why siblings won’t participate: they live further away, they can’t (or won’t) quit their job or cut back on hours to help, they have other responsibilities such as children and already feel overwhelmed, they say you’re controlling and they’ve just given up, they’re scared and don’t know how to help and think you’re more qualified/competent, they’re lazy, selfish and just don’t want to be bothered (or so it seems).  

 

While any or all of those above reasons may apply, you still need—and deserve help.

 

Where are you? 

 

  • How do I get my sibling to help?
  • My sibling refuses to help and I’m mad as hell.
  • My parents still favor the uninvolved sibling over me.
  • My siblings say I’m controlling and they don’t like my decisions, but they’re not involved enough to help me work it out.
  • My loved one is gone and I can’t get over this hurt and resentment. our relationship is ruined.

 

 

How do I get my sibling to help?

 

 

SAY you need help. Be specific.

Ask them to do one thing at a time.

Tell them this isn’t fair and that distance, fear, raising a family isn’t an excuse and there are still ways to pitch in.

Give them one “job” at a time, it gives them something to focus on.

Use your controlled anger to INSIST they find a way to help out—monetarily, by hiring help, by buying groceries or your parent’s meds—anything tangible is a start.

 

Or, realize your anger is only hurting you and learn to accept them “as is.” Consider your role as a caregiver while exhausting and frustrating, a privilege, and those who choose not to participate are missing out on something really profound.

 

My sibling won’t help, and I’m mad as hell.

 

Use your anger and say loud and clear what you need, or use it as energy (jet fuel) to do all you need to do in order to survive. But know that at some point, you will need to let it go. Anger is jet fuel, but if you drink it, consume it, steep in it, it will poison you. Do you really want to spend your precious time on earth mad as hell? This isn’t what caregiving is meant to do. It’s meant to heal, teach, and guide us.

 

My parent favors my other sibling.

 

There’s a scene in Meet Joe Black that I love. The man who the devil is going to take is having a lavish, over the top birthday party given to him by one of his two daughters. It’s clearly obvious throughout the film that he favors his other daughter—the one not giving him the party.  He asks his daughter (party giver) why she loves him so much?

 

She answers: “Everyone has a favorite, and you happen to be mine.”

She had made peace with this. She loved freely and easily and didn’t demand exact reciprocal love. She gave it as a gift.

 

Can you imagine loving that freely?

With no expectation—or need to have it returned to you in exact measured form? We have no control over what others do or feel, but we do have control over our own choices. I so hope I can get to this place.

 

My siblings say I’m controlling…

 

Are you? You probably are. I haven’t met a caregiver who isn’t—including myself. You have to be, look what you’re doing? It’s a bowl full of fishing hooks and if you try to pull apart if you became controlling because they wouldn’t help—or if you were controlling and bossy all your life—well, it’s a useless argument. Let them know that yes, someone has to be in control, and it’s kind of fallen to you—but you will listen.

You do want (and need) to value their input even though there will be times that you may need to feel you have to override that if it’s something you have to deal with and no one else is around. Also realize that you may have overstepped your bounds, you may be really bossy and fussy, and want it all done your way—and you may need to listen to at least some of what they have to say—and try.

 

I know you don’t want to hear this, that after all you’ve done you feel like I’m beating up on your too. Just realize I am you. I was that bossy control freak caregiver. And in some ways, I make no apologies—it got me through—and I truly didn’t have anyone rushing down to help me take care of my mom, but…I still had things to learn, and I needed to tone it down at times—and listen.

 

My loved one is gone now, and I still can’t get over the hurt and resentment…

 

Ask yourself why you need to hold on to this. Why does it matter any more? Can you not move on because it would be admitting that mom, dad, spouse, sister is truly gone? Are you obsessing about how everyone just left you, abandoned you, and how wrong that was, how cold that was, how you almost killed yourself and they did very, precious little…

My sibling is selfish, lazy and just doesn’t care.

I suspect this is the case–for a very select few. If it is, then let it go. Love them “as is” and perhaps even love them from afar. You can’t fix every relationship. They have to own their part. Concentrate on you, on getting help and resources you need. There are church groups, community organizations, senior resources that can help tremendously–and they want to. You want help from people who willingly give it. Let’s face it, there are a few totally self-centered folks out there who won’t even extend a hand for their own family. Sad, but true. You can’t let that eat you alive.

 

Do you really want to spend your whole life in this vortex?

 

Even if you sever ties, it’s not enough if you haven’t let go of the resentments. I know people who haven’t seen their sibling for years and years and yet when they talk about their rift, you’d think it happened that morning.

 

I’m telling you, it’s not good for you. It’s not worth it. And it’s no way to honor the passing of your loved one.

 

Even if you don’t have to see them—ever again (not that I’m recommending this), I promise you, this won’t go away unless you make conscious decision. Whatever juices you’re stewing in—resentment, anger, hurt, you will eventually absorb, and it will eventually become a part of who you are on a cellular level.  

 

Let the bitter thoughts go. Move on. Fill your life with new and good people and new journeys. Wish your siblings well. Understand they were scared, lost, felt awkward, missed an opportunity. Feel sorry for them, if you need to. They’re the ones that missed out on all you’ve learned, how much you’ve grown.

 

Also know that people change. I know of siblings who missed out on one parent’s care—for a variety of reasons—but then put in time and half on the next parent—or with another sibling—or a neighbor.

This isn’t tit-for-tat. Stop looking for payment or recognition—I hope you get it, and I hope you put up a big fuss and get others involved—as much for them as for you.

I hate to harp on the law of attraction thing, but it makes sense here: the more you focus on what you don’t have–in this case help from your siblings–the more you get just that. No help from your siblings.

But I also hope that you can love them beyond their limitations and fears. It doesn’t mean they’re not good people. That’s not our place to judge, and who knows what small act of kindness they do, what ways they reach out to others.

 

By loving them when they don’t deserve it, we bring out the best in ourselves and act the most like our creator. I know there are countless times in my life when I’ve screwed up, missed the moment, acted stubborn, selfish, and was no where near the person I aspire to be.

 

We all need a little mercy.

 

~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

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“I could go at any time.”

My mother said that line for a good 15 years.

It got old.

I knew she said it for attention, but did she really want negative attention?

Was she afraid of dying or just wanted us to reassure her she wasn’t?

Is your parent or spouse negative all or most of the time and is it driving you crazy?

It’s bad enough on the occasional visit, but if your caregiving responsibilities have increased, and you may be even living with them, then the negativity might be getting to you.

I know it got to me. And this isn’t the only kind mother engaged in.

“Why don’t your children like me?”

“Are you really going to wear that? Women your age shouldn’t wear mini-skirts” (It was barely above the knee)

“This chicken is rubbery.”

“You’re not as spiritual as you used to be.”

And my favorite…

“I don’t know why the good Lord just doesn’t come on and take me.”

***

I won’t tell you all the snide and irreverent comments I had for each of those, but I bet you can guess.

Basically, being grumpy and talking negative is a bad habit.

It’s meant to draw attention, to gain back power, or to make a jab at all the resentments that are building.

Basically, it’s saying something mean instead of having an honest discussion–and/or it’s a bad habit and thought pattern that’s been there for years.

HOW TO STOP NEGATIVE TALK:

  • Call their bluff–‘I know you’re trying to get my attention, but there are better ways to do it. How about…” Or, “You want to run by the funeral home?  You said you wanted to go…” (sounds mean, but it just might get your point across)
  • Shift their attention–offer something better in its place. Turn on some music, change the conversation, make an excuse and leave the room. Get the point across that this is no longer working.
  • Say, “STOP!” Say it firm and with eye contact. If it continues, say it louder and firmer.
  • Be a good example. Stop yourself when you hear it. Stop mid-sentence. Say, “STOP!” to yourself. Correct what you just said with a positive spin.
  • Be consistent. Just like with a child, if they sense a your defenses might crumble, they’ll hit harder and more manipulative the next time.

Negativity leads to depression and depression leads to all sorts of ailments.

Besides, who wants to live with, drive with, or work with someone who always negative and complaining?

Will someone who is in their 80s or 90s and has been this way for years really change?

They can. Especially if there’s simply no tolerating. They may still think it, whine it under their breath, but you as a daughter, son, spouse, caregiver set the mood and tone of your household and all those who are around you. You have the right and the obligation to keep things on an even, pleasant keel. It’s best for everyone, so suck up the fact that it may take a confrontation and do it. You’ll be glad you did.

Negativity rubs off and can damper an entire household or place of work.

But being positive is contagious too. You don’t have to be annoyingly, overly giddy, but being pleasant, helpful, and easy to get along with is something all of us aspire to.

“Folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”

–Abraham Lincoln

~Carol D. O’Dell, Family Advisor at www.Caring.com

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

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

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