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Archive for the ‘elder rage’ Category

CNN reported this week on people with Alzheimer’s who develop violent tendencies. This is the silent story that many families don’t want to talk about.  Family members (aka caregivers) don’t want to expose their loved ones. These respected family members were once doctors, lawyers or indian chiefs, as the saying goes–Alzheimer’s is the great equalizer and doesn’t care who you are, and pays no attention to your socio-economic status

We don’t talk about it. We deny and cover up, and stop inviting friends and extended family over. Spouses lie, make up excuses about the bruises. We’re afraid. We don’t know what comes next–where will they go, what care will they receive, can we even afford this care–and what if they get so bad that even the care facilities don’t want to deal with them?

How long can–or should a family, a spouse, an adult child manage the care of a person with Alzheimer’s, and particularly one who is dangerous?

As I read the article (link below) I saw correlations to my mother.

I remember the day she dug her nails into my arms and screamed for a good five minutes her nose practically mine. She knocked me out of the way to go and catch her imaginary taxi. Her eyes were wild. I knew we were in deep trouble. I knew that as a mother to teenagers who lived in the same house that I could not subject them to this. We had hit our wall.

My mother had Parkinson’s for years. The Alzheimer’s bloomed after she moved in with my family and me. Or perhaps it was there and she hid it–and I played along. I had noticed “signs” of paranoia and anger early on, but I chalked this up to her rather expressive personality.

As the disease took hold, she lost the ability to reason. I couldn’t convince her that my children weren’t stealing the crocheted doll that covered the toilet paper roll on the back of her toilet. I couldn’t convince her those were only squirrels running on her roof, not thieves breaking in night after night. I couldn’t reason with her that no, she couldn’t just wander off and catch a taxi to “go home” in our Florida suburban neighborhood. It always baffled me that long after our names and other useful information left her mind that the word, “taxi” stayed. Mother grew up in Georgia, not New York. I think she maybe rode a taxi twice in her entire life.

I stopped talking about it. People would say, “Just put her in a home.”

Like it’s just that easy. Money concerns–memory disorder units and other types of Alzheimer’s facilities that take this kind of patient cost upwards of $5,000 a month and are not fully covered by Medicare or insurance. Not to mention the emotional hurdles of all the times she begged me to never put her in a home, the worry of who would care for her, see past this, and how in the world do I even find a place and people I can trust?

So I stopped inviting people into our home. I stopped taking her places where she tended to act out. It was random enough that i wasn’t dealing with on a daily basis, but the inability to sit still, to pace, to worry, to fixate on me or on something bizarre–all that was there pretty much of the time. She trashed her room with the veracity of whole fraternity who had chugged a couple of keggers. I felt as if I were living in a lockdown facility and I was the unarmed warden.

My concern was that I’d lose it–my cool, my temper, my ability to control the situation. I could forgive her. She had a disease, that’s all. I had to rise above it. I was the one responsible for my actions. I didn’t want to do something I’d regret. I didn’t want to mis-handle my mother or this situation–or cause harm to my children, my marriage, my life. That tightrope was beyond exhausting.

My mother’s violent stage didn’t last too long. She was spiraling fast. Soon, within a few months, she went from violent to forgetting how to swallow. At that point I chose not to use a feeding tube. I had gone from one impossible decision to even a worse one. The thing about having your loved one at home and not in a care home is that you are 100% responsible for these decisions–and you have to follow them through. You witness the consequences of your decisions. You stand there every day and question yourself a million times. You don’t get to get in your car and leave. You stay.

How bad can it get?

Well, I’m here to tell you that Alzheimer’s can give them super strength and amazing endurance.

What’s the percentage of people with Alzheimer’s who are violent? The stats say 5-10% (National Health Monitor).

It’s a lot like schizophrenia in that most people who suffer with this terrible mental illness are not violent, but those that are get a lot of press, and can indeed, hurt people. It may be small percentage, but it still raises alarms.

Some Behaviors That Accompany Alzheimer’s Are:

  • Pacing,
  • Repeated mumbling words or repeated sounds
  • Ticks, cursing, “ugly” (berated, accusatory, or sexual) talk
  • Delusions (visual or auditory hallucinations)
  •  Pounding on a table or hitting their head, hand or object repeatedly
  • Fixation on some thing or someone (paranoia, anxiety)
  • Biting, pinching, hitting, kicking
  • Crying, moodiness, and other outbursts
How to Handle a Person with Alzheimer’s Who Turns Violent:  (Based on the CNN article)

1. Back down.

Most of the time, the incident escalates when the patient does not want to do tasks such as undress, brush teeth or bathe. Don’t physically force the person to do anything, she warned. This could worsen the situation and possibly injure all parties involved.

2. When the patient is upset, apologize — even when it’s not your fault.

Using this strategy will buy you time and good will. Don’t argue with an Alzheimer’s patient, because you can’t win.

3. When the patient becomes agitated, change the topic. (Redirect)

Change the subject. Move to another location. Distract them by something fresh–the birds outside, pretend a friend has called (make the phone ring) play a song they like. “If you can stay calm, you can mirror that calmness back to them,” Kallmyer of the Alzheimer’s Association advised.

4. Keep in mind that the world is distorted for an Alzheimer’s patient.

Know your loved one. Do noises startle them? Are they more upset around a certain person or time of day? Do you know what calms them? Do you have them on a schedule that works well for both of you? Are they sensitive to sugar, caffeine, or even experiencing pain (toothaches, broken ribs, urinary tract infections, and other chronic pains oftentimes goes undiagnosed and can add to their agitation).

5. Call for help.

When in doubt, ask for help. Call the Alzheimer’s Association Helpline. 24/7 for confidential help.

1.800.272.3900         1.800.272.3900.

No one is going to blame you or take them from you–if you ask for help before something horrible happens. No one can judge what you’re going through, and no one can understand what you’re going through. Be confident and don’t be shamed by this. Get the help you need. Call 911. Don’t wait for a tragedy. Get the guns out of the house–now. Hide the knives. You can live with a butter knife until you figure this out. You’re more than just a caregiver. You’re family. As much as you want to give up–you can’t. But don’t go it alone. Don’t isolate yourself. Reach out–get help–share your story. We’ve all been shamed for far too long.

CNN article link:

http://www.cnn.com/2011/HEALTH/03/30/alzheimers.violence.caregiving/index.html?hpt=C1

Great resource: Elder Rage, by Jaquelline Marcell

Carol O’Dell’s book, Mothering Mother is now available for your e-reader! Kindle version availble here.

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“I quit!” I said it more than once when I was caregiving my mom.

And I meant it–the only problem was, I couldn’t figure out what to do with her if I didn’t care for her!

I was an only child. Her sister was older than she was–and her children were taking care of her. I tried to find a care home that wouldn’t break the bank and offer decent care. I couldn’t find one–I was at the end of my rope. (I know more now about how to find care homes and financial possibilities than I did back then).

I felt stuck. My mother was in the darkest trenches of Alzheimer’s. She was mean, didn’t know who I was. She’d try to hit me, kick me, fall, refuse to let me help her. It was rough and the truth was, there was no one but me to do the job.

 I told my husband “I quit.”

 He said, “You can’t.”

Easy for him to be honorable. He got to go to work each morning and leave me in the house with…her!

I “quit” more than once. At least saying it felt freeing, and for a few minutes I could imagine myself not caregiving.

I so wanted to walk out that door, but I knew I couldn’t leave my mother to my husband and children. They didn’t deserve that. I dreaded each day. I resented my family for getting to walk out the front door to jobs and school. It wasn’t pretty. No one wanted to be with me or engage me in conversation–not that I blamed them.

In some ways, my family kept me “honest.” They pitched in, rubbed my back, made dinner, took time to be with my mother so I could nap or stare into space. It was a time in our family that really tested us and showed me how much we needed and supported each other.

Where do you go from”I quit” when you can’t quit? 

There’s pretty much only three choices:

1. You either get help and lots of help (I had help, but keeping help that really helped, well that’s another post).

2. You find a care home–and as I said, you do have more options for free, low-cost, etc., but you need to ask for help and do your research–the care home can help guide you, but don’t just take their word. Check with elder-affairs and other state and community services to fully understand your options.

3. They die. Sounds harsh, I know. But what happened in my situation is that soon after this incredibly dark place, my mom lost her ability to swallow. I considered a feeding tube but decided that at 92 with Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and heart disease, that keeping her alive through a tube wasn’t something either of us wanted or needed. This occurred over six months or more, but I knew I had to see this through. It was a grueling time for all of us, but a necessary closure.

My decision to not use a feeding tube was not easy by any means. I grappled with this, if this was right, ethical. We brought in hospice, which I was surprised actually supported my decision. I worried about what others would think. I struggled with what this would do to my mother–if it would hurt–would she know? Would she be confused?

Saying “I quit” helped lift the little stopper off the pressure cooker. I had to say it several times–like a drowning man who’s more flailing than drowning–but then it became serious and I really was gulping water.

Seeking solutions (even if they didn’t work out or only helped for a short time) felt like action.

Having others (my family and friends) support me, reach out, and offer their arms to hold me convinced me I wasn’t alone.

And yes, there is a time to find that care home, to admit you’re done for, to allow them to die–if that time has come. Good old Ephesians was right. There’s a season for everything. No wonder this beautiful prayer was offered so long ago:

To everything there is a season,
a time for every purpose under the sun.
A time to be born and a time to die;
a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
a time to kill and a time to heal …
a time to weep and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn and a time to dance …
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to lose and a time to seek;
a time to rend and a time to sew;
a time to keep silent and a time to speak;
a time to love and a time to hate;
a time for war and a time for peace.

ecclesiastes 3:1-8

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Do you feel this is the last Christmas with your spouse or parent?

Perhaps you’re looking at a  cancer diagnosis, or you’re at the end stages of Alzheimer’s or heart disease.

This can put a cloud over the festivities. Everything drips with meaning. You’re standing in Wal Mart and feel weepy.

Or…you can’t seem to wedge your butt off the couch. Flipping channels has somehow become  your life.

 

You don’t know it, but this is the face of grief.

We start grieving long before death enters the picture.

The word grief means Deep mental anguish, as that arising from bereavement.

 

So what do you do if you feel like this is your last Christmas together?
Do exactly what you feel like doing. Trust your gut, your heart, your intuition, your spirit…whatever you want to call it.
If you need to flip channels, then give in and flip. Are you missing something significant?
Could you really grasp “significant” right now? Even if it hit you on the side of the head?
I really do believe that after about 3 days, either you’d get sick of the same old “As Seen on TV” merchandise–or, you’d get carpel tunnel and you’d have to quit anyway. Be willing to give in and see where it takes you. I’ve learned that the best way to get over something  is sometimes to give in.
Even scientists have observed  this–they find that if a child is exposed to copious amounts of pizza, chips, cookies, and apples–they’ll eventually get the junk food crave out of their system and willingly choose the apple.
Grief isn’t something you can fight. Nor should you.
It’s natural, and for the most part, healthy.
But if you can, try not to jump time–don’t go to the future–to the time your loved one dies. Be present. That season isn’t here yet.
Also realize  that if you’ve been caregiving for several years, you may have hit the caregiver’swall–you may feel numb, exhausted, and zombie-llike.
Trust the process. If you go too far, you’ll know it–everyone else will know it.
If you do have the ability to rationalize and feel, then cherish this season. Don’t dread it or push it away.
Don’t make everything drip with meaning. That can get exhausting and annoying.
Your loved one won’t appreciate being inthe spotlight every second. Follow the moment.
When something touching, seweet, or poignant happens, you have a better  chance of recognizing it if you are ‘gently” alert.
If you get a few photographs or can jot down a few thoughts, then you’ll have something you can treasure for years.
If you can’t–or don’t–then let it go. I promise you, all you need is one moment–one glance, one gentle touch of the hand, one brush of the hair–somethig will rise to the top. You will have your moment. You will find the sweetness in the season. Just let it happen.
Our relationships–and the holidays–aren’t to be forced. 
Trust that this holiday will give you a gift–at the most unexpected turn.
~Carol O’Dell, and hope you’ll check out my book, Mothering Mother

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Caregiving isn’t always sweet and sentimental. Caregiver relationships are as complicated as everybody else’s. What happens if you need to/are asked to care give someone who has hurt you deeply?

I met a woman at a book club once and her face revealed her suffering. She shared that her husband had late stage Parkinson’s and she was basically housebound and caring for him 24/7. She looked beyond exhausted.

She also shared that she probably should have left him years ago.

Sometimes we stay. For the kids. For the security. Because we were too chicken to leave. Now it’s too late. We need to finish what we started.

I understand. I’ve lived long enough and have been married long enough to understand how very complicated things get.

My “book club” lady shared she really didn’t love him any more. He had killed that long ago.

I didn’t ask, but many times relationships are mangled beyond repair.

Repeated infidelity. Addictions. Isolation and control. Verbal or physical abuse.

There are things we never tell anyone.

I’ve volunteered in shelters, counseled couples, and have found that the deepest hurts usually go unsaid.

***

So why do it? Why care give someone who you simply can’t love any more?

Why stay? You may only have a few years left yourself.

Each person has to figure that out for themselves.

Sometimes it’s not that black and white. Yes, there are hurts. And no, you don’t feel anything for that person, but you have your reasons. Maybe it’s in part how you need to see yourself.

So you stay.

How do you love someone who has hurt you?

Don’t try to make yourself love them.

Don’t feel guilty.

Don’t try to look noble.

Do what you can.

Choose a path of integrity.

Caregiving isn’t about the person who is ill, aged or infirmed. It’s about you.

Decide who you want to be, regardless of them.

Mentally and emotionally separate yourself. You’re still giving them good care.

Trust your good heart.

Practicing a faith can bring you deep comfort.

Know that forgiveness can be as basic as wishing them no harm.

Even if they’re still hateful, vindictive and cruel, if you choose to stay then it’s on your terms.

If you can, if you choose to, place them in a care facility. You’re still being responsible. You’re still watching out for them. You don’t have to humiliate yourself and continue to be demeaned. They chose their path. You choose yours.

Find your place of peace.

Detach when you need to. Methodical caregiving can still be good caregiving.

Begin to nurture yourself. Your dreams. Reward yourself for what you’ve chosen to do if you believe it’s the right thing to do.

Duty. Responsibility. Integrity. These are important words our culture has all but forgotten.

Choose a higher path.

~Carol D. O’Dell

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

www.mothering-mother.com

 

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Last night, the television show Boston Legal had one profound moment relating to Alzheimer’s.  

The premise is that one of their leading characters, Denny Crane (played by William Shatner) has early Alzheimer’s. He’s a brilliant attorney who has never lost a case–and he’s part owner in firm. The other law partners are hesitant for Denny to continue to litigate. Not only is he forgetful, he sometimes does or says bizarre things. Things Alzheimer’s patients might say or do.

Great scenario because I happen to know a great law professor from Yale who lives in my community who now has Alzheimer’s. You can be homeless and live under a bridge–and have Alzheimer’s, AIDS, or cancer–or you can be the president of the United States.

At one point, Alan, Denny’s best friend is having a conversation with Jerry, another lawyer in the firm, (who suffers from Asperger’s syndrome) about what a phenomenal job Denny did in court. Jerry blurts out, “Too bad Denny’s dying from Alzheimer’s.”

Alan is shocked. Insulted. He retorts:

“Denny’s not dying from Alzheimer’s. He’s living with it.”

There’s a great distinction here.

One of the drawbacks to early diagnosis is giving up too soon.

Early detection should mean that you receive proper medication, spend time with your loved ones, and make plans to live–not die.

In the case of Alzheimer’s, the average patient lives 8-10 years, and even longer depending on the age you contract this disease. Parkinson’s, ALS, MS, and other diseases can even offer a longer lifespan. Coincidentally, the average caregiver spend 4.3 years caregiving–leaving a bit of a discrepancy here.

The message is: don’t give up too soon.

Don’t hear a diagnosis and go home, draw the curtains, curl up in a fetal position and wither away.

As a family member or caregiver, it’s a blow to hear that your loved one has a terminal illness, but you still have to get up and face each day.

Michael J. Fox says that Parkinson’s is “the disease that keeps on taking.” He’s chosen to live with his disease. He’s chosen to do this for the millions who look to him and rely on him to raise money for research, for the difference he’s already made, but I’m sure he does this even more for his wife and his children.

A recent example is Ted Kennedy’s diagnosis of a malignant brain tumor. He had a seizure and went into the hospital just last weekend. Yet today, he and his wife, Vicki went sailing. He loves sailing and the Boston Globe said he “finds renewal on the water.”

Ted Kennedy is actually teaching his family and others how to treat him. The Chicago Tribune wrote, “Kennedy’s cancer is dire, not hopeless.”

It’s proven that prayers and good thoughts can impact people’s lives clear across the country–and we can create the atmosphere and attitude around us by how we handle our own bad news.

Maya Angelou says, “We teach people how to treat us.”

Yes, it’s natural to feel kicked in the gut.

It’s natural to take to the bed, cry, get angry, lash out or pull in. Don’t beat yourself up for going through this very natural stage.

But after that, it’s time to move on.

You (or your loved one) most likely won’t die tomorrow. Or the next day.

So you take your meds, maybe get physical or occupational therapy. Change things around in your home, hire a home health aide, buy a walker or scooter or whatever else you need. Life is different. I don’t doubt that. But life can still be good.

You can still find joy–and purpose.

Sometimes our purpose is nestled in our situation. Sometimes something–or someone arises in our midst and a window opens where a door shut.

Yet, there will come a time–hopefully in the distant future when the tide turns again.

You, or your loved one may die from this disease, I can’t promise you won’t. 

If not, from something else.

We have to eventually accept that as well. Another transition. Another acceptance. Another change.

But until then, live, live, live, live, live.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Check out her book, a day-to-day, intimate and honest look at caregiving…

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/mothering

 

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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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Do you feel like running away?

You may have restless caregiver syndrome.

What’s that, you ask?

I may have made up the term, but I certainly experienced it firsthand.

Have you seen the commercials for restless leg syndrome?

They’re kind of quirky, and I’m not saying that it’s not a serious disorder, but it’s presented in a way that makes my own legs twitch! Nothing like an idea planted in your brain.

But that’s exactly what I felt like some days as I cared for my mom who had Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. I just couldn’t sit still. I wanted to run, to stay busy, to go, go, go.

I guess I was scared.

I was scared my mother would consume me.

I was scared that this was going to be my life from now on, and that by accepting it now, I was accepting it forever.

I was scared that if I sat still, thought too long, I’d realize it was a mistake, that this wasn’t what I wanted to do. I was scared I’d grow old and not have the life, the adventures, the memories and journeys I’d always dreamed of.

Restless caregiver syndrome happens off and on in the caregiving process. It occurs when you’ve given up your old life in order to care for your loved one. It’s also compounded by a sandwich generation lifestyle where everyone wants something from you all the time. And, if you’re female, you may be dealing with the oh so lovely change of life–men-o-pause. And, on top of that, you’re probably a boomer and thinking about your own future, i.e. finances, career, retirement, aging, etc.

You became a caregiver because your loved one needed you. You did it believing it was the right thing to do. You told yourself there were some benefits—getting out of a dead-end job, able to spend more time at home, maybe take better care of your own health, or begin that second career you’ve always dreamed of.

Only…

Caregiving isn’t quite what you’d thought it’d be. You’re bored. Stressed. Unmotivated. Overwhelmed by all the stuff there is to do, and how little you feel you get done. You have time (sometimes) but no focus, no initiative.

Your loved one certainly needs your assistance, but you didn’t plan on becoming someone’s personal butler, driver, maid, and cook. They also seem to enjoy your being at your beck and call—or they’re miserable, fussy, or constantly apologizing. You didn’t think all this emotional baggage would come in tow.

You‘re consumed by caregiving even when you’re not caregiving.

You’re fumbling in your own life. Directionless. How long can this go on? The years stretch out in front of you like a vast desert. Some days, sure, you feel on top of your game, but there’s also an underlying sense of sadness. You know where this is going to end.

A restlessness has built up inside you. You gotta get out. You can’t sit in that living room chair one more minute. You can’t scramble one more egg. But you’re stuck.

How to Combat Restless Caregiver Syndrome:

·       Play a game with yourself: if you were under house arrest, but you weren’t caregiving, what would you do? What resources do you have right at home?

·       If someone gave you three years to reinvent yourself, what would you do? Learn a new language? Take some classes and become a computer whiz? Sell your handmade jewelry online?

·       Create a structure you can live with. You call the shots. You decide when dinner is, you decide the med routine. If you want your loved one to go to bed at 7pm so you can have the night to yourself, then arrange it. Create boundaries you can honor that make your life easier.

·       Start planning for time off. Check into respite care; hire a CNA for $20.00 an hour. It may take you a while to get all this in order, but do your homework, find someone you feel your loved one is safe with, and start taking regular breaks.

·       Don’t use your take out for anything that you aren’t dying to do. Go for a mountain hike, antique shopping, to the local pub to watch a football game—anything that will make you feel as if you’ve truly taken a break. No errands. No combining. Time off is time for you.

·       Create a room—your bedroom, a spare office, part of the garage that is just for you. Make it your haven. Put a cooler in there with drinks, stock a mini-bar, and collect magazines only you like— and go there — alone. Your family and loved ones will respect what you respect—and they will run rough-shod over you if you let them.

·       Call a friend and vent for 10 minutes. Set the timer and then just go for it. After that, tell your friend to forbid you from any further complaining for the day. Complaining and whining and griping are good, but not when it’s a toilet bowl that never flushes. I mean that visual to be disgusting so that you’d STOP. Incessant thinking is unhealthy.

·       Use your fidgetiness and wear yourself out. Do something physical—put all your anger and edginess into it. Clean out the frig, scrub the bathroom tiles and get out the gunk around the shower door. Use your restlessness.

·       Find a safety valve. If you’re really about to blow your top, how can you get away? Do you have an emergency person? Can you take them to adult day care? Are they okay for a couple of hours alone if you really couldn’t take it anymore? Have a plan B—because sometimes, it all gets to be too much.

·       If you have siblings and you’ve been carrying this burden alone—then make the call and insist they help out in some way. Even if it’s paying for home help, then that’s a help. Don’t let resentment and exhaustion build up. Tell them how hard it is. Insist you get a weekend off every few months—and a week or two of vacation time a year. You only get what you ask for, so ask!

·       Don’t be a perfectionist and think everything has to be exactly right and exactly your way. If you do, you’ll be a slave to the mundane. Choose a few things to do well, and a few things to do lousy. Nobody ever died because the forks were sticking up in the dishwasher.

·       If your loved one is being ugly, then get in the car and leave. Even driving around the block helps. I used to walk out back, down the embankment out at the river—and scream. So what if the neighbors heard! Better they hear me scream than gunshotsJ They’re adults and can be alone for 5 minutes and they need to be taught that you will not be mistreated. Make that point clear.

You get what you allow.

Sometimes, you’re just going to feel restless as caregiver. You’re going to want to run, to scream, to change your name to Flo and become a waitress on some seaside pier restaurant (my fantasy, not yours necessarily).

When you feel like running, then run. Get out as much as you can. Even if it’s just out the front door and around the block. Hide, sneak out, stay in bed an extra half hour, stand in your shower until the water turns cold. Do what your gut is telling you to do–at least in some small way. If you let off the pressure valve, then maybe, maybe the whole thing won’t blow.

Trust yourself. Trust your journey and this process.

Later, there will come a time when you might not be able to “run,” so do it now. Trust that you will come back.

After your loved one passes, you’ll go through this all over again—there’ll be days when you just can’t be at home. It’s a part of the grieving process. There’ll be other days, or weeks that you can’t make yourself leave. Home feels safe.

Again, trust yourself. Trust that your body, your soul, and your heart knows how to heal itself.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Family Advisor at Caring.com

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

www.opentohope.com

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