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Posts Tagged ‘humor’

YES!

Sleep and laughter are perhaps the most healing gifts the good Lord gave us–and it’s the first to go when caregiver stress mounts an assault on your life. You have to fight to protect these two gifts. You have to buy a lock for your bedroom door, take out the TV, turn off your cell phone and not take it into the bedroom with you, refuse to fall for the drama and schemes that your loved ones pull to get you out of bed. It’s not going to be easy….they’re tricksy!

My mother treated the night like we were at the Indy 500. The later it got, the more riled up she got! She’d turn on the lights, bang the cabinet doors, call my name and knock on the door. I had to show her that I wasn’t going to cater to her 24/7. I wish I could tell you that this worked. My mom had Alzheimer’s and sundowners and over time, I had no choice but to get up and deal with the chaos. I had to practically strip her room bare (she seemed to gain super-human strength in the middle of the night and could overturn her nightstand, rip all of her clothes off of hangers and empty her drawers into a pile in the middle of the floor).

If you’re reading this and your loved one isn’t doing these things (yet) this probably scares you. All I can say is that Alzheimer’s takes you and your loved one to some pretty bizarre places. You’ll experience things you never even thought of! And yes, at times, it’s scary.

But at some point you stop being scared. They’re still your mama, your daddy. And caregiving makes you brave. It toughens you up. You face your monsters and you realize that you either stand up and take control or realize you’ll be bullied from here on out. So you deal. You get strong. You love and you hold your temper even when provoked and even when you don’t get any kindness back. You make tough decisions. You do what’s best.

And you laugh. You laugh so you won’t cry. You laugh and cry all in the same breath. You realize that life is precious, and sweetness still abounds, and that the crazy stuff might just be the good stuff. You laugh because none of it makes sense. You laugh so you can let go, so you can feel, so you can hope again.

So right now, look up a joke, or call the funniest person you know and tell them you need cheering up. Vent, share your crazy-awful, silly, you-would-never-believe-what-mama/daddy/husband/partner just said or did….You laugh because it’s the only antidote to grief or sorrow there is.

Laughter and sleep–ain’t nothin’ better…

Take both–or either–any way and any time you can get them.

~Carol O’Dell

Author, Mothering Mother, available on Amazon 

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We sat in the Ronald McDonald family room at Shands Children’s Hospital, sequestered for the day, waiting for the pediatric cardiologist to operate on my middle daughter’s 8 day old baby girl. All of my family gathered. We ached with worry, skittered around the edges of dread, squeezed hands and whispered prayers. We also laughed. We have that ability–to tease, to banter, to tell a familiar story, to find sweetness and humor wherever we are. All of us, together, getting through this wonderful and awful day, my daughters, son in-law and husband confined in such a small space, with so much at stake, and yet there we were, healing our own hearts.

I’ve been here before, with both parents, through back surgery, abdominal surgery, heart surgery, through kidney infections, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. I’ve walked this too-familiar road, but never like this.

We drank nasty coffee, the TV on although none of us watched it, flipped through waiting room magazines, covered in blankets, our legs thrown over one another.  The hours dug in long and hard. We’d go through swells of fears and eddies of faith. Some of us took walks, others tried to nap. We played on iPads, shared apps, got fast-food, the only choice we had.

We checked the time, then checked it again. In the lull of the afternoon, our daughter gets a call and steps into the hall. Moments later she flings open the door, her eyes and face already swollen from days of sorrow now blotched and red with fresh tears.

I sprung, arms open…oh god…

The surgery was over. It went well. Our tiny baby’s heart is repaired.

Relief poured up and out of us all. We became a geyser of tears and laughter, cheers and hugs.

If it weren’t for the break that humor gave us, the ability to siphon off some of the dread, the sharing of strength and solace, I don’t know how any of us would have made it through that day. For a caregiver, or family or friend of a caregiver, perhaps this is your greatest gift to give.

How does humor heal? New research has shown that it’s a natural pain reliever and does wonders for our immune system. Laughter is nature’s re-calibrator. Most of all, it’s contagious. And don’t worry about it being inappropriate to smile or laugh when life is at its worst. It’s a testament to the human spirit, to hold the “scary stuff” in one hand, and to balance it with joy, with sweetness, with laughter, in the other.

Even in the darkest of hours, laugh, tease, play and tell a story.

Humor heals. It makes the unbearable bearable. 

 

~Carol O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother, available at Amazon and on Kindle

Resources:

http://psychcentral.com/blog/archives/2009/02/17/9-ways-that-humor-heals/

http://women.webmd.com/guide/give-your-body-boost-with-laughter

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If your’e happy and you know it clap your hands…goes the children’s song. Now there’s a new twist: If you’re happy and you know it you just might live longer, suggests a new study just out by the University College of London.

In fact, if you are in your golden years and you keep up that positive outlook you’re 35% less likely to die than Mr. Scrooge and all those grumps who think that it’s just too much darn work to smile–or be nice to people.

This wasn’t just based on a “Are you happy” questionnaire. People tend to tell you what they want you to hear, or what they need to believe for themselves.

English Longitudinal Study of Aging followed more than 11,000 people age 50 and older since 2002 and in 2004 they collected saliva samples  on about 4700 participants. These samples were collected four times in one day and their moods were noted: happy, excited, content, worried, anxious, or fearful they felt at the time. Steptoe and his UCL colleague Jane Wardle have now published their findings on the links between mood and mortality in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences .

Here’s their analysis:

Of the 924 people who reported the least positive feelings, 7.3%, or 67, died within 5 years. For people with the most positive feelings, the rate fell in half, to 3.6%, or 50 of 1399 people (The researchers adjusted for age, sex, demographic factors such as wealth and education, signs of depression, health, including whether they’d been diagnosed with major diseases), and health behaviors such as smoking and physical activity).

Even with those variables, the risk of dying in the next 5 years was still 35% lower for the happiest people.

But what if you’re not just one of those giddy, always up-beat types?

This is just my take, but there are many ways to be happy. People with dry wit, cynical types who see the world in a slant, and folks who aren’t the silly types, but who find a way to make things easy–these are all types of happiness.

I think we can carve our own happiness, and it may not look like someone else’s happiness.

Start a list:

  • What comforts or soothes you?
  • Add your favorite foods
  • Make a list of music you enjoy
  • Think about people you hang out with who just make you feel good
  • What every day activities do you find pleasing? Do you like to fold clothes or wash dishes by hand?
  • Have you watched one of your oldie but goodie movies you like lately?
  • Memorize three funny jokes–and share them!

This is the beginning of your happiness list.

Happiness isn’t out there–for others–it starts with the simple things.

~Carol O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother

available in hardback and on Kindle 

Source:

http://www.cnn.com/2011/10/31/health/happiness-linked-longer-life/index.html

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I finished my blog, “How to Live and Die Well” and while I meant every word, my sarcastic side was reeling.  Admit it, most of us will leave this earth kicking and screaming ( at least on the inside). We don’t want to eat our veggies as much as we’d prefer to dive into a bag of Lays, and aren’t there some days when you want to embrace your inner grump and blast the world? So here’s my comedy version–and on some/most  days–it’s a tad closer to the truth.

How to Live a Horrible Life:

  • Indulge my every whim–even when I’m repeating an already disastrous scenario that didn’t exactly work out the first time.
  • Refuse to forgive–especially myself.
  • Hold on to, nurse, and even embellish grudges, past hurts, and assumed wrongs.
  • Accuse others of stealing from you, talking about you, disliking you (which they probably do by this point) because that further endears you to folks.
  • Watch lots of television.
  • Buy a scooter. Walking is for sissies.
  • Try and force things to happen. It’s exhausting and not trusting, but it’s based on believing that I’m actually in control–of anything and everything.
  • Keep that inner monologue of self-doubt and self-loathing going 24/7.
  • –while simultaneously blaming anybody and everybody else for my crappy life.
  • Get too little sleep, indulge in too many processed foods/sweets, and take a pill, any pill, all the pills I can find–for everything from a hangnail to hemorrhoids.
  • Never do anything that’s not for my own direct benefit.
  • Give up, give in, and then complain about how nothing ever works out for me.
  • Never say thank you.
How to Die a Horrible Death: 
  • Repeat the above steps for the next 40/50 years.
  • Get more demanding and grumpy with each passing year.
  • Threaten that “I’m going to die soon, so please just do this one thing for me,” to get people to cater to your every whim.
  • Go to a doctor for every little thing and take all the meds and all the free med handouts they give me.
  • Read lots of articles about horrible diseases and become convinced I have them all.
  • Push people out of the way with my cart and mumble “Move it, I’m old!” (my mother used to do this)
  • Become incontinent as soon as possible…
  • because we all know that our family members just LOVE changing adult diapers.
  • Insist others feed you and then let the food dribble out on your chin and down your shirt–your family will be sure to love that one, too.
  • Become so cantankerous that even the grim reaper doesn’t want to spend time with you.
  • Refuse to “go to the light.”
  • Fake your death scene–clutch your chest and gasp for air–just to get people all crying and worked up. Then yell, “Surprise!” (Facetious, I know, but don’t you want to try it now?)
Yeah, I’m having a bit of fun, but this list just might help keep me motivated.
I’m working on my Oscar-worthy death scene now….
Have some to add? Send ’em my way and I’ll add them to the post.
In the meantime, happy living!
Carol D. O’Dell

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Many people think that caregiving and womanhood go hand-in-hand. We’re nurterers by nature, we’re led to believe. Probably because they don’t want to do it (whoever “they” are). You’re good at it–so you should do it. We’re also good at cleaning the bathroom–not because we have a knack for it–it’s mostly because nobody in the house seems to even notice (I’m generalizing).

Caregiving can seem to run counter-intuitive to staying a woman.  Maintaining a vibrant, healthy, dynamic, enticing, savvy and nurturing selfhood can literally be sucked out of you by never-ending days, with the medical and insurance world, worry, regret, guilt, grief–who can be “womanly” with all that?

The truth is that what’s behind going on behind most front doors is that we know caring for our loved ones–whether babies or elders–is an important job–and most of the time, only one person in the family has the strength, autonomy, and chutzpah to do it.  We’re lonely and scared, brave and exhausted. We fear we don’t know what we’re doing. We fear we’ll be found out.

We try to be patient and kind but oftentimes, we fall short. We feel like we’re trying to outrun disease and death–and impossible task. We feel helpless to stop pain and depression. We love what we do but we worry about our own health and relationships–and we feel as if we’re giving huge chunks of our own life away–and in some ways we do it willingly, but we grieve all we’ve lost. We’d cry or even give up, but we don’t have the time–and something deep inside us  urges us to get up and go on.

Let me clarify this: there are many ways to be a woman. We don’t all need to be pin-up dolls. We’re far to rich and textured, complex and fascinating to be shoved in one tiny box. We can be cowgirls, butchers, dentists, outriggers, poets and prophets. Short hair, no hair, long hair, big boobs, no boobs, there’s no one way to be–but all these ways of being can be in jeopardy if you (or others) ask too much of you and you never fill your reservoirs.

But how? Your snarky self asks.

I know. My caregiving years were largely make-upless (not that you have to) pudgy due to horrible eating at 2 am (me and a bag of Oreos met for regular intimate discussions on the stresses and strains of caring for a mother with Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s who had no respect for the words, “It’s after midnight for (#*%& sake!!!)

And worse, I was ugly–to myself–ugly thoughts, self-deprecating eat ca-cah and die, your life is over, your friends are gone, you’ll never go on vacation again, your kids will never want to take care of you, not after this, sex? are you kidding? can we say hello 200 pounds? That kind of looping inner-monologue.

I often wonder, if I could gather all my thoughts about my weight, my body, my hair, my boobs, my s0-and so doesn’t like me, am I pretty, am I sexy, too sexy, not enough, way to much–and I took all those seconds and used that brain power and time to say, learn a language, get a degree, or…run a small country…what could I accomplish?

So I’m not going to preach to you about treadmills. I’m going to tell you how I got through, and I do mean got through. “I will find you. No matter how far or how long, stay alive and I will find you!” I could hear my inner Daniel Day Lewis from Last of the Mohicans yell to me from the cascading waterfall.

So how did I get through?

I journaled all the crap going on in my head–allowed myself to vent all the really ugly scary nasty truthful tearful and sometimes hopeful, crazy and funny things I was thinking and experiencing.

I walked outside and cried a lot. Nature had a way of soothig my soul. A red cardinal on a branch, a sunset so red and so orange that I forgot my pain. The wind whipping in and around the trees turning the whole world into a dance.

I screamed in the car and in the shower. Yes, I too am surprised the neighbors didn’t call the cops. I hoped someone would call DFACs (department of children and family services) to come to my home and SOMEONE, ANYONE away. Do they have foster homes for fussy moms and rolling eyed teens? How about for grumpy caregiver?

I gave up trying to keep a tidy house. Between a hospital bed, portable potty, bedpan, cane, walker, mother who liked to go “shopping” or “trashing” in the middle of the night (she would have fit right in at a frat party), teenagers, dogs, cats, home health aides traipsing in at all hours of the day, I just gave up. Welcome to clutter-ville.

I did decide that my room was off limits. Our bedroom was the only room I refused for junk to pile up in. I bought a gorgeous bedspread–that kind that can thrown in place and look decent, painted the wall behind my bed a sumptous eggplant and bought a nice strong lock for my door. Best thing I ever did–that and the coffee maker I put in my bathroom so I could have my coffee before I hit the world full-tilt.

I watched the Food Channel and HGTV. I read about a half a poem a day. All the reading I could fit in–but I wanted it to make my soul howl for beauty. I opened art books so when I walked by I could Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.

I signed up for college. CRAZY, I hear you say. Yeah, but one night a week I left my mother in the care of my husband and two kids (God bless ’em) and I attended class. It was the most amazing experience of my life. I have no idea how I pulled it off, how I studied, but I did.

I drank good coffee. Elixar of the Gods. That’s all I’m saying.

I decided that I was probably going to have to deal with the weight thing after caregiving. And I did.

I allowed my loved ones to hug me–and help. That was probably toughest of all. Me, super-amazing, I can do it all–accepting assistance. Admitting I could in no way do it all. Not even do it half. More like do it crappy. Multigenerational households, sandwich generation folks are ironically blessed. Triple the work, but lighter the load. My kids learned kindness, patience, and reaching out beyond themselves. My marriage grew stronger. Add caregiving to the list of things we survived.

I got to where I would talk back to my mother. That’s the great thing about Alzheimer’s–she wouldn’t remember it in five minutes, but I sure felt a ton better! Not vile stuff I’d have to ask forgiveness for on her deathbed (that’s okay, too) but the honest truths/stand up for myself/I’m your adult daughter doing the best I can so back off kind of stuff. The stuff I should have been doing all along.

I allowed each day to be what it was. Some good. Some awful. Kind of like a rip-tide. Fighting against it useless. Just don’t drown. Let it take you–out–far out. Then, when it releases you, swim like hell.

Somehow, Daniel Day Lewis met me on the other side (recurring fantasy, I admit). My mom passed–but she was 92. Good long life–career, marriage, child, grandchildren–the kind of life we all hope to have. Overall, she didn’t get too sick or too out there until the last three, maybe four years.

She taught me how to live, lots of what not to do, but lots of what to do. I made peace with my biggest adversary. Not her, myself. She just led the way.

And my womanhood–it survived. Maybe those caregiving years weren’t my sexiest years–but sexy isn’t always the goal, now, is it?

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother, available on Kindle

In spite of everything, yes, let’s !

                               ~Vincent Van Gogh

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One day, my 91 year-old mother and I were running some errands together, and she says to me,

“Just think, one day it’ll just me you, me, and Phillip.” (he’s my husband)

She sounded like a five year-old who really didn’t want her parents to have other children. I imagined her feet not reaching the dashboard of the car.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was a sandwich generation mom and still had a 14 yr. old and 17 yr. old daughters at home.

“Your children will all be grown and out of the house, and then it’ll just be the three of us,” my mom added with a tone of deep satisfaction.

I began to see my future before me…years and years of caregiving, the three of us on the couch watching movies, the three of us on our 25th, 30th, 40th anniversary trips, the three of us toodling into the sunset….I started to hyper-ventilate. I loved my mom, and I liked she was with us, but I started worrying, what had I created? My mom had turned into that bratty kid at the birthday party who wanted to run the show.

Perhaps this was a tad too much…togetherness.

“Just how long do you plan on living?” I blurted, half-teasing. (I knew that would get her rialed up)

“HEY!” She snapped back, getting the joke.

I patted her hand and we both chuckled.

“By the time your children grow up, maybe you’ll be able to keep a clean house,” Mom teased, stealing the thunder with her great come-back line.

Nice, mom, nice.

Our little verbal bantering was half in jest, half venting (for both of us), and I liked that she could still “dish it out.” Humor is a sign of intelligence. Humor means you’ve still got a few marbles rolling around up there. Later, Alzheimer’s would rob my mom of her wit, but this day lives on. I read an article about quantum mechanics and time by physicist, Paul Davies. He referred to moments of time as spokes on wheel–each moment is a spoke that lives in continuum.

My family and I tell that mom story and many, many others. We have that sort of dark humor thing going on, and if you can’t take being teased, you might be in trouble. But with the teasing comes ferocious love.

So this Mother’s Day, tell your mom stories. Laugh until you snort and tear up. Laugh and remember.

~Carol O’Dell

Need to Laugh? Looking for a Speaker for an Upcoming Event?

Check out my YouTube Presentation

Author, Mothering Mother

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One thing family life and caregiving has taught me is that laughing–and crying–go hand in hand.

Life is funny. Even the hard parts. Sometimes the crazier, more chaotic, more challenging times get, the easier laughter comes. Caring for a mom with Alzheimer’s had its moments of off the chart laughs and deep groans of sorrow. Why? Because it’s living on the edge.

So if you need to laugh visit YouTube and watch a short video I recorded of a caregiving presentation titled,

“If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Your Mother.” This was recorded at a Caring for the Caregiver Conference in Jacksonville, Florida sponsored by Community Hospice. The room was filled with mothers, daughters, sons, spouses, elder-care professionals–and all of them could relate in one way or another to my story.

In the video, I play both my mother’s and my part. Yes, in case you’re wondering, that’s an authentic Southern accent. It recounts a time of taking my mother to K Mart–one of the countless errands we ran together. Like life, this video encompasses the range of emotions families and caregivers go through every day–the frustration, irritation, sweetness, incessant arguing, tenderness, and you-drive-me-crazy times we face on a daily basis.

I thought, at the time that taking my mom to a zillion places, learning to be patient, learning to be firm when I needed to be and tender when she needed me to be, was more than I could manage. Stress central. In retrospect,  I’m so grateful for that bubble of time we had together. Yes, my mother was grumpy, bossy, and demanding, I was a few of those things myself–and more. But together, we made a pretty good team.

So get a drink, play this short five minute video–and I hope you smile.

~Carol O’Dell,

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

Family Advisor at Caring.com

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