Uncategorized – Page 34 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

To Dog Or Not To Dog

I always wanted a dog of my own. There is very little in life that makes me feel as good as a puppy snuggling into my shoulder, with its little paws around my neck. I was always that kid who befriended whatever canine came within drooling distance.

When I moved out on my own, dog ownership was always a goal of mine. My husband at the time did not share that goal. He was more interested in reptiles and rodents as pets. This propensity showed his clear lack of judgment, which he further demonstrated when he left me. After I got divorced, I was a pretty sad sack. My parents, desperate to suggest anything that might rouse me out of my funk, pressed me to get a dog. Even my father, who had always been firmly in the “Not To Dog” camp, extolled the virtues of doggy parenthood. It didn’t take much pushing to convince me to adopt my little mutant Welsh corgi, Luci.

Adopting Luci turned out to be one of the best things I’ve ever done in my life. In the beginning, however, the wisdom of the decision was debatable. For one thing, the shelter told me she was over two years old. In actuality, she was about six months old. This meant she kept growing until she was approximately twice the size she was the day I brought her home. It also meant that she was still teething. She also suffered from severe separation anxiety. This neurosis manifested itself in her tendency, when left alone, to eat anything and everything …including things that were not technically edible. Like a couch.

Yes, between the teething and the anxiety, the dog ate the entire arm off my couch while I was at work one day. I tried crate-training her, but, contrary to every dog behavior book I read that told me dogs actually like the safety and security of a crate, Luci hated it. She would throw up if I put her in the crate and left the room. She cried and whimpered pitifully. I consulted with the vet, which is when I found out the full-grown adult dog I adopted was actually a poor, pathetic puppy who still missed her mommy.

Since I was now the mommy, it was my job to soothe and comfort. This entailed coming home at lunch and calling Luci several times a day while I was at work so she would hear my voice on the answering machine. It also involved heating a seasoned pig knuckle in the microwave to give her each morning when I left for work. The idea was that she would come to associate my leaving with something pleasant. She did indeed associate the smell of microwaving pork at six in the morning with something pleasant, but I can’t say I did. I, in fact, found it pretty revolting. My stomach came pretty close to revolting most mornings when presented with the smell of sizzling pig knuckle before any self-respecting pig would even be awake.

I can’t say I could ever completely rely on Luci to not eat anything within reach.

However, as Luci grew out of the puppy phase and became more secure in her home, she became much better about eating only things with actual calories. When I left for work, I Luci-proofed the house. I closed all the doors to bedrooms and bathrooms to minimize temptation. I set wastepaper bags on high kitchen counters. I was not foolish enough to leave shoes or socks laying around the Luci-occupied zone. It worked well enough. As time went on, I found that minimal effort kept my home canine catastrophe free.

Some people may have thought this was a crazy way to live. It probably was, but it was well worth it for me. In a time of my life when I was bruised and empty, Luci was my safe place to land. Luci always loved me. No matter what. She made me laugh. She gave me a reason to keep moving forward in life. She enabled me to focus my energy on something other than my internal misery and decimation. We were a team and faced the world together. In caring for Luci’s happiness and well-being, I found some of my own.

Luci made out pretty well in the deal, too. People who believe in reincarnation want to come back as my dog. Nothing was too good for my fur baby. She came home from the shelter with a doggy seat belt. Unfortunately, she ate it. I took her to obedience training. I learned to obey. I took her to the vet whenever something seemed even minimally amiss. When the vet moved from a small strip mall storefront to a large, modern, beautifully designed building, I used to call it “The House That Luci Built.” My mother corrected me, reminding me it was actually “The House That Luci’s Mommy Built.” As Luci aged, general practice vets were not sufficient for my baby’s growing pains. She had a root canal from a doggy oral surgeon. She had acupuncture from a specialist to manage her arthritis pain. I’ve never actually added up how much money I spent on vet bills in the last few years of Luci’s life and I don’t want to.

Luci lived with me for almost 16 years. She had a long, loving life. When I finally accepted that it was time to let her go, I called a specialist to come to the house so that her last hours would be with me in the home where she knew only love.

I knew I would not want another dog right away. About a year after we lost Luci, I was in a pet shop and saw a Welsh corgi puppy. The nice young man in the store took her out of the kennel for me and she snuggled sweetly into my shoulder. I started to cry. Actually, I started to sob uncontrollably and unrelentingly. I knew it wasn’t time yet.

A year or so later, I started thinking that I might be ready. I was doggy jonesing. However, at that time, I was also applying for a new position. The new position would involve a commute of three hours or more each day. It would involve longer hours and more travel. I didn’t think it was fair or even feasible to integrate doggy motherhood into my life at the same time if I got the job. I told myself that, if I didn’t get the job, I’d get the dog as my “consolation prize.” Damn it, I got the job.

The next plan was to wait until I retired and we moved. Once we were settled, I planned to get two Pembroke welsh corgi puppies. Any time Max sensed my impetus towards moving was waning while we were waiting for my retirement date, he invoked the name of puppies to keep me focused.

However, once we moved, things changed. First, “getting settled” seemed to be a much more fluid process and to take much longer than I initially expected. Second, I was finding that my mother needed much more assistance than I had realized. I was spending 15-20 hours a week with her. I wasn’t sure I had enough time left after my efforts to keep my mother safe, comfortable, and happy to take on a passel of pembies. Then, once my mom had the stroke, I clearly knew I did not have the time and energy to raise furbabies. When the day comes I no longer need to care for my mother, I think Max and I are going to need some time to breathe. I think we’ll want a season to be free of responsibility to do the things for ourselves that we have been postponing during this difficult time.

So, in the question of “to dog or to dog?” I think the answer, for me, is “not now.” While a puppy would provide comfort and healing, it would also provide responsibility and entanglement. Still, when I recently held my friend’s tiny new pooch the other day, it was hard not to feel the surge of puppy love flood my heart. While my head is still saying that this is not the right time for a dog, the needle on my doggydesire-ometer certainly started to twang from “not now” to “later.” A subtle change in emphasis, perhaps, but movement nonetheless!

What do you think? Should I dog or not dog? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a great day!

Terri 🙂

Psychedelic Prayer

I’ve noticed something odd recently. Since my mother has settled into the nursing facility and she has begun exploring the shadow world inside her head that I cannot quite fathom, I feel different. I’m not sure what words to use to describe the difference. The feeling isn’t happier or more positive or more resigned exactly. Maybe the better description would be a feeling of “surrender” or “being reconciled” or “contented.” Whatever it is, it sure beats the constant agitation and relentless heartbreak that have accompanied me since my mom’s stroke.

Maybe the change is just because I find myself smack in the middle of the worst possible outcome that I dreaded for months and the result is not as bad as I feared. The world continues to revolve around the sun and my mom actually seems pretty cheerful.

Maybe it is prayer.

I attended a workshop on prayer the other day. The leader asked us what factors we thought led to the most effective prayer. I thought for a nanosecond and realized that the memorable common factor in all my most fervent prayer is confusion. It seems that I pray most effectively when I come to prayer in a state of disorientation and dismay. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it is because I am most genuine in my discombobulation.

Too often, I think I come to prayer with a solid, well-defined vision of the desired outcome for which I am praying. I say I am praying to find God’s will and to have the strength to accept His plan. I think my head even tries to believe that. Still, in my heart of hearts, I think I am usually praying for things to turn out the way I want them. It isn’t necessarily that I am being demanding or selfish. It isn’t even that I am praying for an outcome that is easy or pain-free. I’m just scared. I’m scared of what God’s unknown is for me. I’m scared that I don’t have the necessary faith and virtue to travel His path rather than the path I can envision for myself.

hroughout my mother’s illness, I have wrestled with confusion, grief, and fear almost all the time. Originally, I had the sense that God was exposing me to these emotions to give me some small idea of the journey my mother has been navigating in order that I might be more empathetic. Now, on a deeper level, I also have the idea that He is trying to train me, as I’ve walked this path with my mother. He may be trying to teach me to truly understand that all that control and organization and planning that I so love is not where my strength lies. In fact, I believe He is showing me that there is actually grace in letting go of it.

They do say that whatever doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. The thing is- I never wanted to be so freakin’ strong. Apparently, God does and He is using my mother’s illness to build that strength. I am afraid I cannot say that I am wholeheartedly grateful. However, I know that God has unfailing patience with me. Maybe I’ll get to that gratitude place someday. In the meantime, I think my confusion-born prayer is at least helping me find a little more confidence that I’ll be able to manage God’s unknown for me, with His help.

As I thought through my ideas on confusion-based prayer, other people in the class were talking about what helps them pray. Most of the other students seemed to concentrate their responses on strategies or “tethers” to help them focus and shut out distractions in order to pray most effectively. All the discussion about focus made me wonder about my experience of finding confusion to be the sweetest starting point for prayer. Maybe we do need to be “tethered” to pray most effectively. Maybe, though, it is sometimes best to allow God to do the tethering rather than me hitching myself to a rather wobbly post. Maybe, sometimes, the confusion is actually God’s call and the distractions are the ingredients for prayer.

A number of students also mentioned external items that help them connect to God and His majesty. Some people mentioned rosary beads, icons, stained glass, statues, etc. I understand that perspective and even share it. After all, I come from a Roman Catholic tradition. I own and use a rosary. Liturgical prayer sings to my soul. I have worshiped in the ancient churches in Europe, marveling at the prayerfulness of artistic renderings. When I loosened my grip on Roman Catholicism, I turned towards the Episcopal Church. I’ve learned that Episcopalians express their unity as a denomination in their unity of worship. After all, we base our worship on the Book of Common Prayer. There is little that is more focused, orderly, and tethering than praying in a common, liturgical way. I rejoice in that unity.

Still, there is room and, perhaps, necessity in Christian life for a more individual kind of prayer. That is the kind of prayer that I find often comes from my confusion. It is a psychedelic kind of prayer. It is colorful, explosive, and implosive. It is often disorganized and chaotic. It moves and pulses and morphs. It can start out as one thing but end up as something completely different. It is uncontrollable- breaking free of the form I gave it and rearranging itself into what it needs to be. It can be so odd and so weird and so disorderly that it makes no sense. At least, it makes no sense to anyone but God. And maybe, with the grace that comes from letting go, the psychedelic prayer will one day make sense to me.

What do you think? Does prayer ever seem to be born of confusion for you? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a blessed day!

Terri 🙂

Springing Forward

The hospice nurse says my mother no longer experiences time in the same way most people do. Do you think it might be contagious?

Never before in my life have I messed anything up because of the beginning of Daylight Savings Time. Last Sunday, I was getting ready to go to church. I happened to look down at my phone and noticed it said the time was an hour later than I thought it was. I wondered what was wrong with my phone. As it turns out, nothing.

I went to church, still operating firmly in Eastern Standard Time despite all iPhone indications to the contrary. I thought I was arriving early for Sunday School and was surprised at how full the parking lot already was. I noticed some folks going into the church and wondered at that. By Terri Time, it was just about an hour before the service was to start and people usually don’t arrive that early. Finally, out of nowhere (or, maybe, out of the numerous hints that my brain was consuming but apparently not digesting very quickly), I realized that Daylight Savings Time might just have started at 2:00 o’clock that morning.

So, I did not have a spring forward this year. It was more like a stumble forward. Maybe I was actually pushed directly into the path of an oncoming time change. I think there might be a message for me in this.

I think I may have become a little stuck in flux during this past season. Is that an oxymoron? Can one be “stuck” if one is in a state of “flux?” All I know is that I think my brain has been wallowing in some sort of disagreeable sludge ever since my mom had her stroke. I have become used to living in a nearly constant mood of sadness, anxiety, fear, and inadequacy. It has become a comfortable ooze, if not a pleasant one. I tend to sink deeper into it rather than exerting the effort to lumber out of it. Yes, this whole journey started back in the last Daylight Savings Time. Theoretically, I’ve had a couple of time changes to adapt to my new circumstances. I’m not sure my transmission is that good, though. It tends to slip. Given my sinister slide into the emotional muck, I’d say I had no trouble at all “falling back.”

Now that spring is here (whether I sprung with it or not), it might be a good time to recognize and acknowledge new birth. There has been a lot of growing inside me recently. I’ve graduated from my perception that retirement is simply well-earned rest. I’m now seeing how retirement can and should be enriching, as well as restful. More than two years after my move, I have started thinking of Florida as “home.” It no longer feels disloyal to prefer my life in Florida to what I was experiencing back in California. I believe I have learned more about myself in the past two years than in the prior 30 plus “career” years put together. The best news about that self-education is that I am figuring out how to appreciate myself. I’m not saying that I am all that and a bag of chips, but I think I can now safely say that I am at least the bag of chips.

In addition to recognizing and acknowledging the new beginnings I’ve birthed since my retirement, spring seems a good time to nurture the seedlings that are beginning to sprout for other changes. I know I’ll never be okay with my mother’s condition, but I do sometimes feel the stirrings of acceptance and reconciliation. This spring, I want to be a gardener. I want to tend to my mother’s heart- to fill it with beautiful flowers and plants and lovely scents to remind her how much she is loved. I also want to tend my own heart- to heal it and love it and remind it of how much I love.

Is spring growing season for you? Any particular “gardening” you are planning for this year? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Happy almost spring!

Terri 🙂

If Money Can’t Buy Happiness, Why Does It Cost So Much To Go To Disneyland?- And Other Ironies Of Everyday Life

We learn early on in life that money can’t buy happiness. But it costs $97.50 to get into the Happiness Place on Earth. Does anyone else see the irony in that?

A friend of mine once commented that I did not have a sense of humor- just a finely tuned sense of the absurd. I’m not sure what she meant by not having a sense of humor, but I do think I understand what she meant by the sense of the absurd. I am easily amused by life’s odd, random moments. Especially the ones that are not intended to be funny. I think I might tend to be one of those people who are too busy watching life to actually participate in it. You know- one of those creepy people who just sit by the window and stare, observing life from a safe distance. It is much easier to watch, giggle, and analyze than it is to actually live. I have to make a conscious effort to come away from the window and go outside to play.

When I retired and moved across the country, the view out my metaphorical window changed considerably. It was an unexpected bonus- I have a whole new vision of the world’s ironies, inconsistencies, and absurdities to observe!

For instance, the other day I was driving down the turnpike and noticed one of those big electronic signs that usually either tell you how many minutes it will take to get to the next highway or advise you to look for a missing child. That day, I noticed it said “Distracted Driving Awareness Week. Keep Your Eyes On the Road.” Does anyone besides me think that it is sort of counter-productive to have a sign that tells you to keep your eyes on the road? Isn’t a “Distracted Driving Awareness Week” sign, well…. a distraction? This thought started me down a metaphysical discussion with myself. If I am reading the sign, am I not already distracted from the road? If I don’t read the sign, how am I to be aware that I shouldn’t drive distracted? Is having this mental dialogue another form of distracted driving? AAAARGHH!! Must stop thinking about it before my brain explodes. The worst part was I kind of had a perverse desire to text someone… anyone… to point out the logical conundrum of the situation.

Another example of one of life’s little ironies that I find so amusing are the names of towns around here. I think the people who name towns in central Florida might have delusions of grandeur. Florida is the flattest state in the union. The highest elevation in the state is 345 feet above sea level. To put this elevation in some perspective, local radio and television stations in Los Angeles, CA use towers on Mount Wilson to relay broadcast signals. Mount Wilson is in urban Los Angeles and is 5,712 feet above sea level. A couple of towns over from us here in Florida is a town called Mount Dora. Mount Dora is one of those quaint little historic towns that seem to manufacture bed and breakfasts as its principle industry. I know, from personal experience, that pushing a wheelchair around Mount Dora can maybe make it feel like a mountain. However, at an elevation of 184 feet above sea level, I don’t think Mount Dora qualifies as Mount anything. I am apparently not the only one who sees the humor in the situation. A number of touristy gift shops on the main street sell t-shirts that proudly proclaim “I Climbed Mount Dora.” Another nearby town is called Howey-in-the-Hills. I have been to Howey-in-the-Hills and, let me tell you, there is nary a hill in sight. I think you have to have a steeper grade than a parking garage ramp to call yourself a hill. I refer to the place as “Howey-in-the-Bumps.”

Another new absurdity I have found is the “town square” system in a nearby 55+ planned community. There are three of these little mixed use areas that serve the community. They have live entertainment, restaurants, bars, movies, shopping, and professional services. One common denominator for all three town squares is that drivers can access them only through a complex network of multiple roundabouts. Color me crazy. Does anyone else think it is a terrible idea to purposely build a transportation system based on what are essentially obstacle courses? Especially when you have a population of over 100,000 senior citizens navigating them? I don’t mean to malign older drivers (especially since I am one), but traffic circles just seem to be asking for trouble. After all, our peripheral vision is often one of the first things to deteriorate as we age. Do we really need to have a bunch of older drivers dodging incoming golf carts ever few feet?

The town squares are all elaborately themed. One of them looks like an eastern seaport resort community. I’m not sure, but they might even bus in the seagulls. Another showcases an old west motif, including life-sized bronze statues of a cattle drive. You really haven’t lived until you maneuver your way between giant bronze steers and cowpokes when you turn into a movie theater parking lot. It is a bit disturbing until you get used to it. The third town square’s theme emulates an old Mexican mission. It is called “Historic Spanish Springs.” It was built in 1994. I am pretty sure I have at least one pair of shoes that is more “historic” than that.

My latest adventure into the absurd happened today at Starbuck’s. I saw the local newspaper and happened to notice the headline- Sisters Dress Alike- Purely By Chance. Really? That’s news? What’s next? Grocery Stores Sell Tomatoes? The real irony is that I contacted the editor of this same newspaper a couple of months ago to ask if she would read and, perhaps, promote my blog. She never returned my call. Perhaps my sense of the absurd is not as sharp as I thought it was!

Have you encountered any amusing ironies of everyday life? I’m sure we’d all love to hear them! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at www.terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a great day!

Terri 🙂

Practice Makes Perfect

Awhile back, I happened to look at the calendar and realized, with a start, that I was attending a wedding exactly 35 years ago that day. My own.
I remember that period around the middle of 1980 through the end of 1981. It was the last time, before my recent retirement and move across the country, that I navigated multiple life-altering changes in a relatively short period of time.

My parents sold the house where I grew up in mid-1980. They always wanted to sell the house and travel around the country when they retired. My younger brother had moved out on his own (well, on his own and about a hundred roommates, but that’s a story for a different day), but I still had a year or so of college to finish. My parents, two basset hounds, and I moved into a 27-foot travel trailer. We lived in the trailer full time in a campground across the street from Disneyland. I went to school, studied, worked a job part-time, tried to apply for and interview for post-graduation “career type jobs,” and planned my wedding from that travel trailer. We all lived together, ate together, watched television together for a year. There was no place to put anything (which was a special challenge when one considers the incredible amount of paraphernalia involved in organizing a wedding). Most of my worldly goods resided in a storage facility. There was no privacy. My “bedroom” was the dinette area that converted to a bed once any of the three of us decided it was time to go to sleep.

People thought our living situation was kind of weird, but it did make some sense in the big picture. My parents were beginning to live their “live in a camper and travel the nation” dream, albeit without the “travel the nation” part of it… yet. “As soon as we get rid of Terri,” (as they told anyone and everyone for the entire year of this limbo), “we are going to take off and be on our way.”

Between the end of May and the middle of August in 1981, I graduated from college, started working full-time at my college job, got married, and switched jobs to an extremely responsible “career type” government position (which, despite the fact that it involved constantly making decisions that impacted on people’s actual lives, paid virtually the same amount as my college “undersecretary clerical gopher” job). My parents hit the road, literally and figuratively. These were the days before cell phones, social media, and email. For about six months, my only communication with them were occasional letters (you remember, with the folded paper and envelope?) and cassette tapes we would make to send each other.

By the end of 1981, I think I already knew my marriage had been a horrible mistake and I was absorbed in the exhausting work of trying to pretend I didn’t already know it.

That interlude in 1980-1981 was the last time I went through multiple major changes in my life. Yes, certainly I navigated changes since then- a divorce, two moves, a couple of different jobs. All those changes, though, came more-or-less, one at a time. Each change was more like someone throwing a pebble into my life and watching the mild ripples rather than having changes crash unrelenting like waves on the shore of my life. The good news about singular changes is that they can become the focus of your life for a time. You can cogitate, analyze, grieve, and strategize about how to deal with them. You can reach out for sympathy. You can even turn your life into your own little soap opera for awhile, if you want. The bad news about singular changes is that you can also obsess over every little detail and become the object of pity.

When you find yourself in the tornado alley of change, you don’t really have the time to analyze and react to each one individually. Sometimes, the more you try to get your feet back under you and control things, the more changes seem to occur. Instead of focusing on the individual change and figuring out how you feel about it and how you are going to react, you tend to focus on the general whirlwind. Your brain begins to feel like a tornado itself. You feel too dizzy to see any way out. You have to seem pitiful, even to the point of tedium, to your friends. Let’s face it, even the best friends have some point at which they can no longer stand doling out sympathy and advice that doesn’t seem to be doing you any good.

Interesting that I’m finally able to “compare and contrast” the single change experience with the multi-leveled change twister. It has been over a two years since I plowed my way through the tornado alley of retiring, moving, and taking over my mother’s caretaking. I’m starting to feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. Maybe, in some small ways, I’ve finally come through the storms and the house of my life has landed back on the ground. I’m wary when I say it, but I think I’ve managed my way through the worst of it. It has been an exhausting ride. Even though most of these changes were the result of my own choices, the stress has been way more than I ever imagined.

Why has it been so difficult? I think I’ve just figured it out. The last time I handled this sort of life-altering multi-level change was 35 years ago. When it came to facing the changes of the past couple of years, I clearly lacked practice!

So what do you think? Have you gotten better at managing change with practice? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can leave me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Hope your topsy-turvies don’t leave you upside down today!
Terri

The Worst Day Of My Life

The single thing that I’ve dreaded most since my mother’s stroke has come to pass. We transferred her to a skilled nursing facility.

I thought I was prepared for having her in the nursing home, but I completely fell apart. The feelings of guilt, shame, and defeat about not being able to care for her at home just overwhelmed me. After nearly four months of struggling through, I was right back to the worst case scenario we were trying desperately to avoid right after she had the stroke.

After migrating between the rehab and the hospital several times and, finally, going to a hospice house, it seemed that death was not imminent for my mother. It was also clear that she really was not going to get better. Truthfully, she has been declining since her first rehospitalization after the stroke. She did pretty well in rehab the first month after the attack, but appeared to start on a downhill road when she went back into the hospital for some auxiliary issues. That road included several moves between the hospital and rehab facility. That road was pitted with many physical, emotional, and mental obstacles. While the doctors were able to stabilize the physical obstacles, her ability to process thoughts and communicate seemed to be fading away.

It appears that she continues to suffer from stroke-related language and cognitive impairment. This is fairly common in stroke patients and, given my mother’s particular set of circumstances, it is likely that it will get worse over time. It is similar to Alzheimer’s Disease, except that the cause and progression of the condition are different. The condition can cause death, but usually the patient passes from something else first.

By the time she went to the hospice house, the medical staff believed that the combination of the obstacles she was fighting would prove to be too massive for her to overcome. They believed it was likely that she would pass within a few days or weeks. However, something clicked in my mom’s brain, and she started to adjust to her condition. The hospice staff changed the prognosis. They still believe her condition is terminal and they are still going to provide supportive care, but they no longer believe she is in her last days. Because the actual hospice house is only intended for patients in the last stages of death whose symptoms cannot be managed in a “regular” (home, nursing home, assisted living, etc.) setting, the staff reluctantly advised me that it was time to find a longer-term residence for her.

Before she went to the hospice house, I worked with staff from what I call an “assisted living plus” facility. It is an assisted living facility with additional medical certifications that allow them to provide a higher level of care than most places. For most of my mother’s illness, our goal had been to get her strong enough to be able to live there. It seemed an ideal answer. It would be like she was living in a little apartment of her own, with privacy and as much independence as she wanted and could manage. Unfortunately, by the time she was facing release from the hospital for the last time, the assisted living facility staff evaluated her status and found that her needs were just too far beyond what even they could handle.

Kicking and screaming, I started looking at skilled nursing facilities. This is a tricky matter for many reasons, but one of the most difficult to manage is the fact that many nursing facilities operate at full capacity. They have lengthy waiting lists. In evaluating the residences, I had to balance quality ratings from Medicare, online reviews, my own observations on visits, availability, and proximity to my home. Of course, the facilities with the highest ratings were also the ones with the lowest availability. I ultimately picked one that seemed okay, had reasonably good ratings and reviews, and had availability. An added bonus was that the facility is very close to my home.

When I checked on my mother once she was at the new place, she seemed okay… calm and content. I was far from okay. The residence was not bright and shiny and new. The neighborhood wasn’t affluent. At times, I could hear other residents crying and yelling. Some of the other patients were holding stuffed toys or baby dolls, clearly convinced that these objects were real. I’ve always said that, wherever my mom ended up, I hoped she would have a quality of life approximating or at least reflecting what her life was about when she was living it fully. I wanted her to be in a setting that would help her form a social network with people who could become friends. I didn’t want her to be the most able person and be surrounded by people living shadow lives. I thought that would depress her and lead her down the same shaky path. Now, I was leaving her in a place where she was living with people in just the situation I dreaded. Unfortunately, the gut-crusher is that she became one of those people before she ever got to the nursing facility. In fact, I’ve learned that it isn’t so much that people who live in nursing homes have a severely reduced quality of life. It is more the reverse. People who have a severely reduced quality of life move to nursing homes.

Paradoxically, part of the sadness and guilt over placing my mother in the nursing home comes from the fact that my mother’s cognitive and language skills seemed to improve somewhat over the past couple of days before the move. Originally, I didn’t feel quite so bad about the nursing home because my mother seemed to be withdrawing from the external world- not being very communicative or alert. Everything I read about hospice talked about this withdrawal as being typical when people approach the end of life. The way she was withdrawing and sleeping so much, it didn’t seem to matter too much where she was. As long as it was clean and safe and met her basic needs and I was there frequently, I didn’t think it was going to make much difference to her. Then, just as the hospice people were getting ready to transfer her to a nursing home, she started consuming a bit more fluid and nourishment, staying awake much more of the time, and talking more clearly about more sophisticated ideas than she had since the stroke. I was almost sorry because it made the move to the nursing home seem worse.

Still, as time goes on, I am encouraged. My mother is truly only experiencing the tiniest sliver of the quality of life she enjoyed before the stroke. However, she continues to seem content, comfortable, and reasonably happy at the nursing home. Her cognitive and language skills are spotty, but I appreciate that there have been times when I’ve been able to communicate with a person who really did seem like my mom again. Because the nursing home is the longer term living situation, a lot of things are easier… both for my mother and for me. The health care professionals are very responsive and practical. The administrative side of the operation has been helpful and understanding. Between the nursing home staff and the hospice folks that work with them, they are finding ways to make my mom’s life more comfortable. They spend time with her. They talk with her. They are truly caring. On the other hand, they respect her wishes and don’t bother her by pushing her to do things she doesn’t want to do.

Maybe the most important factor in my journey towards acceptance of this new reality is that my role as caretaker is changing now. Since the medical staff is pretty much on the same page as my mother and me as to the type of care she wants, I have to fight fewer battles as her advocate. Since she is now where she is going to be for whatever time God has left for her in this world, I don’t have to keep analyzing different residential options. I’ve retained a law firm to help me with the financial burden and I’m working through the administrative issues more methodically, so I find I am spending less time and energy on those problems. My caregiving is now much more about just being with my mom, showing her I love her, and letting her love me.

Since my mother has been in the skilled nursing facility, I get to be just a daughter again. That has been the best unexpected positive result…. Of the worst day of my life.

My mother has been in the skilled nursing facility for about two months now. All things considered, everything is going okay. My mom seems reasonably chipper and content. I am with her at least six days a week. I can’t completely shake the sadness and guilt, but I’m holding it at bay most of the time. My current challenge is finding new ways to communicate and engage her as her language disappears and her thinking becomes more muddled. Anyone have any ideas for me? I’d appreciate any suggestions! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a loving day!

Terri 🙂

Happy Heart Day

When I was working, I learned about “skinny” words and “fat” words. Fat words have multiple meanings and are stuffed with connotations, making them subject to many different interpretations. Skinny words are direct, concrete, and specific. A fundamental concept of leadership is that, when giving direction, it is better to use skinny words. They tend to reduce confusion and are more likely to result in the desired outcome.

Now that I am writing a blog and not managing people, I am less interested in reaching a specific desired outcome. I’m more interested in suggesting ideas and stimulating thought. I’m renewing my relationship with words of all body types. I find that, when used deliberately, fat words can be evocative and effective.

“Heart” is one of those delightfully pudgy words. It just about explodes with meaning, memory, and feeling for most of us. We can easily identify many meanings for “heart.” I’d like to explore just a few of them on this Valentine’s Day.

First, we have the most literal meaning of the word. Our hearts keep our bodies going. They pump our life’s blood to the farthest reaches of our physical beings so that all our necessary organs have the energy to do their vital jobs. Heart disease is the leading cause of death in the United States. We do cardio exercise to reduce our risk. We scan the grocery store shelves looking for foods high in antioxidants to strengthen our hearts. We try to embrace low fat diets to minimize those pesky plaque deposits that can creep into our hearts’ highways through the body. Does it strike anyone else that it is pretty ironic that rich, high fat chocolates come in heart-shaped boxes? Of course, heart-shaped…. isn’t. Actually, the heart is shaped more like a fist, which, when I really think about it, is a bit disconcerting.

The beleaguered baseball players in the play Damn Yankees tell us ya gotta have heart. Miles and miles of it. I don’t know if we need miles and miles of it, but it is clearly true that a body needs a heart, in the most literal sense. Without that vital organ pumping away inside my chest, I have no life. On the other hand, without heart, I may have a life, but I may not be really living it. The heart about which our musical friends are belting is determination, persistence in the face of adversity, grace under pressure, and courage. Heart is what makes us root for the underdog. Heart is what enables us to do the things we believe we must do even when they seem impossible.

Which brings us to the “heart” metaphor most associated with Valentine’s Day- love. Heart means romance, but also love of all kinds. At this time of year, pink, red, and white hearts scatter all over everything. Flower and jewelry sales skyrocket. There is a certain pressure to put love on a pedestal and admire it from afar. In reality, though heartfelt love is up close and personal. It is a participation, not a spectator, sport.

A loving heart often requires deliberate decision making about what actions we take in life. When we decide to live a life of heartfelt love, we are deciding to view everything that happens to us and everyone we encounter through a lens of love. Love is not rationed. Loving one person does not reduce our capacity to love others. In fact, it increases it. Exercising our love muscles strengthens our ability to love, just as cardio exercise strengthens our literal heart muscles. As we become more adept at loving, we won’t love everybody the same way but we will love everybody better. Love involves both giving and receiving. It isn’t always easy or comfortable to do either. Sometimes, it almost seems impossible. To live with a heart full of love is the most beautiful way to live. That sort of life is as filled with meaning as that lusciously chubby “heart” word itself.” Living a life with a heartful of love is not for the faint-hearted. It requires that other kind of heart… the Damn Yankees kind of heart.

Have a Happy Heart Day, both literally and figuratively. At the heart of the matter, I wish you health, courage, and love. Oh, and have one or two of those rich, high fat chocolates that come in the heart-shaped box. Maybe just stick to the dark chocolate ones, though. All those antioxidants, you know!

I do realize that Valentine’s Day was actually yesterday…. but don’t you think today is still a great day to think about what is in our hearts? Now it’s your turn! What do you think of when you hear the word “heart?” Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a heart-y day!

Terri 🙂

Food For Thought

When I was diagnosed with diabetes in 2001, I made drastic changes to my eating habits. I vigilantly read labels and minimized the number of carbohydrate grams I allowed to pass my lips. It was an exhausting process. In the beginning, it felt like everything was off limits and I was always hungry. I have memories of bursting into tears in the freezer aisle of the grocery store when I learned that sugar-free fudge pops did, in fact, contain a few grams of carbohydrates. It seemed like the last straw, if I couldn’t even eat sugar-free food. I soon learned how to balance what I ate and work within a reasonable diet. It still wasn’t easy, but I found I could manage my disease to prevent long-term damage without starving to death. Between diet, exercise, and oral medication, I stabilized my blood sugar levels and lost about 70 pounds over about a year and a half.

After losing this weight, I was not able to roust my still-overweight body off that plateau. It was discouraging. Also, life happened. I got a new job. The time I spent working and commuting every day increased significantly. Since time is a finite quantity, I had to find the extra time I needed for the job somewhere. I basically supplemented my job-related time by decreasing my sleeping time. Somehow, sleep seemed discretionary to my addled brain. The stress in my life increased. I found myself eating too much of the wrong foods and exercising less and less. I still did a pretty good job of controlling my blood sugar levels, but regained about half the weight I lost.

When I was working, meals were catch-as-catch-can affairs. I rarely had time to stop and breathe and think, much less eat properly. Typically, I would just push and push over the course of a day, going from one task to another conference call to someone waiting to talk to me until I was about to drop. When people with diabetes don’t eat or eat foods that contain lots of carbohydrates and minimal protein, blood sugar levels make their displeasure known. My blood sugar often protested my neglect by plummeting. There is a physical sensation when this happens. It feels a lot like panic. One feels a compulsion to eat everything and anything in sight to keep from losing consciousness. I am not sure if I actually would have fainted in those moments, but my body certainly felt as if I would. When this happened, I would stuff any food available into my mouth until I could feel the sugar coursing through my veins, which dissipated the panic.

When I retired, I did want to improve my health-related habits. I did begin exercising more and more. I ate better, partly because I just had more time and access to better food. When I am home, it is easier to go to the refrigerator and fix myself a healthy, appealing meal. Also, I found I wasn’t craving garbage food as much. Maybe the correlation between the need for comfort and for food decreased. When you are working like a madwoman and can feel the unpleasant sensation of adrenaline forcing itself through your body on its way to exploding out of your brain on a regular basis, it kind of makes sense to grab the quickest, easiest, most immediate distraction you can. Donuts and French fries might be bad long-term choices, but they are pretty effective immediate distractions. Once I slowed the pace of my life, I needed that distraction less. I also had more intervention time to remind myself that whatever food I was tempted to eat rarely tasted as good as I thought it would. At any rate, between the increased exercise and the better food choices, I lost almost all the weight I regained.

It is nice that I’ve lost this weight. I feel great. On the other hand, I’m back to the point where I originally started going off track. I’ve plateaued and am getting discouraged. I do believe that most of my progress since I retired has been due to the increased exercise. I have the sneaky feeling that, to lose any more weight and continue to keep my blood sugar levels under control, I’m going to have to take more drastic dietary measures than just slightly decreasing my consumption of high-fat and high-carbohydrate foods.

It is a struggle because I don’t want to feel deprived. I remember the feeling of deprivation I used to have when I first diagnosed. The feeling resembled despair. I felt hollow and foggy most of the time. I could put up with it, as long as I was seeing tangible results. As long as I lost weight, I could keep plugging along. Once I hit the point where the sacrifice resulted in nothing more than the status quo, I couldn’t seem to continue. It is also difficult because I eat like a four-year-old. I’ve always been an incredibly picky eater. Chances are, if a four-year-old won’t eat it, neither will I. That kind of limits my options as to what I will eat. Chicken fingers, french fries, spaghetti and meatballs, and ice cream typically don’t constitute a healthy diet.

I suspect that part of my problem is that I have some pretty odd beliefs about food. I know that I have to challenge these beliefs in order to feel satisfied with a healthier diet. Here are some of the weird beliefs that lurk in my brain:

I believe that when I have an opportunity to eat something yummy, I should eat it because I may never get the chance again. Never mind that there is a McDonald’s on every street corner and french fries practically grow on trees.
I believe the term “ambrosia salad” is an oxymoron. Ambrosia was the food of the gods. I just can’t conceive that the gods were eating any kind of salad. Ice cream sundaes, maybe, but not salads. I mean, salads are fine, but they don’t have the panache necessary to nourish the gods. Or me, for that matter.
I believe that anything I eat at Disney World doesn’t count. Two words. Pixie dust. Need I say more?
I believe bread is a health food. A mental health food. I firmly believe that, if I go long enough without bread, I will suffer a psychotic break.
I believe peanut butter is an entrée. Oddly enough, my endocrinologist is fine with me consuming peanut butter for dinner. Apparently, organic peanut butter is an excellent source of protein. The problem is that, because it has fairly high fat content, it isn’t a good idea to eat three ounces of it, the way one would eat three ounces of chicken or fish or beef.
I believe I must eat gingerbread on at least four separate occasions in November and December or Christmas will not come.

I know that these notions may seem comical. Some part of my brain actually does believe them, however. More importantly, I think that portion of my brain likes believing them and doesn’t want to give them up. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not sure I want food that is completely devoid of whimsy, fun, and sensuality.

People tell me that it is possible to retain some element of joyfulness in one’s diet while still eating sensibly and losing weight. I’m not sure if I believe that or not. Yes, at times in my journey, I have managed to find some semblance of balance. On the other hand, I always seem to end up back where I am now- overweight and plateaued. It probably isn’t realistic to think that I am ever going to be the poster child for healthy eating. And maybe that is okay. Maybe the goal should just be incremental improvement or even just maintaining the status quo, which is actually not too bad.

Maybe the problem isn’t all those comical food-related notions I have. Maybe the problem is the other belief I hide in the dingiest corner of my brain. I believe that my eating habits and weight are shameful. I know that positive messages (like “bread is a health food”) are more likely to motivate action than negative ones (like “you should be ashamed of yourself for eating that”). Perhaps, if I could just find a way to be kind to myself about myself all the time, I could banish that negative message that I work so hard to shove into a corner. If I could just create more positive messages that reinforce the changes I want to make instead of reinforcing the not-so-healthy habits I already have, I might have better luck.

What do you think? Why do so many of us have such complicated relationships with food? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a healthy day!

Terri 🙂

Choices

As my mother bounced from hospital to rehab to hospital to rehab to hospital to rehab and back to hospital again, she became more and more frustrated. As she fought one infection after another, she became weaker and weaker. As medical professionals persisted in employing all manner of tests, procedures, and surgeries to try to extend her life, despite only a tiny possibility of success, she became more frail and more sad. She knew there was very little anyone could do to increase the time she has left. She could also feel the quality of that remaining life spiraling downward each day.

Most people will tell you they wouldn’t want to undergo any extraordinary or invasive measures if they were in my mother’s condition. It isn’t as simple as that sounds. The trick is in defining “extraordinary and invasive measures.” By the time my mom was in the hospital for the last time, nearly everything qualified as invasive from her perspective. And her perspective is really the only one that matters. She didn’t want any more hospitalizations, surgeries, medical tests, or IV lines. She didn’t want to move out of bed or do therapy. She certainly didn’t want a feeding tube or, even, to be badgered to eat when she didn’t feel like it. Sometimes, people feel like this because of depression and that depression can be managed with medication. In my mother’s case, it felt more like she just wanted to be comfortable. For whatever time she had left, she wanted to be able to decide not to put herself through anything that she found painful, uncomfortable, or annoying.

It wasn’t easy getting to this point. Because of the stroke, it is sometimes difficult to understand what my mom is thinking and feeling. Her language is definitely limited and she is very hard to understand. At times, it seems certain that she is thinking clearly, even if she cannot express herself very well. At other times, it seems like her cognitive ability is impaired as well. In addition, it was difficult for me to find the place in my mind and heart where I could let go of what I wanted and concentrate on figuring out what my mother wanted. I considered what I know of my mother’s views from before she had the stroke. We had numerous sad, cobbled conversations about life and death after the stroke. I am pretty sure I understand what she wants. She chooses to let go of trying to get “cured” and live whatever time she has left with comfort and some modicum of control.

As difficult as it was for me to face this crossroad and as difficult as it was for my mother to come to this choice, it is even more difficult to convince the medical system to let go of “cures.” Fighting this battle requires clarity of mind, courage of conviction, and persistence. Take it from someone who could barely articulate the choice without crying. You will probably have to cry often and painfully if you are trying to help a loved one free herself of unwanted, invasive medical procedures. This is especially true when the loved one has a disease that isn’t causing unbearable physical pain and doesn’t have a clear, common progression towards death in the immediate future.

I don’t really blame the medical establishment. Hospitals, rehab facilities, and most doctors are charged with curing and preventing the risk of further damage. They have legal liability if they don’t do everything possible to try to “cure.” Their collective mindset is to look at the patient as a problem to be solved. They will usually keep trying to think of something else to do, some other medication to try, some different procedure with which to tinker… just in case something will help. If one thing doesn’t work, they try something else. If you have decided to forgo the small chance of a “cure” in order to have peace in whatever time you have left, you will likely have to repeat and argue your position over and over again with the mainstream medical professionals. Working with most medical professionals in that situation is rather like employing a dance instructor when all you really want to do is buy tickets to a ballet… and the dance instructor finds it morally repugnant that you don’t want to don a tutu.

You may think that the answer is simply to stop engaging with doctors and other medical professionals. That might be an effective strategy but for one reality. By the time most people are ready to stop fighting for life at any cost, they also need medical professionals to help with symptom management and assistance with activities of daily living.

Just when I thought I could not articulate my mother’s wish to refuse any more medical intervention one more time, one of the doctors at the hospital mentioned “hospice.” He was pretty judge-y about her choice and made me feel horrible discussing it. At least, though, he led me to the proper vehicle for implementing it. Apparently, identifying an individual as a “hospice patient” helps to indemnify the doctors, hospitals, etc. against litigation. It is the formal way a patient and her family to go “on record” as not expecting the medical folks to try to extend life. It gives permission to change the focus of the care from “cure” to “comfort.”

When someone mentions “hospice,” it often feels sad and defeated and scary. People tend to think it means the end of a life. It certainly can. Hearing the word “hospice” did feel like someone was prying a chunk of my heart out with a hot knife. Still, when I was able to wrap my mind around the idea, the hospice counselors were a huge help in explaining the program, giving me an idea of what to expect, and validating that the choice we were making was a morally valid option.

Hospice care is usually available for people expected to pass within the next six months, but no one ever really knows for sure how much time anyone has left. In my mother’s case, the choice to embrace the hospice path means something quite different than a choice to let go of life. It means a choice to stop struggling. It means a choice to live the rest of her life on her own terms. It means a choice to spend her time engaging with her loved ones. It means a choice for freedom to spend the rest of her life in comfort and dignity. It is a choice for peace.

Does anyone else have a similar experience that they would like to share? It might help someone else who has to go through a difficult time. Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Terri

A Crisis of Church

I think I may be gearing up to make another major life change.

I don’t think I am having a crisis of faith. I think I believe what I’ve always believed. I believe the Bible is truth, although it may or may not be always factual. After all, wasn’t Jesus often inclined to use stories to teach His truths? I believe in one God, in three forms- Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. I believe that I am a child of God and that I live within the grace of His embrace. I believe that Jesus is my Savior. I am committed, with the strength of the Holy Spirit, to living in a way that glorifies God and demonstrates the love of Christ. I believe I am called to live an ordinary life with extraordinary love, in the name of Jesus. I believe that, in addition to my Christian obligation to follow in the footsteps of Jesus, the secret to being my happiest, most authentic self is to model faith, hope, and love in all I do. I believe I have often failed to live in such a way and that I will continue to fail. I also believe that God always forgives me, because He loves me just that much. I believe He will use all things, including my failures, to teach and strengthen me so that I may be ever better.

So the problem isn’t really faith. I would say it is more that I am having a crisis of church.

I grew up Catholic. For most of my life, I believed I would always be Catholic. The Catholic Church felt like home for my faith. Over the past several years, my certainty that I would always be Catholic has faded. There have been several times when my connection with Catholicism has cracked and worn very thin.

During the priest sex abuse scandals, my loyalty wavered, almost to the point of disintegration. In my own life, I had a connection with three different priests accused of molesting children. By their own admission many years after the fact, these men were guilty of sexual behavior that harmed children. It was difficult to continue to believe in the goodness of my chosen church at that time. Still, I reasoned that it might be throwing the baby out with the bathwater to leave the church over the actions of some priests and church administrators. It also felt somehow disloyal to consider leaving my church home in its darkest days. I knew many good, brave priests who worked hard, despite public vilification, to shepherd their people through hard times. I reasoned that, regardless of what some individuals had done, my faith still felt fed by the liturgies and sacraments and fellowship in my parish.

Then, a daughter of one of my best friends was getting married. The family was Catholic. The daughter and her fiancé went to the required pre-marital counseling with a priest at their home parish. The pre-marital counseling basically consisted of the priest advising them not to marry…. solely because the parents of the fiancé were divorced. Instead of just advising them of the possible pitfalls, helping them develop tools to create a strong marriage, and celebrating their love, the Church- in the person of this priest- discouraged the couple… from Catholicism. The couple married outside the church. They have now been happily married for almost ten years and have two beautiful children. This experience bothered me, but, again, I thought of it as the actions of a particular priest and not necessarily a reflection on the policy of the larger Catholic Church.

I began to feel even more disconnected from the Catholic Church when I found that, more and more often, preaching about social justice issues became preaching about political issues. I understand that how we behave and what we do to help others are vital issues for Christians. I also understand, after spending a lot of time in thought, study, and prayer, that social justice and moral issues are rarely as definitive as we would like them to be. When we act, the consequences of our actions are often wide-reaching and unexpected, in both positive and negative ways. Moral dilemmas are called moral dilemmas because they are complicated. I began to feel that the Church was ignoring the complications and preaching societal mandates with no consideration of the various layers of implication and how to address them. First of all, men must change before kings must change so I’m not sure that preaching for political agendas is what Christ had in mind. Secondly, it felt like preachers were implying that the Christianity of anyone who felt differently must be suspect. I think a good preacher can and should challenge a Christian to ask herself if she is living as Christ would have her live, but not presume to know exactly what that life should look like.

When we were getting ready to move, I thought it might be a good time to consider other Christian denominations instead of registering at the Catholic parish in my new town. I did some research on the internet, but my gut objected rather strenuously. When we moved, I did start going to the Catholic church and felt happy with that decision. I felt fed there. The Catholic church provided me a sense of stability and home that comforted me as I navigated all the changes in my new life.

Last Sunday, something else happened… probably the “something” that is going to send me looking for another church. The priest started his homily by telling the congregation that he recently received an invitation to a family member’s wedding, but was adamant that he would not be going because the couple in question were both women. I don’t think my reaction was spurred so much by the fact that the priest believed that homosexual behavior is outside God’s law. I think a reasonable, prayerful Christian could legitimately deduce that gay marriage is morally wrong. Personally, I see the scriptural concern with it but also think we might need to explore the issue from a wider perspective. I think we might need to consider other scholarly interpretations. I also think that just proclaiming homosexuality wrong does not fulfill our duty. Even if we believe that the Church cannot legitimately bless a gay marriage, does that mean that we must deny compassion to approximately 10% of God’s family? Are there other options, outside of proclaiming gay marriage to be scripturally acceptable, that would allow civil and legal rights for partners who are not sacramentally married? My biggest problem with the homilist was that he was so certain that his position was correct and, however limited, sufficient. Certain to the point of smugness, it seemed to me. Not only was he telling the congregation what his position was, he was telling us that his position represented the only truly acceptable position for a good Christian.

You could argue that all of these incidents represented the behavior of some human beings within the Church and do not necessarily reflect the totality of the faith. You would be right. Also, none of these incidents except the clergy sex abuse scandals are really big deals in and of themselves. The thing is, I always believe people should attend Christian worship services to help lift up their souls. Even when I was working in the church initiation program for people thinking about becoming Catholic, I told them, “You should go where your soul feels fed.” All I know is, in that moment when the homilist started rolling his eyes about the invitation he received to his family member’s wedding, I felt fed up instead of fed.

Now the journey begins. I don’t know if I will find the spiritual nourishment that I crave in another Christian denomination, if I will eventually find my way back to the familiar Church that has been home all my life, or if I will go my own way for a time. I only know that God will lead me and that I will be listening for His call.

Have any of you moved on from the church of your childhood? What drove that decision for you and how has the change worked for you? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can send me an email at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a blessed day!

Terri 🙂