retirement lifestyle blog – Page 29 – Terri LaBonte- Reinventing Myself in Retirement

How Are You, Really?

If people realized how dangerous that question is, I think they would stop asking it.

Ever since my mother’s stroke, I have struggled with how to respond when people inquire after her health and my emotional state. These dear, kind, lovely people are genuine in their desire to express concern and offer support. I don’t know what I would do if no one asked. The support of others may be the only thing that is getting me through this challenging time. On the other hand, I don’t seem to know how much to say. I’m okay at responding quickly and generally when someone politely asks how she is doing. It is when they follow-up with a subsequent, probing question about how I am “really” handling it that I have the problem.

On one hand, I want to tell them. Oh, how I want to tell them! There is a huge reservoir of unexpressed thoughts and feelings living in my mind that constantly threatens to breech the levy of my composure. On the other hand, I don’t want to a be an emotional drain or a tedious attention-guzzler. I don’t want to be someone who can bring nothing to the relationship table except her brokenness. I have been that person and I hate myself when I am so pitiful. I also don’t want to be crying in public all the time, as I am wont to do when I start allowing all those thoughts and feelings to creep over the dam. Crying is not my best look and I seem physically unable to control it.

I am always resolving not to take the bait the next time someone asks me how I am, really. I’m afraid I usually fail. When someone asks probing questions, I tend to reward their kind concern by vomiting out a string of words, words, and more words, punctuated by awkward pauses and wrapped in weird syntax. The friend who has asked the question tends to look engaged and concerned at first. As the words keep coming, the friend’s eyes tend to go somewhat blank. Finally, when it is clear that I am either going to have to stop talking to take a breath or lose consciousness, I notice the friend’s eyes darting around in a panic, searching for an escape route.

I am pretty sure that the long outpouring of words is rarely lucid. I know it does not accurately describe what is going on in my heart and mind. That may be why I keep talking and the words keep coming out. I guess I figure that, if I say enough words, I’ll utter some that will actually reflect what I’m feeling.

It isn’t like writing. When I write about how I am doing, I can write all the words I want without burdening anyone. I can reread all those words I have written and focus on the few that actually ring true. I can highlight those genuine nuggets and expound on them, while excising all the words that seem unauthentic or unhelpful. On the other hand, when I’m in a live conversation, all those words just lie there between me and the other person. They litter up the personal space and often create a barrier between us. Once I’ve said them, I can’t edit them or “unsay” them. I think that is one of the reasons I have a hard time sleeping at night. I tend to replay past conversations, editing them in my head. I will surely be prepared for the next time that exact same situation occurs and requires a better version of the exact same conversation. I also anticipate future conversations, writing the script for what I should say when the time comes. Of course, since no one else gets a copy of the script, it may be a little bit difficult for me to say my lines without the other players giving me the right cues.

The other day at the nursing facility, one of the hospice nurses asked me how I was doing. I responded by saying I was okay, as well as could be expected. She asked again and I responded similarly. I was hoping she’d stop that particular line of questioning, but she just kept standing there, staring me in the eye, saying nothing. I’ve always known that a person who is comfortable living in the awkward silences of a conversation is a person is who is likely to get the information she seeks. It is a technique I employed often in my working life. My familiarity with the strategy didn’t help me in this situation, though. The hospice nurse didn’t have to live in an awkward silence very long at all before words started stumbling out of my mouth. I don’t even know why or what I was saying. I just had to talk.

The hospice chaplain saw what was going on, because there is basically no place that is private in a nursing home. He hustled over to hug me and add his voice to the “how are you doing, really?” chorus. Trying to stop the flow of tears that inevitably accompanies the flow of verbiage, I started babbling about completely unrelated subjects. The nurse and chaplain seemed to find the whole exchange pretty alarming. They kept suggesting I needed to get away from it all much sooner than a trip I was toying with taking in September. They also thought I should do relaxation exercises, ask for help, and remember to put on my own oxygen mask before assisting others. This required even more words to convince them that I am doing things to take care of myself and actually feel like I’m approaching the situation in as healthy a way as I can muster. It is just a sad, exhausting situation, even if you do all the right things. And I come from a long line of easy criers.

Despite all the words, I don’t think I convinced them.

Do you have difficulty responding when people show concern for you during difficult times? How do you reply? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a FINE day!

Terri 🙂

How Does My Garden Grow?

It doesn’t. Unless you count the weeds that explode with primeval lushness in my yard during Florida’s “growing season.”

We try to keep up with the encroaching overgrowth by weeding at least once a week. I hate weeding. It is exhausting. It is physically painful. It is also frustrating because it is so darn relentless. I swear that as soon as I pull one weed out of the ground, another one springs up in its place. The weeds and I are in a race to see if I can pull faster than they can grow. The weeds are winning. Every now and then, as I contemplate the futility of my task, I consider forgetting the whole thing and telling people I am going for the “wild, naturalistic” look for my garden. Two things keep me from doing that. First, I don’t think the homeowners’ association would buy my story. Second, I am concerned that, if too much overgrowth takes hold, my yard will become a haven for creepy crawly creatures that can hide amongst the weeds- creepy crawly creatures like bugs, lizards, and snakes. Heck, I’m pretty sure that if I stopped weeding for a week, dinosaurs would once more walk the earth in my backyard. This time of year, maintaining the weed status quo is a victory.

So I keep weeding. Resentfully, but I keep weeding. When I start a weeding session, I am irritable. When I finish a weeding session, I am just relieved to not have found a brontosaurus in the tangles of the shrubberies.

Don’t get me wrong. I actually love gardens. I love flowers. I love fresh vegetables and herbs. I love butterflies bouncing off blooms. I’ve visited many beautiful arboretums and botanical gardens. One of my favorite places in Washington D.C. is the national botanical garden. I have spent many a happy hour at the flower and garden festival at Disney World’s EPCOT park. I never go to Las Vegas without visiting the gorgeous garden in the conservatory at the Bellagio Hotel and Casino. Yes, I love gardens. Unfortunately, I also hate dirt and sweat. The two positions appear to be mutually exclusive. It is all just so much work… hot, dirty work. I think I could almost handle the work itself, if it didn’t involve salty sweat droplets dripping into my eyes and mud embedded under my fingernails.

I think I’ve found a way to resolve “love gardens/hate gardening” dilemma. I kind of cheat.

There is a garden club in our community. I never did anything as madcap as joining it. However, a friend of mine belongs to the garden club and invites me to activities that involve no real work. I’ve visited arboretums and joined the club members on garden tours. I’m not a gardener, but I’m riding the coattails of the gardeners.

I know a number of club members now. It strikes me that they are all perfectly normal, clean people who are somehow able to create gardens without perpetually looking like ragamuffins. I don’t know how they do it. I wash my hands reasonably often. I bathe regularly. Still, I usually find I am picking garden debris off my extremities hours and hours after actually gardening.

It has been really wonderful to immerse myself in the delights of gardens without exerting any effort beyond polite conversation. Also, I’ve enjoyed the club members’ discussions and learned a thing or two. You don’t have to be an artist to be interested in art history. You don’t have to be a gardener to be interested in botany and design. I usually enjoy listening to anyone who is talking about anything for which he or she has a passion. Listening to my talented gardening friends is no exception.

Once in a while, that passion is almost contagious. I flirt with the idea of actually planting something. Then, reason prevails. I forget about subjecting some poor plant to my ineptitude and neglect. It is easier to head to Disney World for the Epcot Flower and Garden festival to get my flower fix. Heck, it is easier to fly 2500 miles to Las Vegas and visit the conservatory gardens at the Bellagio.

Do you garden? What is your experience like? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a great growth day!

Terri 🙂

The Terri Bear

Many years ago, I started a tradition of giving my mother a present on my birthday. I figured she was the one who did all the work. I just showed up. One of the first of these gifts was a teddy bear dressed in a pink sweater. My name and date of birth were embroidered on the sweater. It was the perfect “It’s A Girl” present for a new mother. The “girl” in question was in her late thirties at the time.

My mom kept that bear safe for many a year. She moved the bear from travel trailer home to mobile home. The bear also made the trip from California to Florida. I think my mom got a kick out of my furry little avatar. She would sometimes play whimsical little tricks on me, featuring the Terri Bear. I’d sometimes find her in unexpected places, accompanied by notes from my mom telling me to have a good day or to remember to eat. Once, when I walked into my mom’s house, she had the bear wrapped up in a fuzzy blanket, snuggled in the corner of an overstuffed chair. When I laughed and pointed at the bear, my mother exclaimed, “well, it was freezing last night- I didn’t want her to get cold!” Heaven forbid.

When my mom moved to the rehab facility after her initial hospitalization, I brought some things from home. I brought her a blanket and some clothes and her wheelchair cushion. I also brought her the Terri Bear. I told her that, when I wasn’t with her, the bear could keep an eye on her and report back. We both enjoyed that idea. The bear was also a good conversation starter for anyone who came into her room.

As my mother transferred around to different medical facilities, we did manage to retain the blanket. Everything else ended up staying at the rehab place. There seemed to be many more important things to worry about than retrieving a bunch of stuff from a place where she would no longer reside. Basically, we were just talking about a bunch of old blouses and slacks. She had plenty of them and I could get her more, if need be. Somehow, the little Terri Bear got lost in the shuffle. It took a couple of months for me to realize it.

Once Terri Bear meandered back onto my mental radar screen, I felt sad that she was gone. I knew that I could probably make phone calls to the rehab facility or go over there and see if someone could look for her. The idea of actually talking to anyone there just seemed overwhelming to me. Actually, it seemed pretty impossible to me. I kept trying to convince myself that it wasn’t important enough to force myself to deal with the issue. Every time I thought about the bear, which was often, I felt sad, though. On the other hand, I just couldn’t seem to muster the energy to contact the rehab facility.

Why did it seem so hard for me to resolve the issue? I told myself that I have been spending so much time and energy doing things that are actually required to take care of my mother, the idea of taking on a task that was not absolutely necessary was just masochistic. I told myself that it would likely be an insurmountable chore to convince the rehab staff to search for the bear, especially given the length of time that had passed. I could foresee having to have multiple conversations, meeting with resistance, and finally being told that the rehab facility could not be responsible for items left unclaimed for so long. None of these stories that I told myself felt completely truthful, however.

Despite my arguments with myself, I could not bear to let the bear go. My brother had asked several times during my mother’s illness if there was anything he could do to help from California. My brother has a big heart and wants to do whatever he can, but he is not always able to follow through. He has struggled with that propensity frequently during this difficult journey. The other day when he asked again if there was anything he could do, I thought about the bear and decided to take him up on his offer. I explained that I really wanted the bear, but just couldn’t seem to make myself call the rehab facility or go into the building. I asked him if he could contact them and have them mail Terri Bear to me.

Bless him… he did contact the facility. Somehow, he ended up talking to the owner and she found Terri Bear right away. She wouldn’t agree to mail her to me, but did offer to keep her safe until I could pick her up. That would still entail me having to actually go into their building, but my brother worked with her so that I could simply go to the reception desk and pick up the bear without having to get into conversations and explanations.

Today, I felt a surge of emotional strength when I awoke and decided to try to retrieve my bear. After visiting my mother in the nursing home, I drove to the rehab facility. I sat in the car for a while, marshalling the necessary fortitude to get me inside the door. Finally, I took a deep breath and marched into the entrance. I saw the Terri Bear sitting behind the receptionist and said, “Oh, good…. You have my bear.” After looking at my identification (because of course there would be tons of other people who would want a twenty-something year old teddy bear wearing a sweater emblazoned with “Terri 09-30-59), she gave me the bear and I bolted to the door.

It turned out to be not quite so easy. I must have arrived at the end of a shift. As I walked back out into the parking lot, several different nursing aides who cared for my mother approached me to ask how she was doing and where she was. It was incredibly nice that they remembered my mother and recognized me, but these were still difficult conversations.

When I finally got back into my car, safe from further questions and explanations, I broke into sobs for the first time in a while. I think I finally understood what it was that I dreaded so much about facing the rehab facility again. The rehab facility was the first place where the spotlight shone on the reality of my mother’s condition. It was where both she and I most acutely and painfully mourned the loss of the kind of life she cherished. The rehab facility was also the last place we had hope that she would be able to recover enough physical and mental ability to live a new kind of life she could learn to love. In retrospect, I think the rehab facility was probably the place my mother decided not to try to prolong her life although it took me longer to come to understand that she had made that decision.

I think I’ve stabilized my grief about my mother’s illness. I am more able to handle myself and live life without being debilitated by sadness. My encounter at the rehab today showed me, though, that I still have a reservoir of pain dammed up in an area of my gut. It was suddenly so tangible. I could actually feel that pocket of pain on the right side of my abdomen, just about at my waist. It is kind of like an inflamed appendix that bursts, releasing lethal toxins into the body cavity. That reservoir of pain overflowed because of my encounter at the rehab facility, causing a kind of emotional peritonitis.

I really do appreciate that folks at the rehab facility still remember and think fondly of my mother, even months after she left there. It touched me when they asked about her. It reassured me that the people there did truly care for her while she lived there. On the other hand, the rehab facility does not hold happy associations for me and never will.

Still, I am happy to be reunited with Terri Bear and I am grateful to my brother for easing the way.

It’s your turn now. Do you have anything so wrapped up in emotions and memories that it has become more than just a piece of stuff? Have you ever lost that item? Please tell us about it! Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. in the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.

Have a wonderful day!

Terri 🙂