Celebrating Mother’s Day When Mom’s Gone, Turn Bitter Into Sweet

Mother’s Day ican be bitter-sweet if your mom’s no longer here.

It’s so hard to say the word, “dead,” and in many ways, our loved ones live on–in thoughts, in stories, in how they continue to impact our lives.

For many, Mother’s Day can be so painful that we do all we can to avoid it. That avoidance is part of grief, and it’s necessary for a while. Grief is like a good soldier, but there comes a time when you say “Thank you, you’ve served me well,” and you let that soldier be released from duty. 

After my mother died from Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s, I felt incredibly lost. I had been her daughter and her caregiver for so long and had invested so much time, energy, and heart into that role. After months, if not years of longing for my freedom, of griping and complaining, all of it felt so trivial in comparison to my mother no longer being in my life.

I knew I had to get my bearings. I asked myself over and over, ”Who am I? What was I doing before caregiving? Do I go back to that–or move onto something else? I’m now the matriarch of the family…does that mean I’m…old?: I’m now the Mama figure, the one everyone turns to, the one who holds the family history.

Feeling lost lasted awhile, but it didn’t last forever. I began to move beyond my grief. I began to grow hungry for life, for a routine, for something to sink my mind into. I returned to college. Someone else telling me what to do seemed to work. I started writing again.

An Excerpt from Mothering Mother:

I put Mother’s wallet and glasses in the top drawer of my dresser today. They’ve been sitting on top of it since she died four months ago. Mother kept Daddy’s wallet, pocketknife, comb, and a small Bible in a heart-shaped cedar box he gave her the second time they went on a date in 1925.  Something about these wallets left intact creates a sort of bubble holding time and memory in perfect stillness. Their licenses, credit cards, photos and slips of paper remind me that they had everyday lives.

This makes me question this whole “here, not here” mindset we have. Giving a friend a bit of humorous advice prefaced with “as my Mama always said…” is a way of keeping her here. Will there always be a bitter side of sweet?  Will death and dying burn away, so that I don’t have to run straight into them before retrieving a remembrance?

I hear Mother all the time and quote her daily. My friend Debbie’s teenage daughter asked her mother, “Don’t you trust me?” The age-old question every parent is eventually asked, the question we all secretly know the answer to. My southern mother answered that question when I asked it two decades ago, “ Honey, I don’t trust myself in the dark.” Hearing her words echo in my head was somehow comforting.

Perhaps this is your first Mother’s Day without your mom. If it is, be easy on yourself. This can be a tough day. I know I didn’t want a lot of fuss. I needed a hug and a card, and then I needed it to not be Mother’s Day anymore.

But in time, the bitter painful part subsided a bit, and I began to remember the good times, the funny times, the crazy-chaotic mother-daughter moments that made us pair. I could talk about her again. I could tell a story and then smile.

It takes time.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Alzheimer’s and Violence, “I Don’t Want Anyone to Know How Bad It Is”

Have you stopped having people come into your home because you don’t want them to see your dad/husband or wife “that way?” Are you hiding awful it really is?

Alzheimer’s, Lewy Body, dementia and other neurological based diseases affect the brain in different ways. Some individuals become docile, too docile. They stop talking, and pretty much stop moving. For others, Alzheimer’s turns them into a fidget machine. They pace incessantly, talk, babble, rant, need next to no sleep, and when forced to sit, their knee jiggles non-stop. Others are paranoid and will lash out at anyone who tries to touch them–it’s as if their brain–and body–is on fire.

And for some, Alzheimer’s makes them anxious, mean, and violent. There’s no other way to  put it.

According to a recent study conducted by the Journal of the American Medical Association s of resident-to-resident violence in Massachusetts nursing homes and dementia special-care units, researchers found that about 25 percent of the dementia population in a care facility had violent tendencies.

More and more law suits are cropping up because staff and patients are being attacked, and resulting in physical injuries such as fractures, dislocations, and lacerations.

They curse when before the disease they were  practically saints. They use vile language that would shock and embarrass a sailor, and their eyes look as if they could kill you in your sleep. For many, their violence is more of a protective mechanism.  They may thrash, hit, try to bite if they feel cornered, yell, cry. It’s more exhausting and embarrassing than harmful. They act like really big two year old.

In all of these cases, Alzeimer’s effects each brain differently. You  have to think of it as a chemical reaction, not a persoanl decision.

And then, there are the truly violent . Their rage is unpredictable and unprovoked. They slap, bite, kick, pinch, and for a few, and surprisingly, they possess the power to break bones, knock someone down, and are truly dangerous.Many are placed in care facilities because their families can’t handle it. Their families don’t visit as often because they’re scared. They feel as if their loved one is dead to them, and yet they struggle with guilt every single day. It’s an awful existance for everyone involved.

It’s that interum time that I’m addressing–when you’re starting to notice some anger–gritting teeth, cursing, grabbing your wrist really hard, knowing you against the wall–and you don’t know how far this will go. You make excuses. You provoked it. You shouldn’t have confronted them. They’re not taking their meds. It only happened once…these are just a few excuses we create to “protect” our loved one.

I urge you to speak to your doctor now.

For some, an added medication that stabalizes their mood (and yes, it may make them lethargic) can curtail their violence. It doesn’t work with everyone, but if you catch it early, it just might work.

For many, particularly spouses, you hide these changes in behavior  from your children, your neighbors, your friends.

You stop having people over. You wear long sleeves to cover bruises.

You’re afraid all the time. More afraid they’ll take your husband or wife away than that you’ll be hurt.

You can handle it–is your rationalization–but the guilt, the shame, the thought of being separated is what keeps you silent.

You grieve the death of your marriage, of the life you had–and yet, you can tell no one what you’re going through.

You don’t want anyone to “see” your husband, your wife this way. You want to preserve their dignity.

I understand. I did this with (or for)  my mom. I shielded her from the world. I didn’t let people know how chaotic, out of control, scary and heartbreaking it really was. I let her dig her fingernails into my arm and scream at me, her eyes so wild I didn’t even recognize my mother any more. If I would do this for my mother, I can truly understand how a husband or wife would be wiling to do even more.

But here’s what I came to realize:

This is a disease. No one will judge you or your spouse–and if they do, they just don’t  understand what’s happening. 

Your loved one can not  help this. This isn’t their “inner self” or what they’ve been thinking all along. You didn’t contribute to this either. It just is.

It really is nobody’s business and you don’t have to share it with everyone, but having at least one confidence, one dear friend or your clergy can help lighten your heart.

You know those statistics about caregiver stress and how many caregivers die before their loved one? They’re talking about you!

You’ fall into that category big time. All this stress could lead to depression, heart disease, obesity, and strokes–and you know your loved one wouldn’t want this for you.

You are not alone.

Sometimes, you just can’t do it anymore. You feel that you’re in a living hell.

This is a truly dangerous state and you have to ask for help.

With guidance, you can find a good care facility that has a low patient to care staff ratio and administers the proper medications needed to lessen the violent outbursts. I know you don’t want to “dope” your loved one. But you can’t continue to be hurt, or risk that for others.

This disease can get really ugly, and if you’re in this situation, I am so, so sorry–but please, don’t suffer alone.

That’s not love, and your loved one wouldn’t want this for you.

Screw what your family would think, what they neighbors will think. Protect yourself and know that asking for help is the right thing to do.

I can’t promise you that you and your spouse can stay together–in the house. I can’t promise you that this is going to all magically get better.

Sometimes we really do have to grieve and let go–knowing that you’ll never get back what you had.

But I promise that while it’s going to be hard–and lonely—and you’ll probably feel guilty–after a time, things will get better.

Your loved one’s care might be better managed with help. And although your life won’t be the same, it can be good. A new good. A different good.

If you’re experiencing Alzheimer’s, Lewy Body or dementia related behavioral changes (violence or otherwise), please consider calling the Alzheimer’s Association National Hot line. It’s confidential and you can speak to someone who really cares. The number is: tel: 1.800.272.3900

~Carol O’Dell, author of Mothering Mother

Am I Holding Onto the Past? Why We Keep the Clothes of Those We Love

I’ve had my Daddy’s suede jacket hanging in my closet since 1982, the year he died.

I didn’t know I’d be a keeper, but I guess I am. 

It’s brick-red suede, and has completely worn through at the edge of the sleeves. It no longer smells of him, but I keep it.

I remember when I was a child, riding with him to Sears on Saturday morning just to buy salted peanuts and look at the tools in the tool department. He wore that jacket. I was adopted and maybe that makes me more sentimental, I don’t know, but keeping my past is important to me.

I also have his Bible, his wallet, his watch, his glasses, and a yellow shirt I remember him in.

I have lots of items that was my mother’s–her mink coat, her Russian coat, purses, jewelry, a Sunday suit, and more Bibles. (My mother was a preacher, so trust me when I say she had lots of  Bibles).

I also have their photos, letters, recipes, Daddy’s old tool chest, the first gift he ever gave her when she was just 14–it’s a small cedar box that’s in the shape of a heart. If  my math is right, he gave it to her in 1925. I can tell the story of  how they met as if it were my own.

Why do we keep our loved one’s clothes?

Like a child’s ratty blanket, we hold on. Safety, security, identity.

Our momentos are saved in boxes, on shelves, in cabinets, and I know I keep way too much, but how do you let go of such things?

It’s all I have,  my way of connecting. I remember Daddy’s bushy eyebrows, the thickness of his fingers and how I could barely squeeze my child fingers through his. I remember that jacket and how he’d wear it when we went to see his family–his sister and brother every Sunday afternoon. His faithfulness amazed me then. His loyalty and tenderness is something I value in a man.

There are issues with keeping things. Psychologists might tell you that you’re not moving on, not making room for the new. I understand the logic. A friend recently visited my home and commented on how much my house had changed in the past couple of years. My mom’s antiques are no longer on display. Some have been give to other family members, others sold.  This is a slow process–for me.

It no longer looks like my mother’s house. I moved my mother and her 40 years not moving household items into my house during the last couple years of her life. I tried to talk her into getting rid of a few things but it was hard enough just to get her to consent to come with me.

My house bulged at the seams. 

I barely had room for “me.” My mother was one powerful woman. She had a way of taking over.  I let her reign, so to speak. As her daughter and in those last few years, caregiver, I learned how to hold my ground and still allow her to feel as if she had some independence. 

But now, I have a new couch, a new dining room table.  Her furniture has been divvied up among my daughters. I’ve reclaimed my throne, so to speak.

Ironically, I consider myself more of a futurist than a person who lives in the past. I lean toward modern/eclectic design and enjoy new music. I’ve made a slew of six month, one year, five year, and then year plans, always writing my future. I’m a list maker–a list for the day, the week, the month, sometimes two a day. I like feeling like I’ve accomplished something so I’ll write down something down I just thought of so I get the thrill of crossing it out.

But when it comes to my parents, I’m a keeper, but it no longer keeps me  in the past. I’m not avoiding “moving on.”

I like to think of their clothes and personal items as a cushion to my life. As if they somehow support me and connect me. Just one look at that jacket and I’m four again. No other Bible comforts me like Daddy’s. I don’t need to even open it to feel a sense of guidance.

It takes time to get to a place to let go of at least a few things.

After your loved one dies, part of grief is when you still try to live in your old life with old clothes and the way things used surrounding you. 

You weren’t ready for him to die. You don’t want to date, get a new job, or have to figure out what to do with yourself next Christmas. You don’t want to move on.

 Some people get rid of things too soon. Others, too late–it’s different for each person. Finally, you begin to make your own way. Reinvent yourself. Find who you are–now. They are in you, a part of you, but you are changed. You have to go on.

What’s the time frame? Varies. I know people who were clearing out closets before the funeral. I know others who open a closet ten years later–and there’s everything just as it was.  Of course, there’s always a chance of getting stuck and not being able to let go. You run that risk.

For many, somewhere around or after that first year mark, things shift–a little. You don’t have to make yourself do everything. Some things come a little easier. A little. For others, it’s two, three years before they can feel anything but blinding loss.

But somewhere along the line, you let go of a few things. You call up a family member and offer them a book or a knick-knack. You sell something, drop items off at Goodwill or another charity. You live with the empty space for awhile before you figure out how to fill your life again. And  the items you keep become more intended, more precious. They go in top drawers and the spare dresser in the guest bedroom. You leave out a few photos, a book–a silver comb that sits on your dresser.

Your loved one is now incorporated. Their clothes, their memories are a part of you and they don’t take you or your house over. Grief and memory is no longer like a a giant box you left in the middle of the floor that you trip over again and again.

You still have a few momentos–a jacket, or a Bible.

Anytime you need to, you can slide open a draw and remember.   

But now, your closet and your heart is lighter. Airier. There’s room for something new. 

~Carol D. O’Dell, Author, Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

www.mothering-mother.com

Has Caregiving Changed You?

Has caregiving changed you?

Do you no longer feel like yourself?

Has a part of you died?

I know. I felt this too. I felt like I lost myself in some way.

I lost my spontaneity, at times, my hope, and most days, my freedom.

But I’m here to let you know that it won’t always be this way.

Yes, caregiving disrupts your life.

Yes, caregiving dumps stress on your life by the bucket load.

Yes, caregiving will test every physical, emotional and moral fiber you have–and it hunts for frays and weak spots.

But I’d still do it again. (I wince to even think about it!)

And I know what I’m talking about–I cared for my mother who had Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s–and she lived with my family and me for the last almost two years of her life. I cared for her for about 15 years before that–everything from going to see her once or twice a week, to a combination of hired care, community care, overnight stays, and her coming to my house. We tried to keep her in her own home, her own church and neighborhood for as long as possible.

So, my point is, I’m no wuss, and when I say I’d care give again, it’s not because I have so romanticized version of family life stuck in my head. And I wouldn’t jump up and down volunteering either. Why? Caregiving has to come to you out of genuine need. I know that one day, I will, or my husband will care give. We will care for each other. I know that–the love, the commitment are already in place.

But I’m not not going to care give the guy down the street. I might make him and his wife some meals, but my marital relationship warrants caregiving. And still, I certainly don’t look forward to it–because it’ll be one of us is sick, or we’ve aged to the point to where our bodies are breaking down–that death is coming all too soon.

Caregiving continued to change me even after my mom passed away, and all those negative ramifications finally began to leave my system.

Caregiving has done something to me. I’ve changed again-in good ways.

I’m more patient. When I’m with someone now, and I know they need me, I just let go of all the other crap of life.

I’ve learned to be present. I don’t know if I did this so well when my mom was alive, and maybe this happened because at times, I wasn’t present at all with my mom. I wanted to be anywhere but there. Some days, I would have gnawed my own foot off to get free. And here I am, tell you, I’m glad I did it.

I’ve learned to take every, every, every opportunity that comes my way. I’m like that old TV show, My Favorite Martin–my antennas go up whenever a great thing comes my way. I can’t NOT try something new, dance when music plays, make a fool of myself if the occasion calls for it.

I’ve learned that the only regrets at the end of life are not all the things you screwed up. it’s all the chances you didn’t take. Since this caregiving revelation, I’ve eaten squirrel, kissed a snake, held a giant stingray in my arms, skinny dipped on more than one occasion, taken two a.m. bike rides and made out on a pier under the moonlight (with hubby, FYI). I simply can’t let life pass me  by. Death did that to me. It singed me and I have to live and love big and hard. I refuse to mewl about my unlived life when I can do something about it…now.

I’ve started speaking  my mind. I’m tired of being a coward and taking S**T. I don’t have to blast people, but if you bully me, corner me, or shame me…get ready cause I am too old and I’ve gone through too much to not stand up for myself.

I’ve learned to be easier on myself. I’ve given up worrying about housekeeping–a nap is infinitely more important. A swim on a perfect day is by far, a better use of my time.

I’ve learned not to sweat so much about money and jobs. In the end, these things matter so, so little. I’m still learning this one, but I’m grasping onto this bigger thing: if I do what I love, what I’m gifted at, what I’m passionate about…people value me and pay me pretty darn good for it. And I can’t seem to stomach the idea of paying my dues and feeling like I have to suffer.

I’ve learned that I really do like to do good work. I want to do something, some small thing that matters. i want to write and speak and encourage others. I want to somehow contribute to the good of the world.

And finally, I’m learning to let go of grudges, hurts, and resentments. They really do fade in time. Things I was so heated about 20 years ago don’t faze me now. People I despised and feared are now toothless old lions, and we’re all in the Savannah together just trying to find a little shade and water. it’s not so big, scary and important as I once thought it was.

Where are you? Still in the dark nights of the soul? Has exhaustion and cynicism taken its toll? it’s part of the journey.  It won’t last. Caregiving will continue to change you–let it  

I’m Carol O’Dell, and I hope you’ll check out my book, Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available at Amazon

Who Says Halloween’s Just For Kids? Easy Tips for Caregivers and Their Loved Ones to Enjoy the Fall Festivities

Caregivers: You Don’t Have to Like Your Mother to Love Her

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

This, for some of us is a relief. We feel like bad sons or bad daughters if every thing’s not warm and fuzzy, but caregiving isn’t about your emotional barometer reading for the day.

It’s no coincidence that we start out tethered to our mothers. The umbilical cord is the first of many. It sustains us, feeds us, is a highway of blood. It’s tough too. I remember my husband cut our daughter’s umbilical cords and he said he really had to work at it.

And after all our mother-daughter ups and downs, we eventually find ourselves back together. Our moms need us–and we need them, even though we don’t know it or admit it. Caregiving comes along and gives us another chance to work at this ancient relationship. 

I have a friend I’ll call Jess, and she’s in her mid-thirties, and like most women that age, she’s already racked up a couple of decades of mother-daughter angst. It starts early for us girls. 

Jess shared with me that her mother recently asked, “Why were you always so angry with me?”

Now, that’s an age-old question…why are we?

Is it because of hormones? I’m sure.

Is it years of not being able to speak our minds? Absolutely.

Is it that our moms control our lives and even at a young age we want to yank the reigns and drive our own demons? Sure, but it’s even more than that. It’s biological, and it’s necessary–at least for some of us. I do know a few people who have always been sweetsy and close to their moms–and I mean always. I think they’re from another planet…

I finally got to a place of acceptance, but it took awhile.

But with Jess, I’ve noticed how things have begun to change. Jess is engaged. Jess is truly grown now, on her own financially and emotionally–and I think she, and her mom now recognize this fact.

Jess talks about her mom differently now. There’s no animosity. It’s simply gone as if somone had unhandcuffed her. Jess’s mother is flying in for her wedding shower and they’re going shopping all day at the outlet mall while she’s in town. She calls her mom several times a week as she’s driving home from work–just to chat. This wouldn’t have happened even three years ago. Her mom hasn’t changed. She still says certain annoying things any daughter would cringe at, but Jess no longer lets it get to her.

Why the change?

The mother-daughter bond is resilient.

It’s not a warm, cuddly blanket, but a sinuous cord that connects us and keeps our relationship alive through the turbulent years. At times, our anger is the jet fuel we need to grow up and move on with our lives. We “use” our mothers.

We hate them in order to love ourselves. We swear we will never be anything like them. We despise them when we don’t want to admit we despise ourselves. We lash out in words and actions knowing it cuts like a serrated knife. We think it will always be like this–us, way over here–them, way over there.

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

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

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

~Elizabeth Debold and Idelisse Malave

We are defined by our mothers and find our identities, in part, in them and their life-lessons. 

We push off of our mothers like they’re a springboard–the laws of physics at work in relationships. Our “you weren’t there for me’s,” and “why are you always so controlling” finally leave our systems and we get sick of our own whining. The longer we live, we see our mother’s strengths unfold. We view past events in a new light. We turn to them for guidance, even if it’s a “don’t do what I did.”

I love the mother-daughter relationship portrayed in the movie, Spanglish. Tea Leoni and Cloris Leachman are the daughter and mother, and both are a mess–but they’re together–through it all. There’s a scene in the movie when Tea is about to leave to go see her lover (she’s married) and her mother knows what she’s doing–and she tries to stop her. She’s standing by her car pleading with her–and I don’t remember the words–I don’t want to, but what I do remember is her actions. She finishes her sentence and with both hands on the window ledge, she slaps the ledge. Like, I’m done, I’ve said my peace. I know that gesture. I know that feeling of my mother speaking into my own life–having her say.

Our mothers can tell us things no one else can.

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

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

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

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

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

Again, why?

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

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

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

Caregiving comes at just the right time. We don’t think it is. We’re busy. We’re moms, and just got our act together. We don’t want to deal with death and dying, with power struggles and forgiveness. But oh, we do and we just don’t know it. Begrudgingly (sometimes) we lay down our grievances and come toether–again. 

Caregiving gives us a reason to make up, to let go, to “get over it.”

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

~Victoria Secunda

Something happens when our mothers lives begin to grow smaller either physically, emotionally, or financially–a power shift occurs.

We (the daughters) gain strength and power–and this time to “be on top,” allows us to feel less threatened–and when we’re not threatened–we can be generous with our love.

Eventually, the scales balance.

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

And then, just when we make peace, our mothers die. It surprises us. It shocks us. This is too soon, we cry. We just got here, to this place of acceptance, to the point to where we can sit in the same room and breathe the same oxygen. We realize how ironically close we really were–all along–even when we thought we weren’t. We love our mothers in a deep-bone way.

We lose ourselves in grief. We just found ourselves in and through and mothers, and then they leave us. We feel abandoned, lost, maybe even angry. But don’t worry, all that we’ve gained grows inside us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, I have three grown daughters. The torch has been passed. They rail against me at times. I let them. I know the journey they must take to get to their own place of acceptance and strength. I’ll be here. Waiting.

I’m Carol D. O’Dell, the author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon.

“Grandpa’s Dying:” How to Talk to Children About Death

Every day, a child’s mother, father, grandmother, grandfather or sibling dies.

When a child loses a loved one to death, that loss can have a profound effect that can even last a lifetime.

Emotional, psychological and physical trauma can occur and effect how a child views the world. 

If grief is talked about and a child is given the proper coping tools, is surrounded by love and support, then the negative impact can be lessened. 

How Do You Tell a Child That a Loved One Has Died?

Keep it simple. Use “died”, not “He is sleeping.”

Allow your child to express raw feelings freely or ask questions.

Answer questions honestly and simply. Do not go into detail, unless asked.

If the death was due to a violent crime, explain that they are safe now, nd you will do all you can to make sure they stay safe. 

Offer a comfort object–blanket, doll, teddy bear. Even if they’re “older,” something cuddly can reduce anxiety.

If the body is suitable for viewing, allow the child to see your deceased loved one, if requested. Prepare the child for what he or she will see.

Tell your child what will be happening in the next few days.

Give your child choices in what to do. Some children want to go to school the day of the death–it’s comforting and feels “normal.” Give them a choice. Whenever they return, inform the school of the death before your child returns.This makes their teachers and classmates more sensitive. Most schools have a school counselor that can also assist and be made aware of the situation.

Reassure your child that he or she will be cared for and explain the plan.

Children sometimes open up easier if they’re doing something with their hands–playing cars or helping bake cookies–it can take awhile for them to feel safe–and they feel less on the spot if they don’t have to look at you but can pretend to be “busy” with their hands.

Don’t Know How to Talk To Your Child?

Here’s some Easy Conversation Starters: 

 I’m sorry your grandmother/papa/mom/dad/sister died.

 What was your dad/mom/brother like?

 What was his favorite food/book/thing you did together?

 What’s the hardest time of day for you?  

 

I can’t know how you feel, but I remember how I felt when my __________ died.

Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.

 If you don’t want to talk, we can still spend time together.

What Not to Say:  

I know just how you feel….I know just how you feel…my dog died last year.

You’ll get over it…It will be okay…Try not to think about it…Don’t cry…God took him so he wouldn’t be in pain…Tears won’t bring her back…e strong…Forget about it.

You are the man/woman of the house now…You should feel ….(proud, relieved, happy, sad, etc.)

Children May Express Grief Differently Tnan Adults:

Their emotions may experience highs and lows. T

hey may laugh inappropriately–even at the memorial service. Don’t think this is because they don’t care. It’s difficult for a child to figure out how to handle their emotions.

They may avoid sleep–or a teen may sleep all the time. They may zone out and not seem to hear anyone talking to them. 

They may become clingy and panic if you’re not home on time or don’t pick them up on time. They may act rough or violent toward a sibling or friend. Defiantly disobey. 

Teens may become daredevils–drive fast, extreme sports, breaking and entering–anything to feel “alive”

They may even try to “test” your love.

When Do You Seek Professional Help?

When the symptoms (lack of sleep, depression, agression) continue for weeks or months and grow in intensity.

When they can no longer function in school or around other people

When they isolate themselves for too long

When they become dangerous to themselves or others

They fixate on death, experiment on animals, or are exhibiting cruel behavoir

What do you do if you suspect your child or teen is not handling grief well?

Talk to the school counselor, your pediatrician, or clergy

Get a recommendation for a therapist who has helped children through grief.

Don’t settle for just a prescription. Talking and expressing their emotions is crucial to the healing process.

Don’t go just one or two times and think your child is “better.” Follow through and be consistent.

The Best Advice?

Be patient. Expect some some highs and lows. Share your own grief journey.

Listen. Reassure. Be there. Provide help if or when it’s needed.

Let them know it’s okay not to be able to handle this all by yourself–we all need each other.  

Helpful sites:

www.opentohopefoundation.com

www.beyondindigo.com/children

www.griefnet.org

www.childrensgriefnet.org

www.kidsaid.com

 

I’m Carol O’Dell, author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon. I hope you’ll visit my blog again.

www.mothering-mother.com

Caregiver: Do You Need a Fresh Outlook on Life?

Let’s face it: Caregiving can get ugly, and I do mean that in a literal sense! (Smile)

Have you let yourself go a bit? Do you need a fresh outlook? Physically and emotionally?

There were times when I was my mom’s full-time caregiver (my mom had Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s) when I’d go days without looking in the mirror. On purpose.

Yes, I was busy, tired, overwhelmed–and that lead me to feeling frumpy, puffy, and in a rut–and then I used that to go into denial and avoidance.

I told myself I had more important things to do, but it doesn’t have to be an either-or situation. 

It’s good to forget about yourself for awhile. It’s good to give of yourself, even to push yourself to the edge. Sometimes you just have to in times of stress and grief.  

Generosity, patience, and tenderness gives you a glow no money can buy.

And face it, you can let yourself go to the point to where you don’ t feel good about yourself. 

I gained close to 40 pounds during my two+years at a full-time caregiver.

I don’t blame my mom for this. Honest. I take full accountability. I could have put down the bags of Oreos and Fritos. (Notice how all tasty snacks tend to end in O’s? I could have walked more.

Even with my mom and kids and a big house to manage, I could have gone for two fifteen minute walks a day and eaten more veggie soup. No one was forcing sugar down my throat.

Yeah, I was tired, frazzled, and distracted–it comes with the territory–but I used that as an excuse not to pay attention. I’m just saying I contributed to own “junk in the trunk.”

It also helps to lighten things up a bit (metaphorically speaking) and think about haircuts, color, make-up and clothing takes the emphasis off the heavier aspects of life. Being able to feel good about yourself, to smile with confidence with a spring in your step helps not only you, but your loved one.

Being serious all the time isn’t good for you. It doesn’t mean you’re a better caregiver, and your loved one would probably enjoy your company more if you feel good about yourself.

Depression doesn’t like color, light, and laughter–so let’s flood the room!

Now you’ve seen the light (aka seen yourself with the lights on!) and you’re ready to do something about it, I’ve got a few simple suggestions.

First, don’t make it hard, but let’s stage your comeback and surprise your loved ones with a fresh outlook.

 Easy Solutions for a Fresh Look: (for the ladies)

• Fixate on your health, not your weight. Take it from Queen Latifah, the new spokesperson from Jenny Craig. She’s not trying to become America’s Next Top Model. She loves her curves. Love yours–and focus on your health not your flab. We all have flab.
• Nix the elastic waist pants. Why? They’re comfy, I know, but it’s too easy to keep on snackin’ when you’re not feeling a pinch in your side. Put on real pants. Even if you have to go up a size. Beauty is not a size, it’s a state of mind.
• Set very small goals. Walk ten minutes twice a day. Stretch–even encourage your elder/loved one to do some simple stretches with you. Don’t bring home the snacks. If you must, get a snack pack at the gas station–one of those bags for 99 cents. Eat them and throw the bag away. Don’t worry about the money–the economical size bag will cost you more in the long run (health, Weight Watcher’sfees, cholesterol meds).
• Get your Vitamin D–and how? By heading out the door for those ten minute walks! That’s all it takes. And your elder needs their Vitamin D., so at least have them sit on the porch for a few minutes per day. There are supplements, too, and recommended for elders. 
• Go look in your closet. Anything that’s been in there for more than five years–toss it now! I mean it! Go to it. It doesn’t matter if it’s the dress you wore to your daughter’s wedding or your 25th anniversary. Come on, let it go. Guys–this is for you, too. Even three years is long enough. You’re not a museum–you’re a living work of art!
• Now, match up three outfits that look nice that you could wear every day. Stop waiting for an excuse to dress up. Dress up for yourself. You deserve it–and your loved one deserves to look at a person who takes pride in their appearance. I know you’re tired and you think this doesn’t matter. It does. No high heels, but a nice pair of jeans or slacks, a decent shirt that’s not all stretched out and something that has some nice color. Spritz with some perfume and comb your hair. You’ll feel better.
• Plan a daily tea time. Crazy, I know. It’s English, so pretend you’re English. Choose a time–say, 4:00, and set out a cup for the two of you. Have tea and two cookies. Just two. You can even say it’s medicinal–all tea is good for you, but go for a green tea variety and get your antioxidants. Sit out on that porch to get your vitamin D., or sit in the living room. Chat for ten minutes and sip tea. Your loved one will feel special, and you’ll begin to relax. It’s just a simple tradition, but it’s soothing–and something to look forward to.

Ladies, if you’re ready for a real comeback, have I got a book for you!

Staging Your Comeback by Christopher Hopkins is for real women over 45–primarily focusing on women in their 50s and 60s is really amazing. It isn’t downgrading or patronizing. He’s been featured on Oprah and Today Show, and he isn’t your run of the mill “I’ll make you look 20″ kind of salesman.

There are lots of pics and the most astounding before and after photos you will see. My 21 year-old daughter was with me at Target when I bought the book, and even she was amazed. (I heard the make-up in the book is heavier than he would normally recommend and was only done that way for the book).

 The book is designed to be interactive with his website that has downloadble worksheets to help you plan your comeback. 

Is all this frivolous? I don’t think so.

We have to balance out all we’re dealing with–disease and death are not the only things in life.

We need balance. We need hope. We need to relax and enjoy our one wild and precious life, as the poet Mary Oliver would say.

I’m Carol O’Dell–come visit again soon!

Carol is the author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

Her website is www.mothering-mother.com

Have You Taken Caregiving Too Far For Your Own Good?

I was recently at an event where a woman received the caregiver of the year award for her community.

Her daughter wrote a lovely letter about all her mother did for her mother.

The list started at about 5am and ended about midnight–with frequent middle of the night interruptions as well. The list went on and on. Daily baths, attention paid to her mother’s nails, lotions, pulling chin hairs…on and on and on. She got a standing ovation, but my heart ached for her. She was in her early 50s and looked in her late 70s. She was smiling but looked as if life had beat her with a crowbar.

It sounds vailiant. And it is, in some ways, but caregiving can be taken to the max–it isn’t so good for you–or even your care receiver.

You have to give your loved ones their daily medication.

You have to take them to the doctors.

You have to bathe and them and change their clothes.

Right?

And yes–you do. But are you caregiving too well?

What do I mean?

You can become obsessed with caregiivng and use it to avoid other aspects of your own life.

You can ruin your health and your relationships on this noble “holy grail.”

I’m a big proponent of family caregiving, but some cultures are so tightly bound to a sense of duty that people (particularly women) have few options and caregiving becomes a noose that’s winds up snuffing out lives and dreams. 

And let’s face it, we bring our entire family history into our caregiving roles. OUr past experiences are like a bowl full of fish hooks–you can’t pull up just one without getting a whole mess of them.

Was your mother/father/spouse controlling?

Did you feel as if you could never totally please them?

Carol Bradley Bursack who writes a great blog at www.MindingOurElders.com reminded me that deep down we (all of us whether we consider ourselves obsessive-compulsive or not) struggle to achieve our parents love. We try to “earn” their blessing when in truth, we need to give ourselves our own deep sense of love, mercy, and acceptance.

No one can ever give to you what you need to give to yourself.

You can use caregiving:

to avoid your marriage

your health

your financial setbacks

your relationships with your own children or relatives.

You can use caregiving and family duties to avoid:

going to work, building a career

returning to school

or finding a mate

You husband or wife, mother or father can become your “living doll.”

Don’t be embarrassed. It’s easy to do.

You may even have a natural propensity toward being a nurturer, and you’ve become “good” at caring. Too good. (This applies to men and women–men like to feel needed too). Being a parents for 20+ years–or not having the opportunity to parents can also contribute to a deep sense of needing to be needed, to belong and connect, to be good at something.

How do you know if you’re obsessed with caregiving?

• Your caregiving duties continue to increase–more baths, more attention to detail.
• You tell yourself it’s necessary, but others seem to question you.
• You are an expert in your loved one’s illness but are ignoring your own body’s warning signs.
• You haven’t taken a day off in months.
• Your other relationships are dwindling.
• You feel as if you have nothing in common with the outside world.
• You constantly think, “they don’t understand.”
• You take a deep sense of pride when someone says you’re a great daughter/son/caregiver–and you actually try to create situations (subconsciously) where someone would be prompted to say this.
• You never sit down because there’s always something to do.
• You’re getting less than 5-6 hours sleep a night on a regular basis.
• You fear when your loved one dies and almost feel frantic at the thought of wide open days with no one to pick up after, watch, feed, or medicate.

I know, this just sounds like normal caregiving! What’s the difference?

It’s more about intensity, urgency, and an underlying, almost imperceptible sense of fear–you’ll be found out, your loved one will “die on your watch,” they’ll take your mom from you, you’ll have to put her “in one of those places.”

***

What’s your unsaid driving force?

Fill in the blank…”I’m afraid that if I don’t ________, that __________will happen–and it’ll be my fault.”

*****

Now, be rational. Talk to yourself as if you were your best friend. Is this really true? Wouldn’t you (your best friend you) cut you a little slack?

There were times when I did get this sort of sick sense of pride that I was the “best caregiver in the world,” while underneath I felt like a sham–and in reality I felt like I never could do enough. I never could “fix” or manage my life.

Alzheimer’s really does a number on you–you feel like you owe it to your loved one to do everything you can for them–that this is such a horrible, horrific disease that you want to counter it in some way, but you can’t.

I had many arguments: ”If I’m going to do something, I might as well do it well. This is where God wants me and needs me. She’s my mother–and wasn’t this the right thing to do? Any of these sound familiar?

I couldn’t help it that my caregiving duties never ended.

I also know there are some of you out there who say you’re a perfectionist–you can’t stand a mess. You can’t relax until everything done and cleaned up.

Really? If that were the case, then I could never relax because I’m not sure I’ve ever been “caught up” even once in my entire life?

It’s funny that we call that being a perfectionist.

I’ve changed that word in my mind to mean something different.

A perfectionist sees the “perfect” and the good in everyone and everything that sounds me.

I came across this mindset in a book by life coach and inspirational speaker, Allen Cohen.

This is who I choose to be–and how I choose to see the world. (It’s a work in progress and a daily, moment to moment choice).

Sometimes you just have to let the chaos rule!

No, an adult doesn’t have to have a full bath every day.

It’s okay to have a frozen meal, pizza, or eggs for dinner.

It’s okay if your there are dishes in your sink when you go to bed at night.

It’s okay to take a day–or (gasp) a weekend off and arrange for respite care.

It’s okay to sign up for a class once a week.

It’s okay to call and invite a friend to lunch.

It’s okay if you don’t take your loved one to follow up doctor appointments–just for a recheck.

It’s okay to notice that there are areas of caregiving that you might have taken too far.

Laugh! Take a deep breath, and make a new choice. Find the perfect in the imperfect.

You won’t be able to turn off your caregiving gene, but with some forethought, you can learn to balance out the needs of your loved one–and still find time to build a life outside of caregiving. You will begin to value the few moments you give yourself and look forward to taking a class, or even taking a walk.

~Carol O’Dell, author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

Does Caregiving Affect Women Differently?

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