What makes a good conversation?
Two people who want to talk–and listen. Sometimes, they use words, but a conversation can consist of a glance, a the touch of
a hand–it’s about connection.
You can’t force it, and if you try too hard, it shows.
The art of conversation starts with you–and what you bring to the table.
The best conversationalists have a great sense of emotional intelligence, are easy, approachable, mix humor and poignancy, and can slide from subject to subject at a blink. It’s got a lot to do with a deep sense of confidence. There’s nothing sexier, more alluring, more satisfying than to be with someone who “sits deep in their own saddle.”
Emotional intelligence has been defined as: “An ability to recognize the meanings of emotion and their relationships, and to reason and problem-solve on the basis of them. Emotional intelligence is involved in the capacity to perceive emotions, assimilate emotion-related feelings, understand the information of those emotions, and manage them.”
My middle daughter used to ride horses–and studied the art of dressage.
They call it horse ballet. It’s formal, in many ways, and when people compete at dressage, it’s very fancy–they dress in coat and tails–and a top hat. My daughter’s instructor used to tell my daughter to sit deep in the saddle (this is typically true for all types of horseback riding)–which meant literally to tilt her hips back and down, sink her heels as far down as possible, and plant herself in the saddle. I adopted this metaphor for my own life.
For me, it means to recenter myself, be present, own my own worth and where I am in life so I won’t get “bounced off” at every little bump in the road.
are privileged to be in a conversation with someone like that, then you leave feeling better about yourself–and you don’t even know why.
What’s this got to do with caregiving?
Everything.
When any of us feel our own worth, we attract goodness.
People treat us better because we exude grace and respect–for ourselves and others.
My mother had this–she felt her own sense of worth that Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s couldn’t take from her.
How do you become a good conversationalist?
- Take some slow, deep breaths before you enter a room or situation
- Envision who you will be talking to
- See the two of you at ease–engaged in a natural conversation
- If it’s an important conversation, plan out 2-3 points–no more
- Really listen. Pay attention to what they repeat, to their body language, to the way their face changes at certain thoughts
- Don’t play psychologist–no one likes to be analyzed
- If it’s a casual conversation–a dinner, get together with friends, then relax and be yourself. Don’t worry about every little word. Let others talk, but a little over-talking-interrupting is normal when things really get rolling. Forget how you look or trying to sound deep or witty and just trust your natural instincts.
- Don’t play the “one up” game–that’s when they tell story about being st or hurt–and then you ”one up” them by telling a story about something worse that happened to you
- Ask open ended questions–ones that can’t be answered with a “yes” or “no”
What about those difficult conversations–the one you need to have with your loved one?
Caregivers and family members have to eventually ask their loved ones some tough questions:
- Have you thought about what you’ll do if you can’t continue to live in your own home? Have you made plans?
- I think it’s time for us to plan for the time when you’ll no longer drive. Now that doesn’t mean you can’t still live at home or enjoy your same activities, but can we talk about some alternative transportation?
- How do you feel about a living will? Do you know what that is? If not, I can explain it to you.
- You remember we went to the doctor’s last week, and the doctor said you have Alzheimer’s. Do you have questions? I’d like to talk about how best to help care for you…
- How do you feel about hospice? Would you rather stay at home and have hospice here–or at a hospital?
- Have you thought about your memorial service? I know it’s uncomfortable, but I’d like your thoughts–how you’d like to be remembered.
These are difficult conversations, and the most difficult part is just getting started. Think about what scares you the most. Are you afraid they’ll get mad? Shut down? Refuse to ever talk about it again? That you’ll hurt their feelings?
Some conversations need to take place regardless of how uncomfortable it is or how someone might take it. It’s better than dealing with the consequences of NOT talking.
Risk the awkwardness, the fight, pouting, temper tantrum, or silent treatment that may come. If they get mad, let them. If they shut down and won’t talk, wait a few days and then ask again.
Keep asking. Just act oblivious to the fact that they get upset. Contrary to popular belief, you will not die from being uncomfortable.
IIt’s better to deal with the few minutes, hours, days of hurt than to have to make decisions for someone else–and then feel guilt and resentment and wonder if you did the right thing.
This might help kick-start a difficult conversation:
(I’ve actually done this–if you know you have an uncomfortable/difficult conversation coming up–do a dry run. The next time you get in your car, talk out loud and practice your conversation).
Say it exactly as you would if they were in the car with you. You can even add in their part–play out different scenarios–one where they argue with you, whine, cry, pitch a fit…and one where they listen to you, hesitate, but don’t completely discount what you’re trying to say.
Do this dry run several times until you get used to your own words. You need to hear yourself say it. You need the practice–and it really helps!
Get used to talking regularly–about everything. Let them in your life. Ask their opinion even if you don’t agree with them. Tell them your concerns. The more they feel a part of your life, the more they’ll open up about theirs. It’s okay to have differing views. It doesn’t mean you can’t love each other–even democrats and republicans have been known to get along–under the same roof 
The art of conversation can benefit your life as well as theirs.
Nothing feels better than a good conversation. Whether it’s a laughter, tears, banter, stories, or remembering the past, this is what binds us together.
I hope you’ll return for the next blog post. It’ll focus on the hardest of all conversations–communicating with our loved ones when they have Alzheimer’s or dementia or Lewy Body, or a brain injury, or having that last conversation with those we love in their final hours.
Join in the conversation!
I’m Carol O’Dell, author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon.
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
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
People think women by nature are nurturers. Not so.
This isn’t a new phenomena born out of the 60s, and I’ve met many men who are the primary caregivers for their moms or dads–and certainly their spouses–and they do are tender when needed, tough when required, meticulous and thoughtful.
And yet, we default and think that the women of the clan/family unit will be the one to take on this role.
It doesn’t matter who care gives. It’s often now a matter of timing–many men are now free to have jobs that work out of home, or they retire early, or they are only children, or they happen to live in the same city as their parents–so let’s begin to dispel this myth.
But if you are a woman, and you’re a caregiver–perhaps you’ll recognize some similar reactions and emotions to caregiving.
Throughout all of history, there have always been an array of strong, amazing women–from politicians, queens, equestrians, entrepreneurs, to the more traditional women’s roles of say, nursing and teaching. All of us are unique and our caregiving will express our personality and temperaments.
When caregiving enters a woman’s life, her thoughts and perceptions are slightly different as daughter or wife than if she were the son or husband.
I can only speak for myself.
I became a caregiver slowly–over the years after my adoptive dad died and my mother began to need more and more care. At first, it was a daily phone call, a weekly visit. At the end, it had become a 24 hour a day way of life–to care for my mother who had Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, and heart disease, in my home as I wiped her brow and wet her lips–and we waited for her passing.
A lot happened in between.
I wrote every day to express what caregiving was doing to me. I wrote to express reason of trying to figure out my “womanhood” in the midst of this.
I wrote because I had to figure out how to navigate my way through–and somehow maintain a sense of self that felt threatened by sleep deprivation, middle of the night awakenings, multi-tasking children and a husband with nursing responsibilities of baths, pills, and therapies.
I was already a daughter, then a mother to three of my own daughters. I was a woman in my late 30s, a wife, a friend, a small business owner (I had started and was the director of a small private school outside Atlanta).
Caregiving made me acutely aware of my woman-ness, of what I had to offer my mother. And what I didn’t. More than once, I had to face that I wasn’t strong enough to lift my mother up off the floor after a fall.
I was aware that my mother “obeyed” my husband and would calm down, stop pitching a fit at the mere sound of his deep, authoritative voice. She certainly didn’t respond to me that way!
I was also aware how I could soothe her, understand her needs, her lacks.
I wrote about redefining beauty as I looked at my mother’s aging body–her wrinkles reminding me of a beautiful taut sail with no wind to drive it, fill it out.
I wrote about sex, and how very difficult it was to let go and be a woman, naked and vulnerable–with kids, dogs, cats, and my mom down the hall, one door away.
I wrote about my mother’s clothes, about broaches and pearls, and pocketbooks, and how very long her “accoutrements” stayed with her, defined her. I wrote about the 20+ shoes, gorgeous snake-skin, leather pumps, patent leather shoes that were no longer needed but hung on the shoe rack on the back of the door–waiting–not quite aware they would never be slipped on again.
I wrote about my mother’s hands, and how even after Alzheimer’s took her abiity to remember, to speak–it did not take her gestures. She still lifted her elegant fingers and placed them on her jawline in just the same fashion she had for the last 40 years of my life. My mother, her essence was at least there in gesture.
I wrote about my urge to get out among the living, to shop, to get the oil changed, buy a dress–to be engaged in things people do to stay busy. I wrote about my hunger to make a margarita, slip on a silky skirt and feel, feel, feel pretty again.
What does pretty mean?
Is that the definition of being a woman? Certainly not, but I do recognize that it’s a need I have–and I don’t think it’s just a reflection of society. Caregiving certainly challenged my perception of “pretty.”
Caregiving gave me cause to look at, examine every aspect of my femininity.
Not necessarily the sexy fishnet stocking variety, but that long, long after estrogen,
I still will have the right to say I’m a woman. At any age.
My mother retained a sense of regalness, almost entitlement to her gender.
Caregiving rang out in my head like a bell–calling the three generations of women–my mother, me, and my daughters to an almost rallying cry.
We are connected. We are history, legacy, present, and future.
What we do today will continue to reverberate.
My mother, my example. Me, my daughter’s example. A living example. What will I choose to do today? What words, what actions are mine to pass on? What secrets of mine to do they know?
What is it that do we not say that echoes through our halls?
I remember one particularly difficult day when my middle daughter and I were in the bathroom having one of those “mirror conversations.” My mother had grown increasingly violent, out of control–her Alzheimer’s was like a hungry dog demanding I fill its bowl, a bowl with no end.
“Why don’t you just put her in nursing home?” My daughter said, aware of my heartbreak and exhaustion. It wasn’t said in a cold manner–more like, “You don’t have to kill yourself, you know.”
“I won’t say it’s not a possibility,” I said, “but one day, you and I will be standing right here, in front of this mirror, dressing for my mother’s funeral–and I’ve got to look at me in this mirror, look at you in this mirror, and I’ve got to know that I did all I could.”
Somehow, we got through. We.
I cared for my mother. My daughters cared for me. Yes, they sat with my mother, but their love, their devotion was for me. The torch had been passed.
Yes, at times I almost lost my woman-ly-ness along with my sanity–and almost my freedom as a law abiding citizen–aka JAIL TIME for losing it!). Weight, scraggly hair, bone crushing exhaustion, can’t put two words together, an aching for relief so bitter because I knew relief would only come with death–it was all there.
But like a sail, new winds come. I survived.
I’d like to think that my woman-ness guided me, that intuition kicked in, that I was able as a woman, and a daughter to give my mother something she needed.
How does caregiving affect a man? I don’t know. I’d love for someone to share.
~I’m Carol O’Dell, and I’m the author of Mothering Mother. I hope you’ll visit again.
Alzheimer’s usually strikes when someone is older–a time in their life when people typically slow down.
Many Alzheimer’s live on the edge–always anxious, overly alert, agitated, and sometimes mean.
A common sight in a memory disorder unit, facility, or center (they can be called different names) is to see a person walking and walking. Pacing like a caged cougar.
They never sit. They have a wild look in their eye.
Only when you see several Alzheimer’s/dementia/Lewy Body (a Parkinson’s form of dementia) all together do you realize that your loved one isn’t the only one who does this–that it must be the effect of Alzheimer’s on the brain and nervous system.
It’s exhausting to watch and even more exhausting to keep up with.
It can cause them to wander–try to slip out–and if they do, get lost.
That’s a caregiver’s worst nightmare–their loved one out side of safety, vulnerable to everything and everyone from being hit by a car, lost in the woods, or god forbid–hurt by someone cruel.
Why can’t people with dementia or Alzheimer’s seem to settle down and relax?
Agitation is one of the challeges of Alzheimer’s behavour.
Agitation and other behavoiral changes are caused by the changes in the brain–the brain is in many ways, shrinking. The delicate pistons that fire the synapse is not always firing or hitting the intended area or “target.” This can cause all kind of sensations–a person can become sensitive to sound or light or texure–they can crave it or recoil from it. There can sometimes be hallucinations, delusions, (especially with Lewy Body–which usually includes more of a shuffled walk)
A person with advanced Alzheimer’s can forget how to talk and only babble.
Many things can happen in our brains, which means Alzheimer’s will effect people differently.
What do you do if your spouse/parent/loved one paces/walks incessantly?
- If the person with Alzheimer’s becomes anxious or If it’s safe, let them walk. I know you think they’re old, their knees are in bad shape, and how can they keep doing this? It’s a need, a drive–and at this stage of the game, their knees can’t be your primary concern. Let them walk.
- Listen to the person’s frustration. Does it make sense? Can you help in some way? Does the cat bother them–or the red planter in the window? If there’s something that’s irratating them–no matter how odd–and you can move it, then move it.
- Reassure the person. Use calming phrases and let the person know you’re there for them but also realize this may not comfort them at all. Do the best you can. Know when to be firm. Say it in a kind way, but if they’re trying to get out the door, then you will have to distract and be firm–for their own safety.
- Many people (men and women) respond better to a male voice. They perceive it as the voice of authority, so consider using a lower, clearer tone–or finding a male to impersonate Barry White for you!
- Don’t use so many words when giving direction. Be clear. 2-3 words are enough. “Sit in this chair.” “Time to eat.” Don’t yell or startle them even when it seems like it is needed. It usually doesn’t work and will only make things work. You can firmly state, “NO.” Use your strong voice, not a yelling panic voice.
- Even those with brain disorders can pick up on fear or anger–it’s contagious!
- Involve the person in activities. Use art, music or touch to help the person relax. This isn’t patronizing even though it feels like pre-school. Music therapy really does work and has been documented to sooth those who are agitated.
- Modify the environment. Decrease noise and distractions or move to another place. Just as with a young child, you baby proof your cabins and put up baby gates to keep them from falling down the stairs. This isn’t treating your elder with disrespect. This is to make them safe.
- Keep a look out for new possible hazards. It’s amazing the trouble one person with Alzheimer’s can get into!
- Find outlets for the person’s energy. Have you been outsidein the last few days? Gone for a car ride? If this is no longer possible, then have you opened the windows? Aired out the place? Can you play ball or fold towels? Some people really need that tactile sensation. Some women like dolls. Some people respond to a small dog–for others it would be a danger (for the dog, I mean ). Can you keep a Tupperware drawer and create “jobs” for them of loading and unloading?
- Keep a sense of humor. It’s just the brain gone kaflooey. Your loved one isn’t trying to mean (most of the time) or drive you crazy (most of the time).
- If you find your patience is gone for the day, then maybe you need to go as well. Just because your loved one can’t take a walk doesn’t mean you can’t.
If you’re dealing with the later stages of Alzheimer’s, dementia and memory loss, then know that you are dealing with a massive amount of stress.
Most professionals burn out at this point, and in many memory loss units, some are advised to only work three days a week so that the stress doesn’t hurt them or ripple out to the patients and their families.
You have got to de-stress! Even if you just visit your loved one, you have to let it go after the visit.
You know how you have to go through decontamination if you are exposed to radioactive material? Visualize that. Walk, cry, scream, eat–don’t forget to eat–but if you’re food cramming (stress eating in other words) then forbid anyone to bring Oreos or Doritios or whatever triggers you.
You’re in a more stressful job than air traffic control. Treat your body and your heart with tenderness during this very difficult time. Don’t expect to be on an even keel. Expect to cry, feel numb, zone out, not be able to talk about your experience–this is profound, and while that sounds terrible, it’s not. You can do this and do it with love and compassion. Your loved one needs you to watch over them.
Also know that this is the stage where many of our loved ones have to placed in a facility–for their safety and yours–because their needs are more than you and your team/community can manage.
It’s okay if this happens. You’ve done all you can. Say thank you for the help, for the option. Let them take some of the load. Find the best place you can. Visit often. Be vigilant and watch over your loved one–but know that it’s time to begin to let go. It’s time to allow others to help.
• Stay calm and be understanding. • Be patient and flexible
• Look for reasons for each particular
• Respond to the emotion, not the behavior
• Don’t argue or try to convince
• Acknowledge requests and respond to them
• Accept the behavior as a reality of the disease and try to work through it
It’s also important to prepare other family members before they visit.
Alzheimer’s can be very disturbing if you’re not familiar with the “quirks” that come with it. By talking about it ahead of time, letting the person know what they’ll see or how they’ll be talked to or treated–and how to react–will help immensely.
CNA’s and other elder-health professionals get training in dealing with Alzheimer’s behaviour, but sadly most family caregivers don’t. They have to figure it out for themselves. Many loved ones are placed in a care facility prematurely (or too late) because we simply don’t know what to say or do.
Alzheimer’s is kind of like the wizard in the Wizard of Oz. Once you go behind the curtain–begin to analyze what’s happening, why, and have tools and coping mechanisms–it’s not so intimidating.
These are still our loved ones.
Trapped inside every feeble or rigid body, behind every frozen face or babbling talk, is someone’s mom, dad, husband or wife.
Please visit this blog again!
Carol is the author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir. It’s available on Amazon and in bookstores.
Tags: Alzheimers, authors, books, Caregiver Stress, caregiving, Carol D. O'Dell, Carol O'Dell, CNA, featured article, grief, healthcare, inspirational essay, memoir, memory disorder units, Mothering Mother, Open to Hope
