I Put Cream in My Coffee

I Put Cream in My Coffee

 

This morning upon awakening and moving slowly towards the kitchen I made a decision.  Instead of my usual 2% milk, I reached for the heavy whipping cream and poured some into the bottom of my coffee mug.  Then I poured my coffee and sat back to enjoy the luxurious richness of a delicious cup of java.  I felt decadent, spoiled and oh so satisfied as I imbibed with the satisfaction of a purring cat.  I treated myself to this rare moment because I felt like I needed to start my day anew with something wonderful...splendid...special.  Too often I have caught myself arising with a certain dread of what the day has in store for me.  Too often I wake up worrying and fretting over my responsibilities, my lists of things to accomplish, my jobs undone.  Too often I rush through my morning cup of coffee without thinking, without enjoying, without celebrating the new day.  Mindlessly I fuel my body with caffeine and begin my day without so much as a thought of gratitude, joy, or contentment.  How often have I pampered myself lately?  Not at all.  So, today I decided to do just that. 

As I sipped the warm liquid I thought of the day ahead with a newfound determination akin to goal setting.  There was a certain excitement as I considered what I wanted to finish today.  There was no hurry though.  I would remain in the moment.  I was focused on this one thing, the happiness of taking this time in the still morning before the sun was up and while the house was silent.  When I finished, I looked out the window and noticed that the sky had brightened as the sun began its ascent.  I grabbed my camera to capture the streaks of pink, orange and yellow of the sunrise.  I moved from window to window marveling at the beauty of nature -- the gift of the new day in its colorful glory.

This special time...this ME time lasted no more than twenty minutes and yet it provided me with a new attitude that I am certain will last until I go to sleep tonight.  It is good to remind myself to do this.  Life is what I choose to make it.  Today I choose to live it with a fullness, with all the richness of cream in my coffee!

Deck the Halls

Deck the Halls

With Mom and All 

 

I thought of skipping the Christmas craziness this year.  I thought that it would be too much for me to handle.   

A month ago I remember crying sadly at the thought that I would forego the joy that the sight of a decorated house brings to me.  I thought that I would skip the annual event we always hold at our home.  This year would be different.  This year, the halls would not be decked, the stockings would not be hung, the packages would not be wrapped, the cookies would not be baked.  No cards, no letters, no phone calls, no parties.  I looked around.  There was so much to do, so much to think about, so much effort and energy to expend just to bring this tradition to life. "I'm getting too old for this!" I told myself.  I can't handle another thing; not with all that I have to do caring for my mother.  I had almost convinced myself that I was right not to enjoy the spirit of the Season.  But then...  Skip said something to me about the tree, the decorations, the family gathering, the holiday guests and entertaining that we do.  He wasn't going to push it and I knew that he would support whatever decision I made regarding the next few weeks.  I looked within myself.  There was a sadness.  We would be missing so much.  We had already sacrificed and missed out.  I looked at my mother who knew nothing of what time of year it was.  I reminded her that it was the Holiday Season.  She nodded her head without comprehension or memory of Christmases past.  My sadness grew into depression.  The emptiness deepened.  The darkness was about to swallow me up.  I was resigned.  My misery was all-consuming.  I rationalized: being a care giver is draining both physically and emotionally.  It would be easily understood if I explained to everyone that this year...just this once I would not be able to 'do' Christmas, that our annual family party could not take place, that I couldn't bake the Christmas bread, that I wouldn't make the sausage dip or the pine cone cheese balls.  They would kindly accept that the home would be undecorated and that I would not have time to shop for presents. Yes, they would accept it, but...  

I began to realize that I couldn't... I wouldn't accept it myself!

I made the decision.  

"Let the lights be hung, the wreath be placed on the door, the candles lit, the presents wrapped, the cards written, the cookies baked, the tree trimmed.  Let the ornaments, the decorations, the special reminders of the season be placed around each room.  Yes!  Deck the Halls."  Immediately my mood changed.  I was excited, pleased, and exhilarated.  Suddenly I felt youthful and energetic. 

It was the day after Thanksgiving.  I sat down in front of my computer and shopped for Christmas gifts.  Immediately I felt better.  I baked some cookies and called a friend who offered to help us decorate the house.  Arrangements were made.  Within a week Christmas preparations were underway and the house was brimming with Christmas spirit.  What a joy!  

Now with just two weeks to go before Christmas day, I make lists and check off the things I have done and the things left to do.  It takes more organizations than usual.  There is no time to spare.  My mother requires more and more of my time as I watch her closely, trying to protect and run interference. She paces like a caged animal, fingering touching, tasting everything.  I stop her from tumbling down a step as she is oblivious to height changes. I catch her before she touches the hot pot, trips over the dog bone, runs into the table with her walker.  I admonish her for blowing her nose in her shawl or for throwing her panties in the trash can. Safety, cleanliness, humanness...they are things I strive to preserve at great emotional and physical sacrifice and cost.  I am torn between decorating the cookies, and watching Mom, providing her with a distraction, an activity, something that will fill the time.  I compromise.  I will forego the special chocolate bars that everyone expects me to bake.  I will not wrap the packages with elaborate decorations and will use more gift bags.  But there will be no compromise on the traditions -- family traditions will be celebrated regardless.  This is my treat to me, for me, and by me.  

I put Mom to bed singing some Christmas carols as I help her get undressed.  She sings along smiling broadly.  It has been a long exhausting day but as I close her door my spirit is lighter.  I walk back downstairs, pour myself a nightcap and sit down in front of the Christmas tree.  A calmness spreads over me.  There is no negativity.  There is no darkness, sadness, despair.  For a minute I am a child thrilling at the twinkling lights.  I forget everything I have left to do to simply enjoy the moment and the lights...and the joy...and the season...and the knowledge that we are all together.  It is the magic of the season; and it heals, cures, reassures, stabilizes, and reminds me of just how grateful I am to have this time, this moment, this love, this joy, this life.

Thanksgiving

We sit at the table with glasses raised in a toast.  Who will begin?  How will we express the things we are thinking?  

"Here's to our health and happiness," we say.

No. This is wrong.  I look at Mom.  She has begun to eat, paying no attention to the toast or to the fact that we are not eating yet.  She is oblivious to the purpose of the gathering of family. 

"Mom," we remind her.  "It's Thanksgiving.  Lift your glass." 

She smiles and obliges us with the lifting of the glass as she joins in.  Then we go around the table and tell what we are thankful for.  When it is Mom's turn she announces that she is thankful for being here with all of us -- a wonderful moment of cognitive thought and awareness!  

Skip sits next to my mother and helps her cut up her food.  I look over and give a silent thanks for him and his help, his patience, his willingness to assist.  Lately there is so much more work, more angst, more frustration, impatience, and disappointment.  We are both tired and stressed.  So, here we sit on Thanksgiving looking for reasons to be thankful.   Are we happy and thankful that Mom has Alzheimer's?  Of course not! Are we thankful that our lives are topsy turvy and that our personal freedoms are sacrificed:  to come and go, to spend time with others on a whim and at a moment's notice, to go out to a movie as we please?  Are we appreciative that our home has become littered with dropped tissues, with safety assists, with reminder notes, signs on doors, locked doors, removed hazards that might cause unsafe conditions for Mom, with locks removed from bathroom doors, with chips and dings in paint and wood due to Mom's walker banging around the house? Are we thrilled with the extra work, laundry, dishes, and errands for those things that Mom needs? Do we like watching non-stop TV to entertain Mom...TV shows that cater to her taste?  Is it enjoyable being on constant alert to Mom's needs, to any dangers, to potential falls, choking, wanderings?  My answer is not immediately apparent.

I question our decision, our purpose.  I consider the changes and the 'inconvenience.'  There are others who make the choice to NOT be inconvenienced.  Yes.  It is tempting.  But then I think about the value of having Mom with us.  She is a part of our lives.  Regardless of the things that are unpleasant, there is so much value to having her with us.  She is a connection to our past.  She is yesterday's memories. She is a reminder of our origins, the reason I am alive.  She...MY MOTHER...is why I am thankful.  Yes!  In spite of the myriad alterations we have made,  I AM thankful...truly, truly thankful.

As I put Mom to bed after cleaning up the dishes and taking a little break, thinking of the meaning of the day; I wish Mom a Happy Thanksgiving.  It has been a long chaotic day.  I know that she is tired and grumpy.  I am tempted to hurry off as soon as I help her get into her nightgown.  Instead I stroke her hair and rub her shoulders.  I tuck her under her covers and pull the blanket up beneath her chin.  I give her a tired smile but a sincere one.  She looks up at me and smiles back.  

 "Thank you," she says sweetly. I know that she appreciates the care she receives even when she cannot or does not express it.  

"You're welcome."  Again I wish her a Happy Thanksgiving.  She laughs that laugh that tells me she has no idea what I am saying.  She has forgotten the day.  She has forgotten the dinner, the toasts, the company at the table.  But deep down inside I think that she knows.  Rather than a conscious knowledge, she has a 'feeling' of being here, of being loved, of being cared for, of being safe.  This is my Thanksgiving.  She has someone to care for her.  Dear God, I am thankful for this day, this food, this family, this life, this woman who means so much to me.

Circles

Circles

She holds the crystal ball within her withering hands.

What do you see,  I ask.

She gazes intensely and then shakes her head slowly.

I see nothing, she replies.

I understand.

Her age...her dementia...only sees the past

And refuses to look to the future.

There is none. 

Her mind does not think beyond the moment.

Yet, I wonder, do any of us see what has been laid out for us?

Look deeper, I encourage.

I hope, I dream, I wish that she could look to the future.

Could she, would she look forward to a time of transition?

Might she think about those who await her in her afterlife?

Does she still believe?

Carefully I remove the orb and place it in its golden sparkling stand.

It glows magically and I imagine that I can see what my mother can no longer visualize.

There he is...my father. 

He is smiling and beckoning lovingly.

There are my grandparents all with arms outstretched.

Siblings long departed wave and surround her.

They call to her, my mother, who walks upright with a spring in her step.

She is no longer silent, unsmiling, confused.

She has found the memories she had forgotten.

Suddenly she sees and knows -- from birth to death,

Her life has been so full.  She remembers it all.

The childhood filled with love.

The friends, the activities, the struggles of the great depression.

The soul mate who met her so young, so innocent, so ready to give her heart away.

A life well-lived through wars, hardship, births, deaths, joys and sorrows.

Achievements and honors, pride and laughter; these are the things she remembers.

A full circle, contained within an orb.

An embodiment of a life, full to brimming.

Taking a Moment

Today...just now, my mother and I are sitting on the screened porch. The sun is streaming in warming us on a rare eighty degree day in November.  Mom is rocking quietly and smiling broadly.  I ask her, "What are you thinking Mom?"

She replies, "Nothing."   

She is right.  Most of the time her mind is open...free of thought...taking in the moment...just being.  It is a rather euphoric state and I often wonder if it isn't the place where I would like to be at my end of days.  The innocence on her face, the sheer joy of looking up at the trees, the sky, the clouds, amazes me.  This woman who was once so multi-faceted, complicated, intelligent, talented, industrious, adventurous, curious; this woman  is now content to sit and rock.

I yearn to have a conversation with her, to enjoy her wisdom, her insights of yesteryear.  Instead when I ask her a question she answers with a mindless giggle --  a childlike response that shows no understanding. The question hangs in the air assaulting me with the need for an answer.   It is unimportant and yet I practically will my mother to respond, to find the words that escape her.  She opens her mouth and provides a garbled collection of unintelligible words.  (Her aphasia has just now blocked  her ability to speak in a coherent sentence.)  I wrongly echo her gibberish back at her with a raised eyebrow and push for her to try again, trying to reverse the ravages of this debilitating condition.  She frowns for a moment but then grows silent as she forgets the brief frustration, the unpleasantness.  I sit back sadly knowing that no matter how much I will it, there is no reversing the inevitable.  For a moment I am angry, not at her; at the situation.  "How unfair this is!" I rail. "How wrong to lose a loved one piece by piece, memory by memory. " But then, sitting across from her I look over and see the sun reflecting in her gaze, her eyes twinkle and give off a radiance from deep within. I see the contentment in her being, the easy comfort as she looks around taking in nature's beauty.   

Some small birds squawk noisily and it catches her attention.  I ask her if she hears them and she nods happily.  We both smile. She at the birds and me at the simplicity of the moment.  

I want to take a ribbon and wrap it around this memory to save for later...this togetherness, this brief exchange.  I feel the urgency as the time ticks away the minutes each one faster than the last; each one a pronouncement of a finite end. I know that tomorrow or maybe the next day or month or year,  the lights will dim from her eyes, the smile will fade from her face, the expression will change.   I know that sometime soon, there will be a vacant chair where once she sat and rocked and I will miss her so.  This, I remind myself so very often, is why right now, I will let the phone ring, the dust collect on the furniture, and laundry remain unfolded.  This time, this being, is so very, very precious.  I take her in -- the image, the essence of her.  I embrace it and hold it to my heart.  I follow her gaze and share with her trying desperately to rid myself of the stress, the worry, the thoughts that plague me, those things that make me sad.  "Yes," I affirm silently.  "I will ignore all else.  This is my special time with my mother.  I will not ignore it nor will I minimize its importance.  Instead I will cherish it as I sit on the screened porch and rock, and smile, and enjoy. " 

I sit back, silently, peacefully, just being in her presence; grateful for the moment.