If You Give a Mom a Cookie …

amazon-if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie(With a thankful nod to Laura Numeroff.)

If you give a mom a cookie, she will sit in a chair and try to eat it in peace.

As soon as she sits, she will look in the kitchen and see Ravenous Teen left the milk on the counter. Again. So she sets her cookie on the table and goes to the kitchen … Where for the next ten minutes she wipes counters, empties dishwasher, and puts dinner in the crock pot. And, yes, gets herself a glass of milk. With a shot of Bailey’s.

The scent of Bailey’s inexplicably reminds her that she left of load of laundry in the washer downstairs … yesterday. Hoping against hope that it has not turned, she goes downstairs to the laundry room and trips over eight piles of clothes that Messy Teen has transferred from the floor of his room to the floor of this one. Muttering darkly under her breath and rubbing her stubbed toe, she rotates the wash and calls Messy Teen to fold his own danged clothes and take them upstairs. Now it is his turn to mutter darkly under his breath. Mission accomplished.

Exiting the laundry room, her eye falls on her desk, the laptop hopefully poised for action. Sorry she left her cookie (and the Bailey’s milk) upstairs, she sits down and proceeds to grind out 27 email responses, 4 tip sheets, and a proposal review before her tummy rumbles so loudly it scares her. And she remembers she hasn’t had anything to eat today but a few cookie crumbs. And her granola bar stash was discovered by Ravenous Teen 2 last week, and she hasn’t had time to restock. So back upstairs she goes … in time to see her elderly mother’s daycare bus pull up to the drive. Rats. Rats. Rats.

Helping her mom inside, then to the bathroom and back to her chair for snack time, she narrowly escapes slugging her husband when he comes down and asks with great feeling, “What’s for lunch?” Desperately she looks around for a teen to take over sandwich making responsibilities, and sees that Sneaky Teens heard the sound of work and barricaded themselves in their rooms, playing music loud enough to shake the house and wake the dead. “Just a minute, dear.” And she spots a bit of reprieve on the table, which the dog appears to have nibbled around the edges. “Here … have a cookie.”

Thankfully, he did not get the Baileys.

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Day 9: Forgiveness

Alice (interpreter), Heidi, Fr. Ubald, and Straton.

Begin with the Prayer of Abandonment.

Today’s theme is “forgiveness.” Not just each other, but those who move in your sphere of influence.

This year Craig and I flew to Rwanda to help Fr. Ubald Rugirangoga complete his book for Ave entitled Forgiveness Makes You Free. The highlight of the trip was getting to interview Straton, the man who now works alongside Fr. Ubald to bring reconciliation and peace to the people of Rwanda. Once a powerful burgomeister who gave the order for the execution of Fr. Ubald’s mother and extended family, he now works construction and travels with Fr. Ubald into prisons and speaks to those who, like him, were responsible for the deaths of more than a million former friends, neighbors, and co-workers — slaughtered in just 100 days simply because they were Tutsi.

Looking into Straton’s eyes, I did not see a hardened criminal. There was no hate, only sincerity. This was a man whose life had been transformed by the power of forgiveness — the forgiveness of his victims, the forgiveness of his family, and the forgiveness of God. All of it possible because of forgiveness and mercy.

Think about your own life. Is there anyone — even someone in your intimate circle — you are finding difficult to forgive? Are you willing to set your relationship free through the power of forgiveness? You will be amazed at what God can do in the heart that is willing to surrender.

Mortality Road

What is it like, to watch a parent die from dementia? It varies so much from person to person, of course … I can only share what it is like, watching my own mother: It is a roller coaster called Mortality Road; no one ever wants to get onboard, and once you are on, you are helpless to escape.

This roller coaster called dementia has reached a new low point for us this week. I look at my mother, curled in a ball on her bed, her eyes vacant. She does not eat, drink, or speak. And I feel as helpless as I did as a child, when her rages would drive me to my room, rooting around for a safe space. But now the only rages are taking place inside her head, where I cannot hear them — and cannot contradict.

There’s no running now. I’m in charge. Or so it says on paper. In reality, it’s her mental demons that are calling all the shots. Sometimes the voice sounds like my father, other times it’s this ever-present asshole my mother calls “The Judge,” telling her she is going to be executed for her many failings.

The chaplain at her daycare has given her a “Certificate of Innocence.” Her doctors have repeatedly told her she needs to take care of herself by eating and drinking. I have done everything I can think of, tempting her with all the things that used to make her eyes twinkle.

And here it is, 2:00 in the afternoon, and her breakfast tray remains untouched. I have to step away for a moment, just to take a deep breath and remind myself that it is the disease, and not my mother, who is at the root of the problem. She is not fighting for control. She has already been beaten by these unseen powers.

We are walking Mortality Road. And ever step gets steeper and harder.

We are facing the fact that, in the end, this disease is going to kill her.

And the only satisfaction I can take from it all.

The only thing that keeps me from feeling like a total failure.

Is knowing that we persevered, together, no matter what.

And that when it is over, the clouds will clear,

And she will know with the blessed assurance of eternity

Just how much she was loved all along.

Night Blessings

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Are you currently the primary caregiver for a parent or other loved one? Would you like a safe place to go for prayer or just to vent? I’ve recently started a “Catholic Caregivers” site on Facebook … It’s a closed group, but you are welcome to join!

These last few days have been sad ones for Mom. Lots of tears and confusion. She keeps writing and writing, but it only increases her frustration. She doesn’t know how to explain the conflict within her, and she is fighting a battle against accusers none of us can see, let alone help her to resist.

Last night as I tucked her I could see that she was on the edge of tears, and I wanted so much to be able to ease her mind. So I laid down beside her and sang to her some of the songs she sang to me as a little girl. As she grew calm, I decided to try a little ritual that I adapted from something that I experienced for the first time as I prepared to become Catholic, when my sponsor blessed each part of my body in preparation for the journey ahead of me — into the Church.

Now, my mother is a lifelong evangelical Christian, but she is familiar with the little rituals of Catholic prayer, and I hoped that this would help to comfort her. So I made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and said, “I bless my mother’s mind. All her life her brain stored songs and stories and wisdom that she shared with her daughters. Now there are snarls and worn places that are hurting her. Please heal her mind, Lord Jesus.”

Then I blessed her eyes and said, “I bless her eyes. She looked out at the world and saw God’s beauty, and looked at me and saw God at work in my life. Please help her to see that she is a beloved daughter of God.”

Then I went on blessing the other parts of her body, ending with the feet. “I bless her feet, shod with the Gospel of peace. She traveled all over the country to take care of her family, and never complained. Please ready her feet for that final journey, that she would walk with you always.”

Mom didn’t say anything as I left, but kissed me back as I bent down to say goodnight. I think the darkness has closed in around her, and I’m not sure she can hear truth from my lips right now. But I know her angels are taking those blessings to Jesus. And I believe that he will be able to reach where I cannot.

Today the chaplain at her daycare asked us all to come in so he could give mom a “certificate of innocence.” He told mom that he knew she was worried that someone was wanting to bring her to court over something that had happened years ago. He had checked, and everyone has agreed that she has done nothing deserving of standing trial. So he was giving her the certificate to remind her that she is not guilty of any criminal wrongdoing. It’s a tangible reminder that she is where she belongs.

I don’t know if either of these things are going to have the desired effect. When you are dealing with a dementia patient, so much is happening beneath the surface that he or she may never be able to articulate, let alone resolve.

But God is merciful. And he loves his children — even the weak and confused ones. For the weakness and confusion is temporary. Shadows of the glory to come.

 

“Are You My Friend?”

marymarthaDo you ever look around and wonder who your friends are? I sometimes do. I’m naturally introverted, and yet the combined effects of several relocations, caring for two special-needs kids (and now my mother), and endless work-related social media interactions (I’m an editor) have depleted my little black book on those rare occasions when I’m craving a girls’ night out.

Yesterday I was discussing this with an author friend who happens to fall in the category of both professional and personal connection. She has met my extended family, and made rosaries for my kids. I’ve slept at her house, and call her whenever I’m in her area to get together.

Apparently this sense of rootlessness is something that many women experience. She also made me sit up and take notice when she identified what is often the source of the problem. “There are persons, and there are personas,” she reminded me. “When you are a writer, you cultivate a persona that you let out into the world … but it’s not the same as the real you, known to your real friends.”

The moment she said this, a light bulb went on. Do editors have personas, too? Of course! So … how do I set aside the persona and let the “real me” out to play, to establish real friendships?

Interestingly, my friend’s first suggestion was … silence. Spending time together in silence, “until the uncomfortable silences become comfortable.” Of course, this isn’t something that can happen on Facebook, or in any other social media venue. It takes physical presence. It means stepping away from the computer and inviting others into the messiness of ordinary life.

This is risky, of course. I’ve had women — from church, for example — who have reached out and made an effort to connect with my daughter and me. It always surprises me a bit, to experience such kindness, knowing that I’m not really in a position to reciprocate meaningfully. What is more, the way my life is set up right now, it seems almost impossible to set up regular get-togethers. And yet, this is exactly the kind of effort true intimacy in friendship requires.

The topic of friendship is very much on trend these days. Emily Jaminet and Michele Fahnle’s The Friendship Project is being discussed in book clubs and parish women’s groups across the country. Elizabeth Foss published True Friend, a four-week devotional to help kick-start friendship in your own life.

And yet all these wonderful books won’t do a bit of good unless I’m willing to venture into that scary territory of vulnerability and initiate contact. Invite someone over (or invite myself over) for a cup of tea. Strike up a conversation with someone at a bookstore who is carrying a book I’ve recently read. Even (*gasp*) take that water aerobics class for us grannies-in-training and chat up the friendly looking lady on the kickboard next to me.

Because every decades-old friendship begins with the touch of a real, live person.

 

#WomanSpeak… at the Dinner Table

IMG_2966Every night at dinnertime, it’s the same routine: Mom painstakingly circles the table, putting each place setting carefully in order. Cups and plates, silverware and napkins, condiments and trivets, each has a rightful place on the cloth. As dinner is called, she waits for my son to pull out her chair so she can settle in and wait to be served.

She doesn’t say much as the kids tease and squabble, and we parents ride herd, hoping to turn it into a meaningful connection rather than a free-for-all. She just smiles, sometimes knowingly and other times absently. When I bring out the squirt bottle and administer justice when things get too out of control, I sometimes hear a chuckle. And when she speaks, the whole table grows quiet, waiting to hear what she has to say.

Meals are such a microcosm of family life. My culinary skills were honed at an early age, and I learned to take pride in cooking for my family, expressing my love for them by creating beautiful family memories around the kitchen table. While most of the time I manage to get dinner on the table in 30 minutes or less, I enjoy cooking on weekends when I can slow down and put together something delicious, something a bit more memorable. Something that will be savored, and will inspire those I love to slow down, put away the electronics, and enjoy each other.

As time has passed, this particular expression of motherly love is too often downgraded to a chore to be resented and, when possible, delegated. But when this happens, something important is lost to the cultural zeitgeist, which demands that men and women be equal, dammit. Each chore split fifty-fifty because a man should be called upon to do anything a woman needs to do (and vice versa).

Me? I kind of miss the days when mothers understood the influence they wielded within the family. When adults understood (and taught to the next generation) that these gestures of love and respect matter, that they are the glue of family life. I confess I liked it when men and women both took pride in what they wore, how they carried themselves, how they spent their time; how they treated others in public and private meant something. There was a common moral code of conduct that was understood to be in the best interests of everyone. You held up your end, and focused more on your personal responsibilities than your personal rights.

Looking back, I appreciate the struggle my own parents endured to keep us going. Dad drove buses and served in the military, and commuted three hours each day to provide for his family, while my mother stayed home with us. They seldom had two extra pennies to rub together, but every last bill was paid in full. Eventually. Even if that meant eating a lot of soup and wearing only hand-me-downs. Mom made it work, though we didn’t realize how stressful it was at the time. It’s no wonder she had migraines.

Time passed, and once more Mom and I are under the same roof. I feel certain that she doesn’t completely understand some of the choices I’ve made, particularly regarding our work/life balance. I’ve made very different choices than she did … and those choices, like hers, deeply affected our own children in ways we couldn’t fully appreciate at that time. As I’ve often said to my kids, “You can choose your actions, but not always the consequences.” That truism has reverberated in my head quite often lately.

As women, we speak as eloquently through our choices and actions as wives, mothers, and women, as we do through our words. What we say and do, perhaps especially when it comes to those thankless tasks no one notices, matters. God created both fathers and mothers, and yet they are not interchangeable. What we put on the table — and say at the table — speaks volumes to those we love. With every gesture, every sigh, every directive, we are shaping not just our own family, but that of generations to come.

Because we are not raising victims. We are raising hopes.

How a Caregiver Spells “R-E-S-P-E-C-T”

generationsThis week I’ve been thinking a lot this week about how family roles and dynamics change — and don’t change all that much — once dementia enters the picture. Navigating those changes takes a lot of energy, willpower, and … well, sensitivity. And to be honest, that last one does not come easy to me. I’m the kind of person who can organize and execute (pardon the word) complex events and projects. When it hits the fan, I can come up with a Plan B, C, and D quickly and without a lot of fuss.

But as I was reminded earlier this week, people are not projects or events. And they don’t always fit neatly into our plans — and have some pretty big feelings when you try to impose that plan upon them. When my husband and I decided to take mom out of the home she’d been living in and bring her to live with us, our entire family breathed a collective sigh of relief. Yes, it meant getting used to the cold, and not seeing her old church friends every week. And it meant going from the quiet, controlled environment of a memory care facility to the boisterous and often chaotic one here. But she seemed happy. “She is always smiling in the pictures you post on Facebook,” Dad commented.

It turns out, however, that our lawyer was right when he advised us, “Your relationship may change once you stop being the ‘rescuer’ who takes her out of the facility for the day and become her fulltime caregiver. She may turn on you … It’s not easy to grow old and lose your independence, even when decisions are being made for you by someone who loves you dearly.”

And he was right. This week I also discovered that other family relationships can be affected by the new arrangement as well. Hurts and regrets from the past, feelings from the present, and fears about the future can make for some uncomfortable and even painful interactions, no matter how much two people love each other. And when that happens, preserving the relationship means showing a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

  • Recognize that there may be underlying feelings, issues, and concerns that must be acknowledged on both sides.
  • Encourage the other person to tell you, privately and confidentially, what they are seeing, feeling, and observing. Hear them out, even if you don’t agree with everything being said.
  • Seek outside assistance and perspective from those who are familiar with your particular situation. Sometimes having additional information can help.
  • Positivity can be a gift when a relationship is struggling. Remind the other person of what she does well, and how she contributes to your life.
  • Email is generally not the best way to resolve conflicts. It reduces the ability to offer empathy, eye contact, and elicit human contact.
  • Compassion is as much about what you don’t say as what you DO say. Sometimes the most compassionate response is … silence.
  • Touch. I once heard it said there are three parts to every good apology … the words (“I’m sorry”), the acknowledgment (“I should have… shouldn’t have … please forgive me.”), and the touch (hand on shoulder, handshake, or even simple eye contact with a smile). That personal connection can be so important when someone is feeling sad, lonely, or upset.

What are some other ways you’ve found effective in showing those you love (particularly those with dementia) respect?