The Joy of Caring

Reflections of a Daughter of the Silent Generation and Mother of Generation Y

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Launching Lala, and me

Yesterday was three years since Mom died. It’s been a nostalgic month, with Dad and Grammy’s birthdays to start, followed by Mother Nature’s plentiful reminders of Mom’s last stretch—bright sun, pounding surf, brisk winds, and yellow leaves, every where I turn.

To Dad’s “when my number’s up, fill my dinghy up with gin and push me out to sea” came Mom’s “living is for living” which meant a reluctance to push off when there was still fun to be had, as evidenced by the friendships she formed with every caregiver who came through our door.

While Dad died true to form, so did Mom, who moved on, me and the animals at her side, the sun just breaking the horizon, reminiscent of this excerpt from Katherine Tynan Hinkson’s Shades Are Up, a poem Mom had chosen to share at her funeral:

Some morning I shall rise from sleep,

When all the house is still and dark.

I shall steal down and find my ship

By the dim quayside, and embark…

As I work this month with publishing consultant Lindy, finishing the last details of my caregiving story, it’s been hard to finalize, to let go, for fear of making a mistake, choosing the wrong words, misrepresenting, over-stepping. I’m sure the timing is no coincidence.

“There are times when we know we should move but we don’t even know how to push our boat out from the shoreline on which we are marooned…Part of our ability to go is to understand what we’re missing…”—David Whyte, September 2022 Series: Crossing the Unknown Sea, Life and Work as a Pilgrimage of Identity, Session 3.

While I’m not quite sure what I’m missing, I am curious where all this time and energy freed up will land me next. I take heart in another excerpt from Shades are Up:

…The winds shall bear me safe and kind…

With love… to lead me by the hand.

This morning, in the early hours, I recall Kristin Neff’s self-compassion practice which ChiME advisor Katie taught me in the days following Mom’s death:

“1. This is a moment of suffering”—I feel stressed about finalizing Living Is for Living, about being so vulnerable.

“2. Suffering is a part of life”—Other people feel stressed too, on the verge of putting themselves out there in what feel like big ways.

I lay my hands on my heart.

“3. May I be kind to myself”—I love and accept myself unconditionally. I’ve got this.

(Dr. Kristin Neff, Co-Founder of the Center for Mindful Self-Compassion, https://self-compassion.org/exercise-2-self-compassion-break/).

It’s time to shove off. Let’s do this.

Choosing Emphasis… here, there, everywhere

When I blogged about caring for Mom, I meant to keep it real. I wrote about what I was experiencing, editing to make sure it was readable, and then letting it fly. I wrote to reflect, to connect, to relieve, unaware of certain choices, like whether “to quote,” to italicize, to make bold, to use exclamation points!

In the midst of a later read-through of Living Is for Living, the book based on the reflections I blogged, one of the students I tutor was reading an assignment aloud. The plot was complex, and he was working hard to interpret the details. I was struck by how his tone shifted when he got to a sentence in italics; his voice showed that he knew those words were significant, even before he read them.

Which landed me back at my computer the next morning, reviewing Living Is for Living, this time paying attention to the emphasis I’d used. I discovered plenty of all four techniques, which made sense given the intensity of what I was feeling and describing along the way, which led to a realization today:

Sometimes, the words I say are heard differently than how I mean them. I wonder, in the way I speak, in the emphasis I offer, am I cueing the recipient in an effective way? Not that I need to, that I even can, hide how deeply I feel what I feel, still, I can certainly be more aware of how I communicate and its impact on others.

Both in writing and in conversing, I can “slow down,” pay attention, step away, and come back more intentional about how and what I emphasize—even when I’m charged up!

Book Lay Out: “and” not “or”

This last bit, the back and forth with Lindy as she carefully lays out Living Is for Living, word by word, reminds me of childbirth: it requires willingness, focus, patience and humility, in the midst of discomfort and anticipation. There’s the familiar cognitive back and forth: do I hold on or do I let go or am I kidding myself to think I have any control over what happens next, once this book is published.

So what do I do? I nest: I sort trinkets, rehang pictures, rearrange books. I even gladly pause to take my many morning herbs (intended to tame Lyme and other things). And, big surprise, I write : )

Then I remember the notion of AND that I learned in my interfaith chaplaincy studies. What if I swap and for or: I hold on and I let go and I kid myself. This balance of good intention and good humor do seem to come in handy at this moment of delivery.

I’m grateful

that the animals

are right here at my side

and that Lindy is

one heck of a writing midwife,

respecting my perspective and pace,

while attending to every single detail.

We’ll get there—I just gotta trust, breathe, do what I can, and let the process unfold. Speaking of which, back to checking the latest version!

On choosing a book cover: Covering, Uncovering, Recovering Grief

Speaking of Courage!

By now, I get that grief is predictably unpredictable. So why am I still surprised by the way it surprises me?

Last week, when my publishing consultant, Lindy, sent me four possible book covers, I went from elation to tears, within moments. Seeing those covers evoked an avalanche of emotion, followed by a tizzy of activity as I jumped into tweaking (not twerking!) mode.

I’m thankful that Lindy made time for me, in the midst of a busy Friday afternoon. Upcoming jury duty was cramping my style, as was missing Mom, and Lindy delivered. When I saw the new options, the very next day, I felt confused, bereft, a little embarrassed. She’d made the changes I’d requested and, while they perfectly captured the journaling I’d done, something was missing.

What if I added more words, I wondered, to explain what I meant by Living Is for Living, Mom’s words I’d scribbled down and heeded in her care. Lindy worked her magic and sent another set of covers, pronto. Nope, I realized, it wasn’t more words that were needed, it was something else.

Daughter, cousin and spouse conversations ensued. They helped me clarify: this book called for a more elegant, finished presentation, like Mom, who liked squared corners and straight lines. Which reminded me of the comfort I felt as a kid, seeing her dressed for work—professional, confident, and approachable too. Who knew a font could capture all that?

Which brought me back around to one of the original covers… Lindy’s no dummy : )

Walking the dogs in the midst of this, the cat lurking near, I realized that grief, mine at least, resembles our feisty pack: fragile and resilient, loyal and gritty, devoted and needy, watchful and fluffy, playful and unapologetic, enduring and sweet, ferocious and funny, too. Much of the time they surround me peacefully, keeping me patient company. Then they get all riled up and make lots of noise, the knock on the door real or not. I’ve finally learned that, if I thank them for keeping me safe, they quiet down a lot more quickly than when I start barking too.

While the care of this pack asks much of me, as does feeling my grief, it brings me endless love and connection, and it gets me to laugh and to walk, which never fail to lift my eyes and my spirits.

I see today that this process of choosing a cover for my book is another opportunity to uncover where I stand, almost three years out, in caring for Mom: more than ever, I want to do her justice. Choosing a cover is also another opportunity to recover—to feel what I feel, to reach for support, to choose my path forward, and to keep on walking, like Mom would do.  

Photo, wording, style, and font selected, now I just gotta choose a background color. No need to rush, I’m right where I need to be.

Submitted: Living Is for Living, a Caregiver’s Story

Yesterday, I submitted the final manuscript for a book based on my experience caring for Mom and a whole lot more. Much of it comes from the blogging I did here, which helped me to keep my wits while staying the course. I’ve reworked this site to complement that effort. It feels like a huge step, wrapping it all up and letting it fly. I’m grateful to all who kept me company in Mom’s care and who’ve inspired me since. I hope that, in its sharing, this story will help others, like its telling has helped me: to laugh, to vent, to care, to grieve, to process, to let go, to heal, to live on.

Walking with Mom, year two, in grief and in joy, too

As I stood on the stage, being ordained an interfaith minister by the Chaplaincy Institute of Maine, I heard and felt Mom’s presence in the birds singing in the trees and the gentle breeze on my face. I felt the pieces of my story settling into place. I was excited, curious and, most of all, ready, for whatever comes next.

—excerpt from Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story

Grief and Guilt, a year later, and the Magic of Fruit Loops, Pivoting, Barking Dogs, Yellow Leaves and Blue Jays

As we returned home from an afternoon hike, Siena spotted another Blue Jay, this one perched in a tree at the top of our street. We looked at each other and smiled, understanding that Mom is still right here, with us. We just need to be available to the moment, the best we can.

—excerpt from Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story

Labor of Love, another take on “caregiver burden”

Labor Day, after everyone left, leaving me and the dogs, I spent several hours doing the laundry, covering the boat, taking down the flag, moving things around, packing things up. Mom was with me every step of the way I realized as I stored the paddles behind the bathroom door, like she used to do. Sometimes what looks like a burden is actually an opportunity to heal.

—excerpt from Living Is for Living: A Caregiver’s Story

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