Tag: #youwillbealright

Legacy and Impact

Legacy and Impact

Meg

My mom passed away earlier this month. I realize now that her legacy isn’t just in what she did during her life, it’s in who I am in mine.

As with so much of our Alzheimer’s journey, it was a slow moving end. She was just subtly different one day to the next and I found myself in a strange(r) waiting period for several months. I spent a lot of time sitting with her – sometimes she was awake, but often she slept – and thinking. After all these years, my brain can’t understand that she is gone. I knew she was mortal – though she did have a knack for making me question that – but it’s still a complete mental doozy. Grief in the traditional form of reckoning with her absence from this Earth altogether sits in my peripheral vision. It’s there, but somehow I am not ready for it yet.

There are so many threads to pull on from these last several months that merit further reflection, but the most revelatory at this stage for me is the idea of my mom’s legacy. I have always known how much I loved my mom and how deeply she cared about me and my brothers. Through the lens of her life in review, which somehow only became more accessible when the end was approaching, I see more clearly what she passed on to me. There are obvious things, like my eye color and my curly hair. And then there are the more subtle, nurture things. As I worked to capture who my mom was in her obituary, all the ways she served her community became abundantly clear. I was telling someone just yesterday that one of the first things I did when I got to college was to join the student volunteer center. It struck me then how my mom quietly did her thing and influenced the person I became without me even really noticing it. In other ways she was more overt. I have thought a lot over the years about how freaked out she was when I took a semester off from college. She worried that I wouldn’t go back. All this time I’ve maintained the narrative, “Didn’t she know me at all? I was always going to go back.”

But, now, I see it more clearly. It didn’t have to do, exactly, with knowing me. It was about what she wanted for me. She did everything she could for our entire lives to make sure my brothers and I had a smoother path and better opportunities than she did. She graduated from college when she was 49 years old. I was 16. It could not have been easy with 3 kids, our endless sports schedules, and her school work – and yet she still managed to get us where we needed to be and to put dinner on the table. She wanted me to finish college while I was still young and unencumbered, to just have that college degree in my back pocket.

It makes me think about the parents of the Girl Pioneers at MAIA that I work with in Guatemala. By choosing to educate their daughters, they chart a different path for their families with the hope of improving the future for the next generation. This path is unfamiliar to them and requires real courage, commitment and selflessness. But they want better for their children so they take a chance on this opportunity.

Several years ago MAIA ran a fundraising campaign called Nim Mama, which means “Great Mother” in the Maya Kaqchikel language of this region of Guatemala. The campaign focused on honoring mothers and their collective strength, beauty, and transformative power. The images of the pioneering, brave girls of MAIA with their mothers at their side brought me to tears. They reflected back to me my own mom’s strength and guiding light and reminded me how important my education was to her.

As I go through old photos of me and my mom I think about the legacy of what she gave to me. She stood alongside me, literally or figuratively, my whole life in the same way that the mothers of MAIA stand alongside their pioneering daughters. I realize now that my mom will live on through me – in who I am, in how I tell her story, and by paying it forward like she did so that the next generation has more opportunities and a smoother path still than I did.

I am the same age now that my mom was when she graduated from college. I have two great kids and a loving husband. That college degree that I earned at 22 has opened doors for me. As her primary caregiver for the last decade, our roles reversed for a while as I became more and more responsible for her well-being. I accompanied her to her last day on this Earth to the best of my ability. And I know she is proud of all of these things. It helps me to imagine that she can see it all now and can feel really good about how well she guided my way.

I turn 50 next week. As my way of celebrating my 50 years on this Earth as well as the nearly 50 years I got to spend with my mom, I’m raising funds for MAIA. Paying it forward for the next generation is the best gift I can imagine receiving. Please consider joining me. https://donorbox.org/meg-s-50th-birthday-fundraiser-for-maia-guatemala

A Portrait of Alzheimer’s – And Love

A Portrait of Alzheimer’s – And Love

Meg

The truth is, maybe I couldn’t have lost my mom any other way.

What if I was still used to our daily phone calls, habituated to her answering my call or email within hours if not minutes, used to the certainty that she would listen to whatever I had to say – a quandary, a train of consciousness, the latest good or bad news – without judgment? If that had just stopped all at once, maybe I wouldn’t have survived it.

At first Alzheimer’s presented itself in repeated dialogue, repeated questions, consternation when a waitress brought the meal she ordered but not the one that fifteen to twenty minutes later she was expecting. In those days, the synapses just seemed to not quite be firing on all cylinders. Those who loved her knew something wasn’t quite right, but we weren’t exactly sure where the line between getting older and a significant problem lay. My mom had incredible social graces coupled with fierce pride so she could get away with a lot and the rest she clearly didn’t want to talk about so we trundled along like that for a couple of years.

Over time, the phone calls and emails became less frequent, more repetitive, and more confused. Often when I asked what she had been up to it was clear she was making stuff up that sounded like things she could plausibly be spending her time doing. Eventually we just talked about the weather. Out at dinner she’d look at the menu and then say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

And then, after a couple more years, the phone calls, unless facilitated by an aide, stopped altogether. Sometimes she would hold her TV remote to her head when the phone rang, annoyed she couldn’t get it to work. But by then I had weaned myself off of our regular conversations. They had become so stilted anyway that it didn’t hurt so much. I was mainly consumed by that point in figuring out what needed to be done to facilitate her life and her safety.

At this stage, she couldn’t follow directions when she was driving somewhere new, couldn’t help my kids navigate the treasure hunt map at a children’s event to figure out where the gold doubloons were buried in the sandbox. She would show up at events that weren’t scheduled and miss ones that were. I can’t remember the number of ATM cards that had to be replaced. Executive functioning skills pretty much altogether went out the window – though she did somehow manage to sign up for an online dating site and execute on organizing a date at the local coffee shop. SO many times during this journey I have wondered, “how is THAT the thing you remember?”

It went on like this. Ironically, I look back and see how much was still left of my mom then. I knew enough to know that the Alzheimer’s diagnosis was a shot across the bow that forced me pay attention to every minute I had with her in a way I may have taken for granted if I didn’t know she had a degenerative, terminal disease. I mean, we are all going to die, right? But that doesn’t mean we pay attention when we are busy living our own lives. That’s natural. I try to look on the bright side that this gutting diagnosis made me go back home to spend time with my mom more often than I might have otherwise during that stage of my life.

I still cry sometimes for what I have lost over the years, all the what-could-have-been’s. Alzheimer’s continues to find new and creative ways to take a piece of my mom away and reignite my grief. This slow, trickling loss is death by a thousand cuts. As a friend’s mom used to say, “It’s not easy getting into this world and it’s not easy getting out of it either.”

I started this post thinking I would show one picture from every year my mom has lived with Alzheimer’s to display how it impacts a life, slowly but surely, over time. I started collecting photos – and it’s breathtaking how I hardly noticed the shifts as they were happening but now I can barely remember when she used to be able to speak. I realized, though, that my mom would want to be remembered for the independent, life-of-the-party, no bull, devoted mother, sister, aunt, friend, and wife that she was. The last 13 to 14 years are a chapter – a long one with lots of ups and downs, granted – during which she has exuded her characteristic grace and loving spirit but has also been more vulnerable and had less agency than her prior 68 to 70 years. Since I’ve written so much about her I thought I’d share some pictures that capture her the way I think she’d like to be remembered.

She’s still here, but she’s slipping away (in her typical fashion – on her own time, doing it to the tune of Frank Sinatra’s “My Way” till the very end). We have done the best we could with the cards we were dealt, and she also deserved to get so much more out of these years than this disease allowed.

I’ve had a lot of years to figure out my role in this journey and have worked hard not to lose myself in it. There’s a good reason that I started a blog called “Put Your Own Oxygen Mask on First.” I learned first what happens when you don’t, and then spent the rest of these caregiving years trying to take care of myself, too. I am applying those lessons as my watch over my mom comes to an end. For me, that means carving out time to be with my family and friends. It means getting regular exercise and not compromising on that 1/2 hour or hour of me time. It also means trying to eat well. Or just eat. When things get really busy and/or I am really sad, I tend to skip meals. That starts a cascading effect of low blood sugar, which manifests as fatigue and irritability, and then triggers cortisol and adrenaline bursts that cause increased anxiety (all of which can reignite my Rheumatoid Arthritis). In the early days after my mom was diagnosed I was downright skinny. But not healthy. This type of rollercoaster isn’t good for my body or mind and it certainly doesn’t put me in a good position to advocate for my mom or my kids. Always put your own oxygen mask on first before assisting another passenger on this journey of life!

As I begin a more reflective stage in my caregiving journey, I put together a list of logistical priorities that, in my experience, become important fast when confronted with the overwhelm of what it means to care for someone with an Alzheimer’s diagnosis. Check it out in my Dementia and Caregiving Resources. And, please, if you have the means, support Alzheimer’s research (I personally like Cure Alzheimer’s Fund, but, mercifully, there are others and work is being done constantly to try to figure this out).

Like I said, she is still here, but I know I’ll love and miss this woman for all my days. I already do.

Patiently Tending

Patiently Tending

Meg

A friend recently used the term “patiently tending” to describe my caregiving for my mom. Isn’t that the best phrase? It feels almost hopeful, like a gardener sewing seeds all the while knowing that winter will come. It describes so well what it’s like to continue to meet my mom in the strange purgatory between life and death that she occupies.

When I was visiting her recently, I noticed anew a picture that hangs on her wall. It shows my childhood kitchen on Thanksgiving day many years ago. My mom is standing with her mom and her two sisters. Someone long ago glued that picture to a poem about Mothers and Daughters. As I read it, I realized that I was always going to be as ready as I could be for this.

Poem by Nicholas Gordan (according to google)
Me and My Mom, Mother’s Day 2022

What I’ve Learned

What I’ve Learned

Meg

This is a perfect Oxygen Mask Moment that sums up well much of what my recent reflections around caregiving have taught me. Thanks, Maya Angelou.

Behind Closed Doors – The Silent Struggle of Caregiving

Behind Closed Doors – The Silent Struggle of Caregiving

Meg

Caregiving is the great, unseen work of a lifetime, whether it’s for aging parents, young children, or a person with a disability. It often goes unnoticed, uncelebrated, and un- or under-paid. It typically requires sacrifice of self in multiple ways, from dialing back career aspirations to a different look to retirement to shouldering physical (adults who are deadweight are heavy and those who are combative make care tough), logistical (ever tried to get someone who doesn’t understand words or can’t sequence directions to sit on a toilet?), and emotional (it may not be personal but some days you can only take being told to go away or shut up so many times) weight. In short, caregiving is a challenge that comes with a side of detriment to one’s emotional and sometimes physical well-being at various stages whether the caregiver is a family member or a paid aide.

Is it because we are taught not to stare when we see someone with a disability that we collectively generally don’t see or acknowledge caregivers? Is it because a lot of care happens behind closed doors so it’s simply not in our view very often (until we experience it ourselves and then suddenly we see these quiet laborers everywhere – driving cautiously on the highway with an older person in the passenger seat, pushing a wheelchair through the supermarket, waiting at the bus stop)? Is life just too busy to occupy ourselves with imagining what it’s like to give everything you have physically and emotionally at work and then go home to care responsibilities there, too, from one’s own kids to one’s own parents? Is it just too hard to face it so we ignore it? That is, until we are in it or need it ourselves?

Bradley Cooper recently produced a new Caregiving documentary that sheds light on this enormous blind spot and need in American society. It highlights different stories about caregiving and caregivers. It tells the story of paid and unpaid caregivers navigating the challenges and joys of this deeply meaningful work. By intertwining intimate personal stories with the untold history of caregiving, the documentary reveals the state and the stakes of caregiving in America today.

So much is broken about the medical system in the US, and caregiving is a separate but related dimension of that brokenness. Everyone needs it or does it at some point and yet there is nothing about long-term care that is straightforward or easy. It’s a big, complicated, expensive system. Reform is plodding – at best. Link here to my prior musings and stats about long-term care – Don’t You (Forget About Me)

Some strategies to make immediate improvements for paid caregivers:

  1. Pay workers a living wage. That should go without saying, but it needs to be said because it is not in any way a given; one cannot show up as one’s best self at work if one is barely able to cover rent and perpetually stressed about making ends meet even while working full-time;
  2. Create pathways for career advancement. Professional development and the ability to grow into better roles at work matter tremendously for worker satisfaction. By giving motivated employees a career ladder for upward opportunity, they will be more willing to stay, thus reducing turnover while increasing the quality of care;
  3. See the hard work these people do and acknowledge them. Like really notice them. Say their names, take an interest in who they are, and thank them for the non-glamorous and often grueling work they do. We’d (hospitals, assisted living facilities, and families) be so screwed without them.
  4. Check out organizations like the National Domestic Workers Alliance who work to highlight these disparities and change the status quo.

Some strategies to make immediate improvements for family caregivers:

  1. Show up. No one should have to take on the burden of caregiving alone. It’s way worse when a caregiver realizes that they haven’t been forgotten, but actually that no one has thought about them at all;
  2. Frequent check-ins: Even if it’s just a short text or phone call, regular check-ins can help the caregiver feel supported and not alone. It’s a small but meaningful gesture that can have a big impact;
  3. Be proactive, not reactive: If you notice the caregiver is struggling, don’t wait for them to ask for help—step in. Take on specific tasks – offer to assist with hands-on tasks like cooking, cleaning, running errands, or handling paperwork. The more you can take off the caregiver’s plate, the better. Often, caregivers won’t reach out for support until they’ve already hit a breaking point;
  4. Acknowledge their sacrifice: Caregivers often go unrecognized for the enormous amount of work they do, so it’s important to make them feel appreciated.

Besides working for policy change that can positively impact the care industry, as with all things: treat every living creature with respect, dignity, love, and curiosity. Everyone has a story to tell. Everyone deserves to be seen and heard. If you are interested, you can add your own caregiving story at Well Beings, an on-going, multi-platform campaign to address critical health needs in America. Lots of resources to learn from there as well.

Take care of yourself. If you are a caregiver, take extra care. Caregiver Syndrome – also known as caregiver burnout – is real. It is “a state of physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion experienced by individuals who provide care for a chronically ill, aging, or disabled person.” Symptoms include: feelings of overwhelm, sadness, anger, irritability, anxiety, depression, guilt, resentment, fatigue, body aches, physical ailments, and neglecting personal needs. Mel Robbins dives into this subject in her podcast Overloaded, Exhausted, and Ready for a Reset: 3 Doctors Give Their Best Advice. It resonated with me completely. I have BEEN THERE. You know what one of the doctors recommends at the end? Putting your own oxygen mask on first. Huh, I wonder where I heard that before?

Take a deep breath and maybe a couple minutes of quiet for yourself.

Photo by Artem Podrez on Pexels.com


What Are We Without Our Memories? – Reflections Six Years On

What Are We Without Our Memories? – Reflections Six Years On

Meg

This post follows up on a piece I wrote in November 2019. I asked in that post: what is life without a memory? I didn’t have any good answers at the time. And I still don’t, not really. But I spend a lot of time wondering about this. In fact, I woke up in the middle of the night the other night wrestling with this question. My middle-of-the-night-brain thought I should write about it only to discover when I woke up that I already had. Six years ago. Which just confirms that everything old is new again in my brain.

The big questions I have are what – and who – are we if we don’t have a memory? I also wonder what goes on inside my mom’s head – what is she seeing when she points to things that aren’t there, what is she trying to describe when she can’t find words, is more of her there than I realize, should I be more patient and move more slowly when trying to engage her, what does it feel like to entrust oneself and one’s well-being completely to another person, what is she holding on to this version of life for?

The mom I have now isn’t the mom who raised me, except in glimpses of a smile or a laugh or a familiar look (she was – and remains – a superior eye roller). She has no agency – she has no decision-making or verbal capacity, is completely wheelchair bound, and requires a mechanical lift to transfer her from chair to bed. She is quite literally a body without the instructions that typically come from a mind. But this body of my mom’s and the essence of who she was and who she remains to me are still here on this Earth, a living, breathing human being who exists, who needs food and care and love even though it’s hard to tell what impact any of it has on her. Ah, except for music. If she is awake, she still responds very clearly and enthusiastically to music by tapping her fingers or bouncing her foot.

Prior to my 2019 post, I had read Dr. Atul Gawande’s book Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End. I was inspired and grateful for the new perspective he presented, appreciative of his recommendations for aging and for dying well, and encouraged to see the emphasis on quality over quantity when it comes to facing terminal illness and one’s mortality. I found myself wondering, though, how one can have a meaningful, purpose-filled life and live life to the fullest until the very end, which are the premises of Gawande’s book, if one has no agency and can’t remember anything. It’s one thing to live in the moment, moment to moment. That’s enlightenment, or approaching it. But isn’t life, ultimately, a collection of memories? The best parts of life are the living of it and then the reliving of our favorite memories through pictures and sharing stories, anecdotes, and things learned along the way. When someone dies we bask in the memories of our times with that person. So many of my conversations start with, “Remember when?” What happens when you don’t? Who are we without our past? Without memories, what does it mean to be alive?

Since 2019, I have tried to connect with Dr. Gawande a couple times to see how he would answer those questions or what he would recommend. I have not had any luck finding a good email address for him so what I have sent has gotten bounced back. Rather than waste more time trying to find his email address, I instead tried to answer my questions on my own by digging around on the web to see what he has said on the subject. The answer isn’t super straightforward – with cognitive issues it seldom is – but it leans on the importance of dignity, joy, and connection, even if they only occur in one moment and then the next moment and then the next.

Gawande challenges the idea that memory alone defines us. Though he doesn’t minimize the loss of being alive without a memory, he invites us to expand our definition of “being alive”:

  • It’s not just what we remember, but how we feel, how we’re treated, and how connected we are.
  • Meaning can be found not just in grand narratives but in small, sensory moments.
  • Even as memory fades, the present self still experiences emotions, relationships, and little pleasures—all of which sustain identity and meaning.

Gawande’s core insight is that:

Memory loss may chip away at the narrative of self, but not the essence of life.

Even without remembering yesterday, living today—with dignity, comfort, connection, and choice—can still be deeply meaningful. The best we can do is to provide as much autonomy, purpose, joy, dignity, and connection as possible. The emphasis becomes the small moments and an identity rooted in feeling versus memory.

It’s surely not the life my mom would have wanted, but by reframing my expectations in this way at least I know that my mom has all of the elements of a quality life.

Considering. I am not so enlightened and rose-colored-glasses that I completely accept this reframe. It definitely feels like a consolation prize, though I do appreciate the perspective shift and the reassurance that what little moments of joy and love and music my mom experiences throughout her days matter.

As to wondering what is actually going on inside her mind, well, that’s actually a WAY more interesting subject I plan to delve into further. A friend recently recommended the Telepathy Tapes podcast, which “explores the potential telepathic abilities of nonspeaking individuals with autism.” That is cool in and of itself. What does this have to do with my particular plight? Well, there’s an episode on telepathic communication with Alzheimer’s patients as well. Woo woo? Perhaps. Worth trying? Abso-freaking-lutely. Imagine what I could learn from sitting quietly a bit more, breathing deeply, and listening. Maybe I’ll hear my mom’s voice and gain deeper insight in our journey together. If nothing else, it’s good practice for putting my own oxygen mask on and finding my peace, quiet, and stillness.

My mom was – and remains – a beautiful and incredible human.

A 10 Second Oxygen Mask Moment

A 10 Second Oxygen Mask Moment

Meg

This was just too good and fitting not to share. Deep breath. We got this.

Don’t You Forget About Me Part IV – The Cost of Long-Term Care

Don’t You Forget About Me Part IV – The Cost of Long-Term Care

Meg

Picking up from Don’t You Forget About Me Part III, which is now 2 years old because, well, I was stuck.

…I love where my mom lives, and also…

…it costs a fortune. Like mind-blowing amounts of money.

The exorbitant cost comes up in the NPR episode I was interviewed for (spoiler alert – I said it cost $100,000 a year. That was a lowball estimate that is now 2 years old – and, another spoiler alert, it doesn’t ever get less expensive). Over my years of caregiving for my mom, I have investigated options to save money for her care every which way possible (they are quite limited). You need to be full on flat broke (like $2000 left in your bank account) to qualify for Medicaid. And then many private care facilities don’t accept Medicaid.

What happens when you don’t have the money to pay for care, in home or at a facility? And then what happens when you run out of money? You know how moving is hard? And moving people with cognitive issues is really bad for them because it’s disorienting and confusing? And then often there are physical ailments that come with aging on top of it? If by some miracle your loved one just keeps on living for no good reason other than that they have some crazy will to live, you will almost undoubtedly run out of money before anyone steps in to help you. I was advised to get in touch with Medicaid when it looked like my mom had about 6 months of money left. Until then, you’re on your own.

“Most assisted living facilities provide what is considered “custodial care.”

Custodial care typically includes assistance with activities of daily living. These are tasks like eating, bathing, dressing, and using the bathroom. In some cases, it can even include health-related activities people usually manage on their own. Some examples would be taking daily medications or using eye drops.

Custodial care can be either long or short-term, depending on your condition. It can be provided in an assisted living facility, nursing home, or even in your own home with a home health aide under certain circumstances.

Medicare typically does not cover any costs associated with custodial care if that is the only type of care you need.”

Photo by Photo By: Kaboompics.com on Pexels.com

Medicare covers Part A and B medical needs, including doctors visits, medically necessary therapy, and prescriptions (if you have Medicare Part D). Supplemental insurance through an organization like AARP is a good idea to pick up the balance of medical coverage because there always seem to be copays and other things that Medicare doesn’t fully cover (hospital care costs are 80% Medicare, 20% supplemental last I checked; yes, it’s confusing. Very). Does long-term care insurance make a difference? The jury is out. Check out this website about long term care insurance and you tell me.

So, if you don’t qualify for Medicaid or you just prefer a private facility for any number of reasons, where does that leave you? In the uncomfortable middle is where it leaves you. Neither Medicare nor supplemental insurance covers a penny of the 4 main categories of cost for a private assisted living facility, which include:

  1. Daily rate – essentially this is rent charged as a daily fee on a monthly basis, basically a “tenant at will” set up;
  2. Service package – this refers to the level of care the resident requires, from needing to be fed to needing help with bathing, dressing, transferring from bed to chair and back, etc.;
  3. Medication package – medication, at least in Massachusetts, has to be distributed by a qualified nurse from bubble packs provided by a pharmacy;
  4. Continence management – in a true cradle to grave twist, many of us will return to diapers at the end of life.

If you live in a private care facility and, against all odds, you end up living longer than expected, you do in fact get kicked out when you can no longer pay. I thought there was no way that would never happen, but I was wrong. Most facilities work with residents to try to make it work financially, but what if the parent is nearing 100 and the kids are in their 70s and retired, too? At a certain point something has to give. Because who has a spare million dollars?

All of the above is true in a world where the US government funds Medicare and Medicaid. Should that change, an already unsustainable, true stuck-between-a-rock-and-a-hard-place situation simply gets worse. There has to be a better way than the expectation of bankruptcy as the health care end game. This reality requires taking regular deep breaths to prevent hyperventilating. Once calm, it’s time to think about realistic, actionable solutions and working with your senators and representatives to make those a reality. Also continuing to fund Alzheimer’s research is a very good idea. This is not an issue that is going away until someone figures out how to stop it.

The Bus Stop at the End of the World

Choose to Lean In – to LIFE

Choose to Lean In – to LIFE

Meg

I was listening to Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast the other day, specifically the episode Love is What Survives. People called in to share their stories of grief, and one phrase kept coming up again and again: “lean in.” It resonated in my mind because it connected with a funny experience I had had that weekend.

I had spent the weekend in Toronto with four friends. On one evening we were all jammed like sardines in a small SUV, one in front, three in the middle row, my friend’s husband driving us out of the city after a long day out. There were multiple conversations happening simultaneously among us all, a buzz of noise and commentary and general conversation. At one point, the friend sitting up front got her phone out and told us to lean in. Two of us did, looking up and smiling for the camera. Our other friend was either in the middle of another conversation or misheard and called out forcefully, “No!” It was so completely out of context and character that we all broke into instantaneous fits of belly laughs. We laughed so hard we couldn’t speak, until someone wheezed out another “no!” through giggles and laughter would erupt through the car all over again. The rest of the weekend was peppered with a call and response of “lean in!”, “no!”, punctuated with more laughter. We even have a keepsake picture memorializing the moment with three of us gumming it up for the camera and only the left eye and shoulder of our fourth friend in the frame.

I was reflecting on that lean in moment and the weekend full of friendship, rejuvenation, and laughter as I kept hearing the phrase “lean in” while running my errands. And I started to think – that really is the key, isn’t it, to this life? You have to lean into it – to friendship, to love, to taking chances sometimes (like when I got on that plane and flew to Guatemala, which is what started me on this blogging and writing journey and reignited a part of me – through connection and purpose – that had been dormant). You have to lean in to LIFE – to ALL OF IT. Even the hard stuff.

It’s natural to want to protect oneself from difficult feelings, to have the curated instagram version of an emotional life where everything is beautiful and awesome and happy all the time. It can feel better to be numb or to press down hard feelings in the hopes that they will stay quiet or go away. It’s counter-intuitive to face into – to lean into – pain and grief, but that’s actually the recipe for healing. It’s also the recipe for genuine, authentic living.

Photo by Kampus Production on Pexels.com

It took me a long time to learn that, unfortunately, the feelings don’t go away just because you avoid them. In fact, ignored feelings often strengthen and distort, like a crack in the foundation that settles in more deeply as time passes, eventually shifting the structure enough that the walls start to lean. In my early days of grieving my mom’s health and my health while trying to juggle kids and work, I would use the analogy that the wheels were coming off. Maybe a more apt analogy was that I had built a house out of a deck of cards and was spending all my time running around trying to keep the wolf from blowing my extremely precarious structure over versus strengthening it from within.

I can’t help but continue to reflect on the wonderful, cleansing laugh of my recent lean in moment. The whole weekend was a beautiful example of leaning in – of showing up, making memories, standing by your people in good times and bad – and also just because. That’s really the essence of life. We are here so fleetingly in the grand scheme of things. When a group of friends comes together in a circle they lean in while while leaning on each other. It’s a hug that is simultaneously the support we need to hold each other up. So lean in – to it all! That’s what sustains you!

Is Being Stuck the Same as Finding Stillness?

Is Being Stuck the Same as Finding Stillness?

Meg

The theme of my first poetry/writing class was Stillness. Finding stillness seems like a good idea in this whirlwind world. I often think it would do me some good to find a little stillness in my busy mind and can’t-sit-still body. I get the idea. But I went to a dark place with it, and all I could think about was being stuck. I had to ask, after reflecting on it for a couple hours, if being stuck was the same as finding stillness?

These last months I have been living ever more into the bittersweet of life, the tide carrying me along in a daze. My kids are growing – literally inches before my very eyes some days. And my mom keeps on beating the odds and crushing life. Except, in her case, I ask myself more and more often – why? She isn’t living the life she would have wanted. She wouldn’t recognize much about herself currently, though her loving heart, joyous spirit, and beautiful laugh remain in tact. I tell people all the time that since Alzheimer’s started affecting her she remembers what’s in her heart way more than what’s in her head. I’ve felt that to be true, and didn’t realize that Tennessee Williams is quoted as having said,

“Memory takes a lot of poetic license, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart.” – Tennessee Williams

It’s neat to think about memory living in the heart for someone who is severely cognitively impaired and doesn’t have a memory in the traditional way we think about it. It’s a gift that my mom has such a loving disposition because she doesn’t say much, certainly not much that makes sense. A lot of the time she has this far off look and I have to work to get her to focus on my face. So it’s not the most interactive relationship, and yet, she still exudes love, which is gratifying and heartwarming.

I wonder sometimes if her stillness in time is stuckness. The world keeps on whirring on by her and she remains essentially the sane and completely oblivious to it. I know I certainly feel stuck right smack dab in the middle of the sandwich even as the world keeps whooshing right on by. I heard someone on a podcast recently say that a sandwich is too generous a term, referring instead to this stage of life as more of a panini. Call it what lunch item you will, I’ve been in this for a very long time and this past summer I officially hit the summer of my discontent. Shakespeare may write about winters of discontent. I can tell you, no iambic pentameter involved, that this rainy ass summer stuck between kids launching and mom lingering, was discontenting. Probably not for the first time. Nor the last.

I’ve been caring for my mom for 10 years. TEN. During that time my kids went from babies to toddlers to teens. They are growing, launching, evolving. My role in her care, what it requires of me, and how I navigate it, have all changed and evolved during this time as well. And, sure, my mom has changed, too, but not in any good ways. She’s still alive, and she still gives love, but she also has no agency and isn’t part of her kids’ or grandkids’ lives. She is physically here and simultaneously absent. She’s the most present absent person I’ve ever met. She has missed it ALL even though she is literally, physically, right down the road. These last months I’ve just been stuck on the tragedy of that and the purgatory of this responsibility as well as my grief.

It’s the dawn of the summer of 2025, and I am just getting around to editing and posting this piece that I drafted in 2023. That tells you without any words required what life is like stuck in the sandwich! I recently read Mothers and Other Fictional Characters in which the author, Nicole Graev Lipson, shares the Portuguese word “saudade,” which translates roughly to “the presence of an absence, the ache that replaces what’s gone.” That’s such a perfect way of describing grief (I called it The Void in a previous post). It’s feeling the presence of the people we have loved who have departed this Earth fully. In my mom’s case, I actually live with the absence of who she was every day. Saudade.

Saudade – the presence of an absence, the ache that replaces what’s gone – page 20, Mothers and Other Fictional Characters by Nicole Graev Lipson

Anderson Cooper’s All There Is podcast talks a lot about grief, too much for me, to be honest, because I get it and I typically look to podcasts for an escape. But the title of the most recent one, Love is What Survives, struck me because that just makes sense. The pain we feel in loss is love with nowhere to go. I am grateful for having been so loved. And that helps move me forward and feels the slightest bit like the stuckness, for now, is melting.

“The most painful state of being is remembering the future, especially the one we will never have.” –  Søren Kierkegaard

Ah, and if you made it this far, to answer my own question, no, I still cannot sit still so apparently being still and being stuck are not the same. In fact, sitting still would allow me to write more blog posts. Being stuck prevents me from doing so. Somehow being stuck gets in the way of the emotional and physical stillness of the mind required to create. Or that’s what I think anyway. Since I seem to be finding room to write again, it seems whatever blocked me mentally for the past two years has shifted. For now! Always, just for now. One day at a time.