- Find Compassion: Walk a mile in your caree’s shoes
- Be Patient: It’s is a positive side-effect of compassion
- Stay Positive: The 80/20 rule works here, and sometimes in reverse
- Pray. A Lot: To whatever power greater than you propelling you through this wild ride
- Ditch the Drama: No one wants to hear about a self-sacrificing martyr, let alone be one
- Give & Ye Shall Receive: Being of service isn’t selfish
- Treat yourself: Even a half-hour away with a latte is a well-deserved reward
- Rest Up: Manadatory for both caregiver and caree
- Love Thyself: Daily affirmations remind us of our purpose, value and why we do this
- Learn & Share: As you’ve been helped by other caregivers, so shall your wisdom help them
Be gentle. Give freely. Stay real. Because we’re all doing the best we can with situations we’ve never been through before.
This week, the planets aligned in my creative galaxy: acceptance letters from two publications; a literary agent seeking quirky cookbooks; a food memoir writing course; a blogger who wants to feature my mother’s cooking newsletter on her site.
As I ran in pre-dawn dusk this morning, drenched in sweat and the deluge of inspiration, I decided to reopen a writing project I’d shelved two years ago in a fit of rage at a disease that knows no shame.
I’d envisioned the book as a tribute to my mother’s many talents. We’d write it together, I thought, the perfect project to regain the sense of purpose Alzheimer’s was slowly stripping away. I’d interlace essays from the monthly newsletter she’d written and designed for thirty years with posts from my blog; use artwork and recipes from her cookbook Cook & Tell, published nearly two decades ago.
But reminders of the skills she’d lost and attempts to reclaim the identity of the woman she no longer remembered proved too painful for either of us to endure. I surrendered the project and Alzheimer’s won that round. Almost.
When the Universe nudges, I’ve learned to listen. And when inspiration sparks creativity, I’m propelled into action.
I’ve left mom alone for ten days for a petsitting job, and I’m as nervous as she was when she dropped me at summer camp, age eleven.
She’s not alone, really. The caregivers in her memory care home look out for her 24/7. The care director texts photos of her at cooking club; playing the harmonica; modeling new hats. I should enjoy this time away.
It’s hard, though, after spending four years with someone who panics when I’m not there every day. Parenting roles are reversed in our demented lives and each time I leave, it’s as if she were a child again, scared her mother won’t come back. Even after the hundreds of times I’ve left and returned, all she knows is that in that moment, I am gone.
Eventually, worry lifts; fear subsides and I learn to trust the process.