Tag: recovery

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Sacred Sundays

“Never on a Monday,” says the text from a childhood buddy, in response to my question about her work schedule. “Mondays are sacred.”

And for a while, they were. Even 3,000 miles apart, we experienced Sacred Mondays together, texting each other photos of coffee mugs and couches. Having a day of rest was as mandatory as the weekends we filled with family obligations.

Yet, as it has since I quit my career five years ago, life changed radically this summer. Having proved my ability to somewhat successfully meet the endless demands of elderly parents, the Universe has now designated me caregiver to an injured husband, the most difficult job I’ve had so far.

Every day is Groundhog Day, my husband reminds me from his perch on the recliner; it’s true for both of us. And somewhere in the daily drudgery of living through the chronic stabbing pain of an injured hip, tending to medical needs and a household filled with pets and chores, my Sacred Mondays vanished.

I found myself missing that soothing relief of a day in which I allowed myself to do nothing. Never fully able to embrace self-care—even the term is as cringe-worthy for me as self-love—Sacred Mondays were at least a stab at putting myself first. Yet spousal caregiving is a far more emotionally draining experience than I ever imagined. Something had to change.

One Sunday not too long ago, I had coffee with a friend whose mother is now in hospice care, after an agonizingly slow trudge through the twisted maze of Alzheimer’s. “I disconnect on Sundays,” said my friend. “No workouts, no errands, no housework, no parents. A whole day off from my shitshow of a life.”

In my not-sober past, Sundays were spent nursing profound hangovers with brunch-filled mimosas and afternoons of beachfront reggae music. In sobriety, I find peace at Sunday morning 12-step meetings. But for the past three years, I’ve dreaded Sundays: taking my mother to church in an effort to maintain the routine so necessary for a person living in Alzheimer’s World. And when my new caregiving responsibilities took priority, she never noticed we’d stopped going to church, just one more of the merciful yet bittersweet paradoxes of dementia.

Sketch by my mother, c. 1988

Now, Sunday is the day I look forward to all week; the portrait my friend/dementia mentor painted has come to life. Sacred Sundays give me freedom from my shitshow of a life. Write. Read. Nap. Watch football. Or none of the above.

And serenity returns to our household, if only for a day. 

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Drama-rama

Life Lessons from a Former Drama Queen

It began five years ago as I helped my father through his third wife’s death. Almost simultaneously, I plunged headfirst into to the muddled Alzheimer’s world my mother had newly inhabited. Both parents lived on the east Coast and for the next few years I cared for each of them in their separate island homes, leaving my immediate family to fend for themselves three thousand miles away.

When it became clear my parents could no longer live on their own, so began the process of packing up each parent, selling houses, and moving them into their respective senior living communities.

In the midst of that chaos, the Universe decided I could handle more, hurling the sudden suicide of my husband’s daughter into our lives late last year.

Together, we ride the waves of grief—random and epic, with no expiration date—and again unwittingly find ourselves in a trajectory of trauma: a hip injury complete with an aggressively virulent blood infection.

My husband, a fitness trainer, is the healthiest, most active person I know. Suddenly reduced from teaching three cycling classes a week to being housebound on a walker and relying on me to give multiple injections of antibiotics for two months is the uninvited guest at our party, much like my recently-acquired career in caregiving.

It would be easy to resume the role of drama queen, one I relinquished long ago. After years of swimming through the murky haze of an alcoholic life and navigating the even rougher waters of early sobriety, I finally learned that when I stop running the show, I’m free to accept life on life’s terms.

Today, I remain open-minded and willing to do whatever comes next. My caregiving resume has expanded over the years and I continue to engage the essentials of drama-free life: Self-care. Rest. Support Groups. Meditation and exercise. Compassion. Find humor wherever you can. Because, in the immortal words of the Jimmy Buffet song:

“If we couldn’t laugh, we would all go insane.” 

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Little White Lies

I’ve lied to my mother all my life. 

As a teenager, it was all about the party.

“Can I borrow the car? My friends want to see the new Superman movie.”

(We’re going to the kegger at Barrett’s Beach)

“We’re going on a field trip at school.”

(It’s senior skip day)

Through much of my adult life, the lies were silent whispers, shrouded in alcohol.

Today I am sober. I care for a mother with Alzheimer’s, in a world of falsehoods and misperceptions.

“We’re going to Arizona for a while so I can take care of my husband.”

(You need more help than I can give. The memory care home is safe.)

“I’m so glad you’re here to help me take care of my husband.”

(His imaginary illness reminds you you’re needed and helpful).

Therapeutic lies have become our reality. Yet my decisions—once based on self—are now motivated by love. And, as every medallion marking another sobriety milestone tells me: “To thine own self be true,” I find that I am. 


Here’s why experts recommend lying to someone with dementia.