Monthly Archives: August 2012

August 31, 2012 · 2:27 pm

Sibling fight!

Why is it that food fights are fun and email fights are not?

I was quite smug last night when I told a friend that I thought my brothers and I were really communicating effectively with one another. She had just returned from 10 days of overseeing her mother’s recovery from pneumonia and surgery, during which she was repeatedly second-guessed by her out-of-state sister.

Then I got an email from one of my brothers today, who reacted to an email sent by another brother. I won’t get into the details but I’ll share the zinger with which he ended his message: “…have the two younger sib’s simply cut out the two older sib’s from having a voice?”

I thought we were past this.

But the truth is that it is very, very hard for people who act like grownups in most situations to behave that way when something triggers half-buried resentment. We are all suddenly six.

There are a lot of “perhapses” that come into my mind. Perhaps the brother who sent the original email should have called instead of sending this particular message by email. Perhaps the brother who seethed over the email should have picked up the phone and expressed his concern to the sender, or to me (since I was supposedly colluding in the decision in question). We could have done better.

When we are stressed, as we are in no small part by Dad’s deteriorating health, we are reduced to the ugliest side of our personalities and temperaments.

It’s hard to keep one’s eye on the real issues here: how to make sure that Dad feels loved and safe, and how to preserve and perhaps strengthen our sibling relationships for the time when Dad is no longer there to bind us.

Right now I’m working on that last part.

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August 25, 2012 · 2:57 pm

My husband, the unsung hero

(Before you read this post, stop remembering the Andy Kaufman version of the Mighty Mouse theme song. I mean it. Stop. It. Right. Now.)

My husband and I have always had a 50-50 arrangement, if you average it over time. Statistical nerd that I am, I know that the average can mask a labile distribution of responsibility for household and familial duties. Sometimes it’s 75-25, sometimes 25-75, and occasionally even 90-10 (as in the time when we were preparing to move and my husband managed to break his knee on a guys’ trip).

Every time someone says to me that I’m an angel for taking care of my Dad, I remember that the guy holding my halo in place is my husband.

When I stop to take inventory, I realize that it’s a whole bunch of little things he does that accumulate to make a difference. When he comes home from work every evening, he asks if my Dad has his glass of wine. While I scramble to do my “magic” in the kitchen (anyone who knows me knows this is not a joyful experience), he’s contributing the comfortable routine of my Dad’s life. Dad used to have a couple of scotch and waters before dinner that over the years morphed into a glass of red wine. Dad’s almost lost his taste for wine at all, but that pre-dinner libation is a nicety in the not-so-nice world of advanced age.

Sometimes my husband “covers” for me if I have a morning meeting or am entertaining a couple of girlfriends. I’ve never detected a moment of resentment if I ask him to fix Dad’s breakfast or put his dinner on the table.

Taking care of Dad severely limits our flexibility to accept invitations from friends or go out of town for the weekend, things my extrovert husband would enjoy. But he never complains. Ever. I’ve never detected resentment, though he would be well within his rights to feel some.

And he shares his space often, as family members come to visit my Dad.

Perhaps most significantly, he doesn’t try to fix my problems when I feel down or a little worn out. Earlier in our marriage, we learned that my sharing a problem led to him trying to solve it, when sometimes all I wanted was the opportunity to vent. He sits with me and empathizes. I feel held inside even if we are not touching outside.

Next time your mental jukebox plays, “Here I am to save the day!” remember the great men who are out there standing behind the “angels” like me.

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August 12, 2012 · 11:13 am

What makes caregiving so hard?

I thought I knew what hard is. Hard was being nine months pregnant, diagnosed with pregnancy induced hypertension (ankles bloated to the exploding point), and getting ready to present the first full-scale consumer awareness study to the hospital system execs for whom I worked. Hard was working full-time, while trying to be a good mother of  a one-year-old and  studying for my M.B.A. during nap time and at night. Hard was working a full day with two hours of commute time on either end.

Being responsible for someone who needs your help and care, it seems to me, isn’t exactly training for the Olympics. But it can feel that way sometimes.

My Dad doesn’t need assistance with the basics. He dresses himself, puts his hearing aids in, eats independently, and has the toileting thing pretty much under control. My caregiving gig is a lot easier than many.

I think what’s hardest for me is the emotional burden – dodging obstacles, holding others up who worry from afar, and coping with the no-end-in-sightedness. I am constantly anticipating problems and talking steps to circumvent them, for example, clearing my Dad’s path of trip hazards and pre-emptively clearing dishes so that my he will not take it upon himself to do so, toodling from the breakfast table to the counter with dishes in both hands (and thus without either cane or walker). When a medication stops working and needs to be adjusted,  I run the gauntlet of conversations with doctors and care staff, trying to get accurate information about the situation (clarifying, clarifying, confirming) and calling and finally badgering someone into changing medical orders.

Dad is unstable enough that my brothers now worry from afar. I understand their vigilance, having felt just the same way when home in California during my mother’s four month hospice period in 1999. When I report setbacks, which have been more frequent during the last month, I get messages from my brothers asking if this is a crisis and whether they should book flights. I know their messages are code for, “Do you think he could die?” I try to reassure them. Understanding that you are going to lose someone is to begin grieving. I know they hurt. [Brothers who read this: this is not a complaint. I really appreciate your increased vigilance.]

We’re not there yet. Several times of late I’ve been asked what I will do when “this period is over” (code for “when Dad is dead”). I don’t know. I can’t plan. If I get my head in the future it will be even harder to manage the day-to-day. So I am actively avoiding long term planning.

Right now my whole world is the next two weeks, in which I hope we will stabilize Dad’s underlying congestive heart failure condition so that his weight swings and shortness of breath resolve, at least until the next unsettled period.

This shouldn’t be that hard. But some days it is. Fortunately, today is not one of them. So far.

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August 9, 2012 · 8:38 am

Turn off, brain, and let me go the f* to sleep!

The lovely view from where I didn’t sleep

Just when I feel overwhelmed by my Dad’s declining health, it seems that the sleep gods conspire against me.

My anxiety – and accompanying sense of hyper-vigilance – built to a pitch over the weekend, even while my husband and I attempted to relax in Northern California’s playtime paradise of Lake Tahoe.

Over the past month, the medication that had been working so well to control the symptoms of Dad’s long-term congestive heart failure sputtered and stalled in its effectiveness. His weight dropped from 204 lbs. to 188.5 over three weeks, and then, when we cut back the dosage, spiked back up to 198 in less than a week.

My brother, who came into town to “spell” me for my anniversary trip, called me Saturday night. His voice was choked with emotion as he explained that Dad looked as weak and worn out as he’d seen him. When he asked Dad how he was doing, Dad replied, “I don’t think I can pull through this…”

That night, I left my cell phone on in case my brother needed to reach me in an emergency. Then starting at 1:30 a.m. that night, I started this exchange via text with my young adult son, who was finishing up packing for a 5 day cruise the next day. What’s funny about this is that I just couldn’t let go. I felt utterly driven to ensure that my son did not – gasp! – make a mistake packing:

Him: Do I really need a carryon? I was just gonna keep it simple with a rollaboard.

Me: It if fits that’s fine

Him: Fits what? I was gonna check it

Me: Rollaboards can go in the overhead bin. Then it can’t get lost. If you are going on a cruise your bag will never catch up if it gets lost. When you connect there is more of a chance of it not getting on the 2nd plane. It’s up to you but it’s safer

Me: ‘nite

Him: I have the red one, will that fit? [The red rolling bag is ginormous.]

Me: No. It has to be one of the small black ones. Sounds like you don’t have a choice unless you have a duffel that qualifies as a carry on. Southwest is pretty good about getting bags there so you’ll probably be fine. Don’t check your computer – keep it with you.

Me (again): The carry on can’t be longer than 24″ [Note: I have now gone on SWA via my cell phone to actually check the limitations.]

Me (again): Be careful not to oversleep

Me (yet again): Can I go back to sleep now?

Him: Yeah, sorry, I’m just gonna check it

Me: OK but keep your computer with you. Put your name and home address on a piece of paper inside the checked bag. Make sure it has a luggage tag too or put a paper one on it at the airport. Travel safely.

Me (again): Got your passport? Keep that with u too

Him (now at 2:02 a.m.): Found a duffel, using it instead & I’m not bringing a computer

Me: OK but if they make u check it remember to keep your passport with you, preferably in something by your feet. Passports can get stolen out of backpacks in bins. Students get targeted by thieves.

Me (finally): OK goodnight. I love you. Have fun.

Him: Gnight mom! Love you too & I’m sure we will

You can guess how the night went after that. I didn’t fall gently back into slumber.

On Monday, I made a record 20 phone calls to my father’s doctor, to friends and family who visited my father at his assisted living apartment, and to family to report in. At the time, Todd and I were attempting to complete a 7 mile hike.

That night, I was awake from 3 a.m. to 5:45 a.m. I’d drift into sleep and pop right back out of it.

I know I am not alone. Over the weekend, a dear friend lost someone she’d known and loved since childhood. She texted me last night, “Just took pill… haven’t slept in five days.” My brother who had been upset over the weekend texted me Tuesday, “I slept finally last night, though I had a 90 minute break in the middle.” Another close friend posted on Facebook: “Being the ‘sandwich’ generation and responsible for taking care of both parents and children sucks! Why do both generations have issues at the exact same time?????”

Five question marks is about right.

“Grief is a journey, I’m told,” my friend texted last night.

Yes, it is. But I am fortunate to not be on the trail alone.

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August 7, 2012 · 6:00 am

30 Years of Opposites, Happily Ever After

Today, my husband and I celebrate 30 years of marriage. You know that old saw, “And they said it wouldn’t last”? The Episcopal priest who married us, who’d known me since I was nine, actually expressed his reluctance to read the banns because we were too different. He based this opinion on the results of a psychometric questionnaire that he had both of us complete.

He was right that we were different, and we still are.

  • My husband is a true extrovert who comes home from a party so jazzed up that he can’t go to sleep; I collapse in a heap, worn out from having to be that extroverted.
  • Members of his family, men included, cry easily. Crying was pretty much trained out of us in my family, which faced most hardships and losses with stoicism.
  • My approach to strong disagreement, like my mother’s, was to yell, with the occasional “god dammit” and “hell” thrown in for seasoning. Then we forgot about it. My husband learned to conquer other people’s anger by withdrawing. He prefers to stew a bit before sorting things out.
  • My husband is an ESTJ in Myers-Briggs parlance and, if you’re in to that sort of thing, a Virgo. His world view is pretty black and white – it’s right or it’s wrong. He’ll give people a long leash, but if feels they’re taking advantage of him – bam! – they will get an unambiguous shove back. He likes to know the rules up front, and he likes to follow them. I, on the other hand, am an ENTJ with a healthy dollop of Gemini sauce. Rules, schmules. How I react depends on whether I’m feeling extroverted or introverted at that moment. But always, I tend to put logic before feeling.
  • He likes things neat. I like things clean.
  • He loves to listen to music all day long. I love quiet.
  • He’s definitely conservative, in the sense of can’t-stand-the-idea-of-our-son-getting-a-tattoo. I figured it was inevitable, but I find I actually appreciate the fact that the tattoo honors that interconnectedness of people and the earth (I just didn’t think it needed to be emblazoned on one’s body).

I could go on, but you get the idea. It’s not a marriage made in heaven – I see Fr. Dave’s point – but it wasn’t made in hell, either.

What it has been is interesting – and, for the most part, good. My Dad often says that he views his life in distinct phases that feel discontinuous. Our early marriage years were horny and busy, very much about having fun with each other and fun with other people. The second phase of our marriage, after our children were born, found us fully engaged in demanding careers, squeezing every drop out of our schedule to put into parenting.

Those mid-kid years were tough, so tough that we ended up doing three years of marriage counseling. Where we learned – guess what? – how different we are. We were there because we had grown distant, because we had become great business partners, but weren’t such great lovers. Something had to change.

But the miraculous thing is that things did change. We reassessed, listened, got over our anger, and regrouped. We found better ways of being together that worked for both of us and honored our differences.

The result? I admire my husband’s integrity, his stability, and his rock-solid values, which include commitment to me. He laughs and cries more freely than I do, and both his humor and his empathy have helped me to be a happier, healthier person. Though we have been very angry with each other on occasion, he has never treated me poorly or tried to wound me. I know a lot more about music than I would have, although I am still hard pressed to “name that band,” or remember lyrics. Our kids, now young adults, are better people for having had parents who learned to listen to them and each other through our differences; they could not be more forthright, and they actually continue to seek our counsel. And our house is both neat and clean. Call ours reconcilable differences.

While this particular post honors the differences that have challenged us through the years, we had a lot of commonalities that provided a foundation. Belief in God (shaky at times, but nonetheless there), priority on family, empathy and respect for one another. And love.

It’s 30 years later, and we’re 55. I feel like we’re in phase three of our marriage, and I look forward to the phases to come. I enjoy being with him more than I did 10 years ago, and as much as I did 30 years ago. Having said that, I don’t feel at all like I did in my mid 20s. I’m not the same person. Neither is he. But we’ve found a way to be together.

It’s like getting married all over again.

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