Caregiving

Do you expect to be a Caregiver?

Be a last-things-first person. What is your goal for this journey or this step of your journey? Break it down so you can get there and head off discouragement for some of the complicated issues you need to resolve.

Prepare – I like to think of this as a bit of a play on words – Pre-Pare (before you need it, reduce the work load). Preparation is needed both physically and spiritually. Webster’s dictionary defines the verb this way (bold emphasis is mine):  to make (someone or something) ready for some activity, purpose, use, etc. : to make yourself ready for something that you will be doing, something that you expect to happen,

7 Tips to Prepare for Caregiving by Delores Liesner

1. Prayer for Two

As soon as it appears caregiving will be needed,start a prayer journal with this journey in mind.Ask a few loyal friends to pray for you and the person in your life who needs caregiving.

2. Pre-plan Respite for the Caregiver.

List things or places that refresh you (going for walk in nature, type of movies or books, foods, and (seriously) start practicing it. Schedule times of refreshment into your schedule now. You will be glad you did. Continue habit.

3. Have a Checklist Talk

As much as possible before your loved one needs the assistance, complete a checklist according to their wishes:

https://www.realsimple.com/health/preventative-health/aging-caregiving/questions-ask-aging-parents

4. Adjust Expectations to Diagnosis

If your person has been diagnosed with any level of memory loss or Alzheimers disease, you may not be able to expect rational answers. Get information on their diseases so you know what to expect, and how you can respond.

5. Set Boundaries

Determine your boundaries and responses. For example: language – kindly say, I will not accept that language, but will be glad to continue our time together when you are ready to speak respectfully. Compliance may take a period of time, but will set mutual respect.

6. Use a Large Calendar

Large boxes can note visitors, needs, and wants. It will improve their memory, help them feel in control, and make it natural when you later need to depend on it.

7. Prepare Resources

Local agencies can be found through United Way, 211(your state spelled out).org (i.e.211wisconsin.org) and see Ambushed by Grace – Help & Hope on the Caregiving Journey by Shelly Beach.

Feel free to ask questions and I can hopefully provide you with some direction, or resources, or prayer.

deloresbethemiracle@gmail.com

http://deloresliesner.com

How It All Began – My Journey caregiving my Mom

You can never go home – or so the saying goes, because many expect to recapture feelings, or regain their sense of youth from a particular moment in time, which of course no longer exists. Standing on a particular piece of land, or in a building or a room may stir memories, but it cannot recapture what no longer exists.  And that is not all bad.

You see I never was one of those wanting to return home.  Far from it.  I found it difficult to believe stories of repressed memories from someone’s childhood because I wished I could forget mine.   I couldn’t wait to leave home and swore I’d never go back. But I did.  And it was one of the best decisions I ever made — even though I wasn’t sure of it at the time.

After years of avoidance, fear, and refusal to go “home,” to the extent of purchasing life insurance before making trips anywhere near the old town where we grew up – just in case.  I had now banded with my younger sister for our first journey back in time. To pave the way for our ultimate goal of attempting some sort of reconciliation with a childhood abuser – our mother – we did a psychological and emotional geo-caching from the surrounding area. Visits with a dear aunt and cousins were surprisingly fulfilling, providing clues to happy memories that had been deeply covered with years of negative mental writing, like a never washed blackboard. The bad memories of physical and mental abuse had been so poignant that for years it was too painful to discuss or call into remembrance our childhood at all. Now we’d finally opened a door that didn’t reveal pain. Our healing continued at the two-story white elementary school we’d attended long ago in the form of middle-aged sisters sliding down the once-forbidden fire-escape tunnel slide and sharing the scenes that were lighthearted as well as those which gave us nightmares.

A different vignette awaited at the home where we’d spent our teen years. A sign advertising an upcoming estate sale allowed us unencumbered entrance to the big yard on the hill sloping to the railroad tracks, and a pleasant lady welcomed our perusing the sprawling blue home where we’d grown up.  Marvel tested the lock of an upstairs bathroom that I’d forgotten existed, noting it still worked, and shared about the hours she’d spent hiding out in there crying in fear or anguish. Together we examined my refuge – the roof outside my bedroom window where I read poetry and dreamed of a normal life, and then we stood shell-shocked at the surprisingly tiny size of the “big bedroom” we had both coveted.  Walking the outside perimeter after touring the house, I recalled part of a poem by T.S. Elliot, that said all our exploring for peace with our past would eventually bring us back to where we started, and we would see that place in a new perspective, as though for the first time.  It was true. It wasn’t just that we’d grown physically and the rooms now appeared smaller, but the specters of our past had also shrunk and no longer wielded power over us other than what we allowed.  We knew it was because of the spiritual changes that had taken place in us, I in 1962 and Marvel a few years later (after stealing my Bible!) when we’d taken the first step of giving God not just our present and our future, but believing God could redeem our past as well.

The road to redemption is roughly paved, however, and we saw only the loose gravel underlayment that trip. Greeted with weapons, harsh words and denial of our birth, we shed more tears, and left praying like crazy that God would send someone . . . anyone . . . (except us) to “fix” our mother. That’s not exactly what happened.

Driving south the next day, we were well aware that our past was not done with us, but we determined to move on and live in the present until God saw fit for the next step. My sister tried to erase her memories by describing our mother as deceased when asked about her parents or completing job applications.  I copped out by saying I’d wait for Mother to change, never believing she would make a move toward reconnection. When she did, 20 years later, it was eerie.

After dinner out celebrating my birthday, I’d preceded Ken into the house while he parked the car, and I heard the answering machine chirping that we had a message.  Automatically I stepped into the dark room, pressed, “play,” and then gasped when I heard the familiar but thready voice singing “Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear daughter, Happy Birthday to you.” That was all.  The click and “end of messages” from the answering machine left me standing in numb shock.

Ken came in, and wrapped his arms around me.  “What is it?  Bad news?”

Mutely, I reached over and hit “play” letting the message repeat. As we listened, his whisper echoed my thoughts.  “Why now after all these years?  What does she want?”

The next morning, a call from my oldest sibling confirmed that a search for a guardian had been on, and he’d tried other family members including extended family that lived in the area.  None of them wanted to touch the situation and neither would community volunteer guardians willingly associate with my violent mother.  He had hesitated to call me because he knew of the spiritual change in my life and was aware I would feel obligated to be ‘sacrificed’ as he thought of the guardian position.  I was grateful for the heartfelt sympathy and admitted he was right.  In the years since I’d come to know Christ as my Savior and friend, I’d read several places in scripture (Like Exodus 20:12 and Ephesians 6:2) that said, “Honor your father and mother.”  To be in her presence again and possibly under her power was the last thing I wanted. To be her caregiver was unthinkable. I wasn’t sure how that was even possible, but I knew I had to go.

Perhaps her call meant there was hope.  Ken’s prayer led me to the place of faith where I believed God would lead each step of the way. Whatever the outcome, I knew the commandment to “honor” my parents, (whatever God showed me that meant) had to happen, and I was determined to be obedient, if reluctant.

One thing I’d learned in the years that led to separation from my mother was that I could not go alone. I could not depend on my own resources.  God had since come into my life through receiving His Love through His Son Jesus Christ.  But now I ran to God and cried out in prayer asking, “Who?”  “Who should go with me?”  Another phone call solved that question and brought a smile in the midst of what felt like heading directly into a storm: Our eldest granddaughter, Aimee, a very outgoing and engaging young lady was about to head for college and would be up for an adventure with her Grandma.  We would make a game of it.  Or so I thought.

Weeks later, my willowy18-year-old granddaughter and I drove past the familiar sign announcing my hometown. My chest hurt with the pain of remembrance and my face must have showed it as well.

“I didn’t expect it to hit me like this,” I responded truthfully, answering Aimee’s questions about my past, and detailing what subjects might be taboo and potentially spur a volatile episode.  A nearby hotel provided rest for Aimee, but my mind – the fixer in me – was clamoring. I have a major weakness. Like the Apostle Peter, I often spoke without thinking, filling quiet spaces with whatever words came to mind, and once again I grappled with what I should or shouldn’t do or say. Grabbing my Bible, I flopped onto the blue easy chair in the corner, and the book fell open to the marker left from a recent Bible study, the yellow highlighting on the page ironically announcing the little phrase without words.  I knew instantly that was my answer. I did not have to say anything; I just had to be there. I quietly chuckled at God’s sense of humor. Now that would be a miracle!  I was stunned at the simplicity, but filled with peace, because if God said it, He would enable it to happen.  Once the choice was made, I slept, and morning came quickly.

A gentle touch and meaningful glance from my granddaughter as we approached Mom’s little house silently softened in sympathy as the door opened and Aimee’s glance moved from me to my mother standing in the doorway of her trash-filled house. Together we helped an unexpectedly subdued little woman shuffle behind her walker which we folded into the trunk of the car, and began our journey.

I’d purposely planned more than a day would hold, hoping there would be no empty opportunity for an “episode.”  We visited some new restaurants for meals between little drives across the countryside, ostensibly to show my granddaughter where I grew up and went to school.   It was treacherous emotional territory, but Aimee kept up innocuous chatter sprinkled with innocent questions comparing cars, clothing, and school days “back then” with Aimee’s recent experiences. There were no life-changing conversations, but there was a constant opportunity to show honor and respect through God’s love as Mom’s memories carried both of us to some good places from her past.

How, I wondered throughout the day, would my unusually silent behavior be interpreted?  The day’s end told all.

“Before you go,” she asked, “would you help me change to my slippers?  It’s hard to bend down anymore.”  We were on the front porch, the only place with room for the wobbly plastic chair she sat in.  As I folded one knee down before her and reached to slip off a shoe, she rested her hand on my head. I cringed, expecting a blow, but it was different, soft—like a benediction, and she noted with surprise that her little girl had silver in her hair.   Kneeling there, barely restraining the tears, I swallowed and looked up. Our eyes met and held, and I could not speak for what I saw written there.

The tender look from her spoke volumes of response to words I hadn’t had to say. No she didn’t say the words every child – every person for that matter – longs to hear: words she’d never said before:  I’m sorry, and I love you. But, in that moment before they glazed over and wandered away again, her faded blue eyes looked directly into mine clearly displaying a tenderness I’d not expected, could not recall seeing before and momentarily realizing I might never see again. My bitterness slid away, replaced by gratefulness to God for filling the silence and going where I could not.

I drove away knowing I would call the court and say yes, believing that God would continue to make a way where there seemed to be no way.

Is that where you are?  Are you ready to say yes to God’s help for your caregiving journey?

I did not realize at that point that the journey I was about to begin was more about you than about me.

Perhaps you also do not realize that you will not be alone on your journey.  Yes, this journey is like a painful carving of your soul but knowing the carving is becoming a beautiful gift to the Savior’s use for others is empowering.  You too can have the Master’s hand willing to guide each stage of this part of your life.

Perhaps you are at that same position I was – not wanting to go home.  Not ready to say yes. Or perhaps you are still home, and grieving as I did for years, for the past I never had, and consequently also grieving the loving-parent holes in my heart.

Perhaps you soon may also be entering the courtroom to explain why you are willing to accept a job no one else wants.  Are you fearful and unprepared like I was?