Tag Archives: acts of kindness

I seek refuge in mindfulness

This morning, as other mornings, I turn to the skies to align my day. The dawn’s sky is navy blue and red – streaks that look as if a mad painter has swished his brush to and fro with a flourish. And peeking through a pocket or two, sits the robin’s egg blue sky.

It’s beautiful. I close my eyes.

I need to be silent for awhile, worlds are forming in my heart.  Meister Eckhart

I have turned to the dawn’s sky as refuge from the news. I did not stay up late to watch the election results. Instead, I awoke at five as usual and my husband has leaned over and whispered to me, “You are not going to be happy with the election results.”

His words caused me to leap out of bed. Stunned, I watched the CBC news.

I’ve spent my last ten years trying to live a life of simplicity, wholeness, and lovingkindness. I’ve surrounded myself with people who share similar beliefs, values and intentions. We strive to live fully, creatively, in love and compassion. Some of us meditate and live mindfully; some of us pray; and some of us share with John Muir, that Nature is my Church.

And although most of us are not Buddhists, we strive to embody its’ philosophies or tenets: Do no harm; Lovingkindness and generosity; Right resolve, right action, right speech, right concentration, etc.  All philosophies shared with Christianity and other world religions.

So this morning I feel the earth has shifted. I feel that worlds are colliding (in the immortal words of Seinfeld’s beloved character, George).

Everything has changed. Nothing has changed.

We carry on. We continue to be aware – to be mindful of the moments that make up our days, our lives. We continue to laugh, to cry, to support one another, to pray, and to meditate.

But for me, I vow to see more, to see clearly – to remove the rose-coloured glasses that prevented me from seeing and acknowledging the truth – that many suffer. And they suffer deeply.

When I wrote my free ebook on caring for parents with dementia, I offered to the reader that all of us, including those who suffer with Alzheimer’s and other dementia s, want to know that we matter – we all want to be seen, to be heard, and most of all, we want to know that we matter.

For me, this is the lesson that we have been profoundly offered.

My grandma would say when things go wrong it’s a Buddhist gift.  The Provence Cure for the Brokenhearted, Bridget Asher

Let us carry on today with eyes wide open. In awareness, may we really see each other. And let us touch base with the stillness within each of us, that continually guides and steers us to a life of acceptance, love, kindness, compassion and generosity.

I intend to let go of the discord and toxic energy that I felt this morning when I first turned on the television.

Instead, I turn to my strengths: honesty, trust, compassion, curiosity, service, creativity and connections.

All gifts.

The more we accept and expand our own unique gifts, the more we can share and connect with others. And all of this begins with awareness.

When we live in awareness (that is, we begin to pay attention to each moment) we change our perceptions. In mindfulness, we perceive the many acts of grace that surround us.

Acts of grace. Those are the gifts that will transform us.

 

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“Oh, grandma. Look at all the other grandmas!”

I’m really getting tired of how people react to a long-term care facility. And I’m really getting tired of how people treat someone who has a dementia as if that person no longer mattered.

Family members and visitors (and once in a blue moon, a staff member) will often lean in and whisper to me, “Just shoot me if I ever have to live here. Just shoot me.”

And even though I understand where they are coming from – fear – it still hurts me when I hear the comment. How can we accept our present moment, when we are living in such deep fear?

What do we fear? We fear getting old, aging, illness and disease, losing our memory, losing our physical capabilities, losing control, and dying. Our deepest fear is that no one will take care of us when we cannot take care of ourselves, and that we will spend our last days in a long-term care facility – alone.

But I also believe that we fear that we will no longer matter.

When we constantly judge long-term care facilities, and when we dread the weekly or bi-weekly, or daily visits to them, do we not deny our loved one who lives in the care home dignity and respect?

Are we not (in a not so subtle way) expressing distaste for the space and, therefore,  disrespect for our loved one? Isn’t there an undertone of dread and dismay? “I’m so glad I don’t live here (thank God!) but hey, mom, hope you settle in here nicely!” I can’t help thinking of that line, See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya!

When I wrote an eBook about my experience of caring for parents with Alzheimer’s, I included a story of my friend who visited her mother in a long-term care home and took her granddaughters to visit. Her one granddaughter grabbed my friend’s leg and hid behind her. She began to shake; she was terrified.

Her other granddaughter stopped dead in her tracks, looked around the spacious, open activity room filled with residents, and clapped her hands. With a big, silly grin on her little face, she exclaimed, “Oh, grandma. Look at all the other grandmas!”

From that moment on, her granddaughter was always excited to visit her great-grandmother.

And I am willing to bet that my friend’s mother (and all of the other residents) looked forward to her visits, too.

When we visit our loved ones with dementia, do we visit with an open mind? Or do we visit with dread? I believe that our loved ones sense our state of expectation (or energy) when we visit. What if they can feel the dread?

When I volunteer at the long-term care home where my mother used to live, I see a lot of unhappy residents. But I am also witness to many beautiful moments of love, laughter, joy, kindness and compassion. These small moments are exquisite.

I see wives, husbands, daughters, sons and grandchildren who visit daily or bi-weekly. I wish I had a dollar for every cup of tea or coffee or cookie that accompanies most visits. Many cups of tea are shared with residents and their loved ones. And here’s the beautiful thing: Many of these same visitors bring extras for other residents. (And staff.)

When I visit some residents and enter their personal rooms, flowers often welcome me – some are elaborate bouquets and others are simple posies. Greeting cards, postcards, posters and photos are pinned to bulletin boards or line the window sills. Handmade quilts or knitted afghans line the bottom of the beds, or are draped over comfortable, cushy bedside chairs.

In a quick glance around the room I can usually spot the family who cares about their loved one’s well-being. Books are piled high; bird feeders that overflow with seed hang outside the windows; walls display framed photos of family life, horses, dogs, ships, farms, landscapes and cityscapes from their home countries, angels, prayers, and life affirmations: Family, Love, Laughter top the list.

I’ve witnessed personal support workers who sneak extra cups of tea (and cookies) to the resident who has a sweet tooth; I’ve witnessed staff lovingly hug residents and rock them as if they were new-born babes. And I’ve leaned against the wall with tears in my eyes while a personal support worker has sung to a distraught or confused resident. (You Are My Sunshine is definitely top of the charts here.)

I have witnessed the residents who have no dementia support those who do. Residents look out for one another, and care for one another. Hugs and pats on the arm are doled out freely and frequently. (My mother who wandered the hallways in her wheelchair would often be returned to her room by another resident, Here, Gwen, you live here. And her dining companions would often greet me to report my mother’s latest skipped meal. You should know, my dear; your mother is not eating properly.)

When you witness the small acts of kindness and compassion, you begin to understand the deeper meaning (or at least the lessons within) of aging, disease, dying and death; you begin to understand that we are all connected – that we are all One. You begin to understand that love makes all the difference.

We are not meant to live forever in our physical body. We are all going to age, and one day, to die.

When we accept this unchangeable fact of life, we can begin to let go of some of our fear.

Instead of announcing that I would rather die than end up here in a long-term care home, why not begin to make life easier for those who do live here. Why not visit more often, not less; visit with love, not fear; visit with anticipation, not dread. If you are disturbed by the management and care of your loved one, visit often so that you can become an advocate. Become better informed: visit the care facilities website, the Ministry of Health’s website, and learn what the basic standards are. Speak up if you have an issue. Learn the names of the staff and begin to advocate for your parent. Attend the care meetings. Become a visible presence in the home. That will make a difference.

But recognize your emotions and discern whether you are fearful of the place because I dislike all facilities, like these; or do you have legitimate complaints about care.

Acceptance is a choice.

We can all open our eyes and choose to see the love, the laughter, and the joy that is still present – within the home, and within our loved one. They still matter.

When we choose to experience the joy in the present moment, disease, aging, and death do not disappear. But we will transform ourselves. Because in spite of the suffering, we choose to experience the wonder and awe in the most simplest of moments. We choose to see the beauty in everything – even in suffering. We choose to see the strength, the resilience, the exquisite vulnerability.

Suffering reminds us of some universal truths: We are not perfect. Nor is our body. We are human. Humans suffer. Life is not just. Life is not always balanced. To be whole, we must accept the good and the bad. Love can make a difference. In the last moments of life, love is the only thing that matters.

Over time I have learned that within us is an invincibility – that no matter how life unfolds, we endure. I’m still here. You’re still here.

That self-knowledge matures us as we recognize that challenges in life will not defeat us. Those same challenges (or crises) may fell us to the ground, but we will get up – sooner or later.

That’s one of the lessons that I have learned on my journey. When I visit the care home (or a hospital), I am reminded that when I first entered these halls so many years ago, I was heart-broken. When we had to make the decision to enter my father into a long-term care home where he lived for a short time before his death, I wept for hours. I was felled.

Now I visit with love and joy. I got up. I am still here.

I have absorbed the wisdom and strength that is offered to me each time I visit. I am not hear to cure anyone or fix anything. My presence is enough. (That’s another lesson that I have learned.)

I am here to just visit. My presence alone validates and honours the residents. My presence alone shares their pain and suffering. My presence alone says You are worthy. I care for you.

Laughter, love, joy and compassion tether us to our spirit. Or, perhaps laughter, love, joy and compassion is our spirit.

I challenge everyone who visits someone in a care home (or a hospital) to let go of their basic fears. Remember the little girl who clapped and exclaimed, “Oh, grandma, look at all the other grandmas!”

 

 

You are amazing!

You are amazing!

When I open the card, it reads You are amazing!

My husband and I just celebrated another anniversary and we exchanged cards. And even though it’s been a few days since I received his card, I am still enjoying the afterglow. Ha!

Because a funny thing has happened since he gave me the card – I feel really amazing!

When he enjoyed the simple tomato sauce on his pasta that I had made last evening, I tell him well, I am amazing!

When I screwed something up during the day, and then fix it later, he says well, you are amazing. We laugh over the screw-up.

When I discover a box of half-eaten ice cream in the freezer, we both exclaim hey, I am amazing!

So while I am walking along the river this morning, trying not to leave rivers of sweat on the sidewalk (because it is so humid today), I remind myself well, sweat or not, I am amazing!

Hmmm. Apparently compliments – in writing – have a lasting effect. But only if we pay attention and give the words awareness. Because it is in the reflection of the words, I realize that we are all amazing beings.

I think I am onto something here. I think we should begin to tell other people how amazing they are. Maybe we could distribute little cards – business cards – that just say, “You are amazing!”

We all know amazing people – my hairdresser who juggles a job and four children (whenever I see her she is smiling) – she is amazing! She has the funniest stories to tell about her children; I sit in her chair and belly laugh throughout the whole visit.

The woman who owns the tailor shop where I take my pants to be hemmed – we always have a nice chat. She is from Scotland and has interesting stories. We share a love of birds and birdsong – she reminds me to Google warblers and nightingales. I think she is amazing!

My neighbours on either side of our house – one is blind in one eye, and always tells me interesting facts about the weather, birds, squirrels and raccoons. He grew up on a farm where he watched the changing sky and birds come and go;  his weather predictions are so spot on – I have no need to turn to the weather forecast on television.  So is the family on the other side of our house – they are raising two children; their daughter has special needs. They are all amazing!

When I watch the personal support workers at the residence where I volunteer, I know they are amazing…their acts of kindness go above and beyond their daily routines. I once sat in a room with a resident and heard a personal support worker singing You Are My Sunshine to a resident who has Alzheimer’s. When I went into the hallway to see who was singing (and who the lucky resident was) I found them walking arm in arm. She is amazing (as is the resident)!

And I think my husband is pretty amazing – after all, he gave me the card. Ha.

No kidding…it takes attention and awareness to see the beauty within each of us. We have to begin to look beneath the superficial, to listen to the words and intonations, to become more insightful and understanding of others. In short, we have to stop and spend some time with people, instead of rushing by them without a glance. When we begin to spend our time enjoying people and their stories, that’s when we begin to live in the moment. And we’ll surely begin to see how each of us matters, how we are all interconnected, and that we are all  awesome.

In Neale Donald Walsch’s Communion With God he writes:

“Which snowflake is the most magnificent? Is it possible that they are all magnificent – and that, celebrating their magnificence together they create an awesome display?  They melt into each other, and in the Oneness. Yet they never go away. They never disappear. They never cease to be. Simply they change form. And not just once, but several times: from solid to liquid, from liquid to vapour, from the seen to the unseen, to rise again, and then again to return in new displays of breathtaking beauty and wonder. This is Life, nourishing Life.”

Let’s begin to appreciate one another for the simple pleasures and the simple gifts that we all hold. Whether we are loving parents or grandparents, creative artists, kind neighbours, inspiring teachers, helpful volunteers, cheerful postal workers, supportive counsellors… oh, the list is just endless…we all are unique, beautiful and amazing in what we do and who we are.

Let’s shout it out: You are amazing!

 

 

 

 

Whose “reality” matters?

My mom was convinced that the new resident was an actor from her favourite television show Coronation Street, a popular British soap that many Canadians watch faithfully.

Even though the new resident didn’t have any similarities to the actor, she was insistent, “It’s him. He lives down my street.” Down the street was her term for the hallway.

Misunderstandings, misinterpretations, hallucinations, delusions and altered perceptions are all symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease and of other dementia-related diseases. Unfortunately, altered perception is also one of the most misunderstood symptoms that families of a person with a dementia-related disease struggle with when their loved one is ill.

My own family floundered with our mother’s perceptions and hallucinations nearly every day. I learned that we were not alone: Many persons with Alzheimer’s suffer greatly from this symptom of brain disease.

In fact, since I have been volunteering at the long-term residence where my mother lived (she died last December), I have discovered that many of the residents are affected by both delusions and altered perceptions – even those who do not seem to have any other symptoms of dementia.

I have learned that a seemingly lucid person can suddenly demand to be taken back to her room because her daughter has arrived for a visit…when I look around, there is no daughter. In fact, sometimes, I turn around in a complete circle…There is no one here! Just me.

Other times I have been in the middle of a conversation with a resident and suddenly that person will look up and insist that “the children have arrived.” You guessed it: There are no children.

My friend’s mother often had an animal friend that slept in her room. She would ask my friend to pat the animal, speak to the animal, and, of course, feed the animal – which my friend lovingly obliged her. So she fed it, patted it, and spoke to it often; imaginary food, of course.

When we go along with the hallucinations and altered perceptions, we are not harming our loved one’s reality. Their altered perception is their reality. When we argue or attempt to correct our loved one, we cause further harm and suffering. Worse, we hurt their pride – their sense of self-worth.  (We need to understand that people with Alzheimer’s still understand disrespect and intolerance from someone…they just do not process that negative energy the same way as someone with a non-damaged brain.)

So how should we respond when our loved one tells us that the boys are in the trees? (That was a common refrain of my mother’s. “What kind of parent allows their children to climb those tall trees?”)

First, I think it is important to understand why our loved one is seeing things! Compassion comes from our understanding another person’s viewpoint. And it is in compassion that we can lovingly adapt to or manage our loved one’s symptoms.

Hallucinations are not necessarily hallucinations; in fact, our loved one might be experiencing visuoperceptual difficulties. Many people who have a dementia-related disease have damage to the visual system; therefore, they have visual problems. Visual mistakes are often made since the patient’s disease (the deterioration of brain cells) prevents them from seeing an item and then interpreting it correctly (and many times they do not name it correctly because of their language deficiencies).  Hallucinations do occur, of course.

As caregivers, we can begin to discern or differentiate between misperceptions and visual mistakes that our loved one makes and hallucinations.

For instance, when my mother was alive she made many remarks that were quite outrageous, but when my family learned that her visual system could be damaged because of her loss of brain cells, we took a closer look at what she said: “The boys are in the trees and they have been there all day.”  On closer inspection, the wind was whipping the tree tops and the leaves were moving frantically back and forth. This movement caught my mother’s eye and she mis-perceived the tree and its leaves.  Because of the brain damage from the disease, she no longer could judge or interpret events; hence, she saw boys in the trees. Even though most people who do not have damaged brains would realize that the suggestion was ridiculous, my mother could not make that distinction.

A common mistake our loved ones with dementia make, time and time again, is that they see people in a chair by the bed.  If a house coat or sweater was draped over the chair, or even a comforter or a blanket, that outline of fabric would fool my mother and she would see people. This is a very common mis-interpretation that people with dementia-related diseases make.

Misperceptions and altered reality are two of the many causes that allow for accidents and falls. My mother was constantly underestimating the exact location of the table – she would either place a cup of tea on the table and misjudge the distance;  hence, a spill.  Or, she would sit down onto the toilet and miss it entirely; she would try to climb steps and her foot would hover in the air as she probably could not see the steps clearly. She would trip over the doorway threshold.

There were times when I took my mother into the bathroom and she would catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror and she would stop and refuse to go into the room: “There is another woman using the bathroom, Mal. Who is she?” ( I would reply in a quiet voice, “Mom, perhaps it is you!”) She would pause and then burst out laughing. Notice that I allowed for her to make the adjustment – my way of allowing her some dignity.

These encounters occurred throughout the whole day with my mother. She would absolutely refuse to go into the hallway from her room because she was convinced my Dad was in the hallway with his floozies. My dad had died two years earlier, and no, he did not have floozies (to my knowledge. Ha!). To make a distinction, this was a hallucination, not a misinterpretation. (She was not mis-perceiving people as there were no people or objects to mis-identify in the hallway.)

But along with hallucinations and misconceptions and altered perceptions, there are times when our loved ones insist that someone has stolen something or a personal care worker is now a “thief.” The many times my mother said my father visited her room to raid her closets would be considered a delusion – most delusions focus on infidelity, paranoia of someone, theft, or abandonment.  Unfortunately, delusions are also another common symptom of dementia-related diseases – and since they usually “finger-point” to a family member or a staff member, they can cause hurt and bitterness. With understanding the causes of these symptoms, we can let go of the story and not take them personally.

Then there are the times when residents insist animals are sitting beside them or friends have visited when you know for a fact, no one visited them that particular time.

But since time and space are confused, a meeting that takes place on Monday can be remembered as taking place on Saturday. And, when someone does visit, our loved one insists that they did not!

It’s all very confusing, yes? Yes! And frustrating. Until you accept the symptoms of the disease and just go with the flow. I make it sound so easy and yet I know that it is not. It is a constant challenge to live in the Now, and accept our loved one’s disease. But it is what it is.

We cannot change our loved ones. Only we can change!

As Gandhi said, Be the change that you want to see.

Hallucinations occur more often in people with Lewy Body Disease or Parkinson’s, but clearly Alzheimer’s does present these symptoms.

Here are a few tips that I learned when I cared for my father and my mother:

  • avoid talking or laughing or whispering while near the person with Alzheimer’s – if that does occur, then ensure that you clearly explain to your loved one on the exact nature of the discussion (otherwise, your parent misinterprets or mis-assumes/deludes herself, imagines/perceives a story or complete fabrication)
  • no loud, violent TV (again, our loved one thinks the television story is real)
  • don’t argue in front of the person with Alzheimer’s (this frightens them and they stay frightened long after; some people become quite traumatized)
  • help them look for missing or stolen items – just go with the flow (never insist that they are wrong or imagining that an item is stolen)
  • try to have duplicates of the lost items (for example, an extra wallet, loose coins, another set of keys) when they “lose” something, now you can “find” it
  • do not argue with your loved one over the reality of a situation – in their mind, this is real for them
  • increase the lighting in their rooms (they cannot see well)
  • de-clutter the room (if they live in their own home, de-clutter the entire home)
  • hang clothing in the closets – draped items cause visual problems for them; a coat rack can become “a person”)
  • ditto, pillows and cushions – they are mis-identified often
  • watch the person’s movements and adapt to them – often my mother would stretch out her arm and I recognized that she was going to just drop the cup  (into space). I began to anticipate her moves and I would take the cup from her, or move a table closer to her.
  • say aloud what the item or object is when you hand it to them
  • in the case of mis-identification, learn to identify her visitors  (E.g. “Oh, Mom, here’s Margaret, your best friend. She has come for a visit.”)
  • anticipate that they need support or help when they climb stairs
  • be aware that shiny floors or patterned carpets can completely “dazzle” their eyes or confuse them (take their arm and gently say, “Allow me to help you up the stairs. There is a step in front of you. You will need to lift your right foot.” Or, you might remind them that the floor has transitioned to carpet.)
  • learn to go with the flow and agree gently with them on most occasions (do not argue, cajole, or try to persuade them that they are wrong – you will never win the argument)
  • if they become agitated, stay calm and lean into them – rub their arm or hug them; tell them “This must be difficult for you. I am here for you.”
  • recognize your emotions when your loved one has an altered perception; recognize and accept the emotion – do not suppress it or deny it; learn to accept your emotions as a natural and human reaction to our loved one’s stories (in time, you will let go of the hurt)
  • try to maintain a sense of humour

To recap, objects are visually seen but the impaired brain cells (and damage to the visual system) misinterpret what the objects are. What many of us, as caregivers, have labelled as hallucinations are not; they are visuoperceptual difficulties.

Similarly, the person with a dementia-related disease will misunderstand or misinterpret conversations, even conversations that they overhear. Many a visit with my mother included bizarre re-telling of stories – some had an element of truth in them somewhere, but mostly her stories were based on erroneous facts and misunderstandings.

One time my mother told me that her sergeant insisted that she move to another home.  Nothing we said could allay her fears. Weeks later I learned that the new director of the home had introduced herself to many of the residents. My mother’s impaired judgment led her to believe that the director was the sergeant and that some of the goals stated were misinterpreted to mean changes. Because my mother could not discern fact from fiction she insisted that the sergeant was moving her to another location.

So one can now understand that persons with Alzheimer’s and other dementia-related diseases do not see and interpret things the same way that we do…their brains take in and mis-interpret visual information causing them to misjudge distances, dimensions, depths, colours, items, events, and circumstances.

Once we become aware of this new information, caregivers and family members (and visitors and volunteers) can let go of their fears. Remind yourself: it’s the disease, not them. And learn to go with the flow. Try not to take things (wild stories about your father) personally.

It is completely natural and human for family members (and caregivers) to be fearful of these kinds of symptoms – it is natural that we are shocked when we first hear such accusations and wild stories. We feel sadness and grief. These wild stories or hallucinations trouble us deeply – we are both bewildered and saddened, but we are also totally overwhelmed in how to cope with them.

When they first occur, we reason with our loved ones:  “Now mother, you could not have seen a donkey in the yard…here, let’s go outside and I’ll prove it.” (Yes, early in my journey, I actually tried to reason with her, over a donkey.)

Then, we argue and debate: “Okay, let’s call the neighbours and find out if they saw the donkey.” (Yes, I argued and debated the odds of actually seeing a donkey in the backyard. I lost. My mother reasoned “many farmers have donkeys in their back yard. Who’s to say one of them wandered onto my property.” When I explained that there were no farmers on our residential street, she calmly answered, “Well, you don’t know everything.” Just for the record, there is no retort to that remark.)

Then, we cajole (and blackmail): “Now, look. If you continue to see donkeys, we will have to call the doctor. And you know that you don’t want me to call him, right?” (Thankfully, I did not resort to blackmail, but I have heard many family members say such things to their parents when I visit the long-term care residence.)

When we have more information about these kinds of symptoms, we all learn to accept their actions, and we begin to have more compassion, kindness and understanding for the person who has a dementia.

Besides, what’s the harm in seeing a donkey.

The next time our loved one insists they saw …a donkey, a dog with rabbit ears, a horse in the bedroom, boys in the trees…let’s respond with love and understanding…

“I’m so glad that you have a new pet. I bet he keeps you company when you are feeling lonely. What did you name him?” or just say, “Any animal would be lucky to have you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing leads to peace and contentment

When I write, I process my world. And I know that most writers write because that’s what they do. And it is through this process that I figure out what really matters to me. It’s as if my writing pares down my life; as if my writing gets rid of the stuff that no longer matters to me, or serves me, or feeds me.

So I write about the things that matter to me: self-care, caring for our loved ones, compassion, love, awareness, acceptance, creativity, expansion, nature, joy, my spiritual journey, Grace, Oneness, and gifts from the Universe.

Pare down or detach. What remains? What matters to you? I’m guessing that most of us care about our families, love, contentment and happiness, health, our pets, our homes, and how we spend our time here on earth – jobs, careers, occupations, service to others, our purpose or life’s work.

Fulfilling our life’s  purpose or destiny is what really matters to many of us. But in a strange twist or irony, I find that letting go or detaching from this pursuit of finding my life’s purpose has taken me to a place of contentment and peace within myself.

When we focus too much on our need to find our life`s purpose, we forget that just in living our daily lives, that is – to live in the Now and appreciate each moment; to become aware of the beauty that surrounds us in all things; to fully appreciate our activities and the people that we meet each day; to listen to others and respond from our hearts, authentically; to accept our reality and let go of control and the need to orchestrate our day; to just flow with the Universe – this is how we live our life’s purpose.

Our life’s purpose is to just be. Doesn’t that sound simple? Well, it is. To just be is authentic and honest. Each of us will just be differently…and that’s why when we accept this humble, so simple act of just being (our best that we offer) that the light bulb turns on! Wait a minute. If I am enough just as I am, then that means that you and you and you are also enough (just as you are!). Whew. That’s mind-blowing. We no longer have to compete against each other. We can let go of the need to be smarter than others, richer than others, or thinner than others. We can let go of the fallacy that we are meant to be the best or to outdo everyone else because the reality is that we are already perfect – we are enough (just as we are).

And since we are enough just as we are, then clearly we are already fulfilling our life’s destiny. We are already on the path. We are clearly doing what we are supposed to be doing. Today I am writing about what matters to me. I am supposed to be writing – I know this because I found my writing passion while caring for my parents who had Alzheimer’s. It was one of many gifts that I received (and now share) during that challenging journey.

It’s why I remind people when they are caring for loved ones, that they are on a journey of discovery – yes, today it is difficult; but tomorrow will be full of possibilities and gifts – all ready to be learned (and then shared) because of the journey that you walk today. I remind them that they were meant to be on this journey of caregiving and I know this because of one simple fact: They are on this journey. It is their reality. The Universe makes no mistakes.

When I looked after my father and then my mother, and when I now volunteer at the long-term care facility where she lived, I know that my simple acts of kindness are directly related to my fulfilling my life’s destiny. I am meant to be there – with my peeps. (My sister’s term when she refers to the residents.) I know this without a doubt for one simple reason – I am truly happy when I visit my peeps. I feel such peace and contentment within.  This is the gift that I receive each time that I visit them.

Whether you are laughing with your loved ones, reading a book to your beloved child or grandchild, teaching students, showing someone how to fix a broken object, telling someone a joke so that they will smile, running an errand for a neighbour…it matters not what you do…but how does it make you feel?

When you are feeling joy well up within or you are grinning from ear to ear (and you don’t even know why) or you are feeling so peaceful, then I am pretty certain that you are fulfilling your life’s destiny.

Ah, the sweet gifts that come from writing: recognition, awareness, attention. All gifts.

 

 

 

 

 

That’s a good bingo!

That's a good bingo!

That’s a good bingo!

On Wednesday afternoons at the long-term care facility where my mother lived, you will find me in the community hall (or according to my mother – the big mall where people sing) volunteering at bingo.

I go with an open mind and an open heart.

Every week I learn something new from my peeps at the residence. (My sister calls them my “peeps” and I like that so I use the term often.) The gifts that they give me are many and I cherish them.

If you want to meet people who are truly authentic…then visit a long-term care facility. Even those who have Alzheimer’s or a dementia-related disease are real and authentic. When you least expect it, the true essence of each of us shines through; the residents are no different.

My peeps inspire me, and teach me to live in the Now. Often they are so thankful and grateful for the smallest of kind gestures that I just want to weep. Whenever I am with them, I find myself laughing and full of joy.

Today at bingo, my beloved friend (who sat at my mother’s dining table and kept an eye on my mother) joined me. She is full of spirit and enthusiasm – she meticulously cares for her attire, hair, and make-up and always looks so wonderful that I sometimes have to re-check what I have on…am I appropriately dressed to visit her? She visits the chapel daily, she confides, as she is deeply spiritual. She didn’t have to tell me that – I guessed it from her loving and positive energy that she emits every time that I visit her. (I want to be just like her when I grow up!) In spite of a difficult past that I uncover in bits and bobs (as my mother would say), and because she is so strong and determined at the age of 92, I so want to hear her story and record it. But she’s skeptical and isn’t ready yet. I accept that because I have learned that she has withstood many terrible events and grief, and I am deeply aware that perhaps I, too, am not ready to hear her story. I trust that when the time is right, we will recognize that moment and she will share her story.

Another one of my peeps at the bingo table has had a full and rich life in the public eye. I know that because I recognize the people in the photos in her room when I pick her up to go to bingo. She is remarkable, in spite of her dementia. She loves music – I would call her a music aficionado – and often rates the music in the community hall. Her face tells the story – she frowns and says oh, no, that isn’t music, or  she’ll sway to the music, tap her feet, and smile at me and say, yes! When I am with her, I am reminded that each of us (no matter how old) has a rich and colourful past. We must not underestimate anyone. (And I would like to capture her story, too.)

I love the residents’ honesty! They don’t hold back. They don’t mince words. Many people don’t like that but I suspect it’s because we are all so used to such mediocrity, such blandness, such hypocrisy in conversations…that when a real and honest conversation takes place, well, we are confused.  We see that as oh, auntie is having a bad day.  In reality, auntie is just telling it how she sees it. And it isn’t always pretty.

When they are so honest, I think they are more authentic than ever. I have learned to read their faces and the emotions that sit there…words not spoken, but humour, love, distaste, disgust…all blatantly evident.

When the residents play bingo (I overstate that), most are not actually active in the game. Instead, volunteers or staff members sit beside them and help. The volunteers/staff point to the called numbers or actually cover the numbers as the numbers are called aloud.  At my table, there are only two of us to help the residents – the other person is a staff member who is a student. She is leaving tomorrow as she has graduated from her course and so this will be the last time I see her.

She is a special person. I am in awe of her. First of all, she is young, happy, full of joy and she is not afraid to express those traits with the residents. She leans in and kisses them on their hands; she often hugs them; she laughs loudly all the time. When someone yells bingo! (no one actually yells bingo!…it’s more like a whisper because the residents are often too weak or too shy to yell) she will jump out of her seat and start jumping up and down, often dancing! Oh, I just want her to stay and play bingo with us the rest of her life! Please don’t go, I tell her, which just makes her laugh more.

She has a beautiful singing voice, too. I know this because once a month there is music therapy at the residence and I volunteer. Since I am not a very good singer, I was terrified to sing alone the first time that I volunteered. But here’s the thing about music therapy at a long-term care facility – it’s the music teacher (who is a talented volunteer) and the volunteer who do most of the singing. Usually when I round up the usual suspects for music, we have only two or three residents who will join in the singing as most of the other participants are unable to sing (for various reasons). I have learned that one does not have to actually sing…to enjoy the music. I have witnessed many a toe-tapper whose eyes are closed.

My mother sang beautifully and sang often in our home when we grew up so I am pretty sure (once again) that I am drawn to music therapy for deep, psychological reasons (Ha!) and to get over my fears.

So I sing.

And I love it. (I love the fact that I choose to sing even though I cannot.) Here’s the funny thing: the residents think I have a lovely voice! (Okay, peeps – we are going to get along just fine.)

But I digress. Our student worker (the one who is leaving at the end of this week) once started singing the hymn that we were trying to sing during music therapy. She was in an adjoining resident’s room and just chimed in.

Oh, even the residents in wheelchairs who barely move or show any emotion, woke up. It was like a miracle! I practically burst out crying, with joy. And so did the woman who leads us. We looked at each other with knowing eyes and we (all of us in that small room) were connected – by the joy of listening to the student’s beautiful voice.

Oh, yes, we will miss her. Wherever she is going, lucky them.

At my bingo table the two of us are attempting to keep track of twelve cards or so, with help from a couple of residents who actually do play bingo, but are hard of hearing. Four? No, fourteen. Forty? No, fourteen. You get the picture.

Well, eventually someone whispers bingo! and then the tables all respond…we help the bingo card winner yell it out….BINGO!

When it’s my turn to check the winning card and give back the called numbers, I am always a little nervous – many of my peeps cover more numbers when I am not looking. I think they feel like they are doing something worthwhile – if I cover one number, why not ten other numbers?

So keeping my eyes on all of their cards, pointing to numbers, and ensuring that no one is “cheating/helping” takes a lot of attention on my part.

I always remind myself to just go with the flow of the afternoon.

Once it has been established that the card is good – that is, all the numbers have been correctly called and identified, the caller yells, “That’s a good bingo,” and we all cheer. As if we have really won the lottery.

Inevitably, after we do a victory dance (whether or not we win), the two of us help the residents to the smaller activity room (the room as my mother used to call it “where the whirling dervish lives,” the high-energy activity director) where the whirling dervish, oops, I mean, the activity director has prepared coffee, tea and cookies for the participants.

When we sit at the round table enjoying our coffees, I often think of my younger life as a mother, sitting with other young mothers, talking about our daily lives and keeping one eye on our kids. I’ve come full circle. Life has an unexpected symmetry, I think. Here I am with residents, keeping one eye on them as they sip their hot drinks, and talking about our daily lives. For a few moments, I know that I am in the flow.

And I think to myself... that’s a good bingo!

 

 

 

 

Sign on telephone pole

Last week we experienced temperatures in the minus twenties, Celcius. In spite of the cold, I decided to take my daily walk so I just added a few layers – extra tee, two pairs of mitts, hat and a headband, and wool socks. (I only break those out from retirement when it is really, really cold.)

I am glad that I walked as I noticed this sign taped to a telephone pole. I didn’t have a camera or cell phone, but today I decided to re-trace my route and see if the sign was still there…it was!

Please take a hat if you need one. Smiley face.

Please take a hat if you need one. Smiley face.