The Right Place at the Right Time doing the Right Thing

Earlier this month in our 31 Day Challenge, we were privileged to "meet" Phyllis Greene and listen as she shared her perspective on being the "Cared-For."  She admitted her struggles and frustrations with aging and coping with a terminal illness, yet her story was one of uplifting encouragement as she graciously blessed her daughter for the gift of being her Caregiver.

Today I would love to share her Daughter's Perspective:

I am the Caregiver

by D.G. Fulford

 

The other day, I was thinking about William Butler Yeats, which was a shock because I'm usually thinking about The Real Housewives of Orange County.  A line from his poem "Easter 1916" kept running through my head:

 

 "All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born."

 

All has changed utterly in the past 12 years for my mother, my daughter and me.  What a terrible, beautiful limbo we're in, this intimate and temporary time, glimmering between Before and After.

 

For years, I lived in California, then in a ghost town in Nevada.  Twelve years ago, I picked up my life and moved it back to Ohio, leaving my daughter, Maggie, who was well on her own, way out west.  I became my mother's compatriot, then caregiver after my father died.

 

At first, I didn't understand what my mother meant when she called and said she needed me during Dad's illness.  If you needed help around the house, the last person you'd call would be me.  I am more bohemian than bountiful; not a cooker, not a cleaner.  "Why would she possibly need me?"  I asked a friend.  "Fresh air," my friend said.

 

Being a writer allowed me to stay with my parents during the long winter of Dad's death.  When it came time to leave, I didn't want to.  By then, I needed Mom as much as she needed me.  Having been through a divorce, a failed business and the usual frenetic life of a single working mother, being home felt safe and right.

 

Mom's health was fine for the first few years, but time took its toll.  By her side, I steadied an arm as we went to lunch and brunch and errands.  Slowly our outings turned into a mash-up of waiting rooms, doctors' appointments and hospitals.  Soon we were picking out canes, then a walker, and finally a folding wheelchair.  Now Mom is bedridden.  She suffers from congestive heart failure and her legs don't work like they did.  She is a hospice patient.

 

In her pink bed, in her pink bedroom, you'd swear that if she had a suit on instead of a nightgown, she could be presiding over a meeting with the Franklin University Board of Trustees.  When you see her hunched over her walker, though, attempting to wheel to the bathroom, the truth cannot be denied.  "I hate being an old woman," she says.  And who can blame her?

 

We keep up our routine, Mom and I.  I call her every morning at 9:30, then run out to her house to start the day.  She has 24-hour care now, which eases my hyper-vigilance.  Most of the time, we are free to just sit and talk.  Even at this hardest time, we have had a blast.  We laugh more than we cry as we face the unfaceable together.

 

She is ready.

 

I am not.

 

Over the past 12 years, I have not had a thought that did not contain my mother.  Her life so fills my own that I cannot even think about other relationships.  I doubt that this is healthy, and sometimes weigh the wisdom of my decision.  But as the years go by, I am more and more convinced that I have been at the right place at the right time doing the right thing.  How often in a life do we get to acknowledge that?

 

My friends keep me sane - and I am surrounded by great ones.  They hear when my voice sounds crazy and come to my rescue.  We meet and we laugh, and I feel my dark clouds dissipate.  I spend a lot of time alone, too, which soothes and sustains me.  At night, I put myself away for the day, nesting with my cuddly dog, a bunch of books, my laptop and good old Mr. Television.  The next morning when I speak to Mom, I am ready to go again.

 

In the years that I have been here, my daughter has gotten married and had two glorious sons - Zachary,6, and Nate, 3.  I cannot visit them as often as I like, which is hard - the push and pull of going and staying.  I am always conscious of what could happen, while never believing in a million years that it will.

 

For 12 years, like an anticipatory survivalist, I have been steeping in my mother's sun, absorbing all the light I can.  When our last day together comes, I will be lonely; I will be rocked and knocked to me knees.  When I am ready, I will get up.  My mother's light will guide me.  The terrible part will come to an end.  The beautiful will live on within.

 

 

 

D.G. Fulford and her mom, Phyllis Greene, have written a book about their experiences.

It is called Designated Daughter: The Bonus Years 

 

Another Perspective....Through the Eyes of the Cared-For

We have been looking at Guilt these last few days from the perspective of the Caregiver.  But Caregivers don't have a monopoly on the trip-taking.  What about the Cared-For?

Yes, the one who is chronically ill, or terminally ill...the one being Cared-For.    

I know mom felt it often...would repeat a common refrain to each of us... I'm so sorry you have to be here... I wish I wasn't taking you away from your families... I hate being a burden...

Guilt.

Right in the middle of our pancreatic cancer journey, an article caught my eye in the Womans Day magazine (we happened to be frequenting doctor offices and hospitals alot about then, plenty of time to catch up on our reading!).  It was titled "Tender Loving Care."  And it shared the story of one families journey, 3 generations and one illness...the elderly mother was the Cared-For.  Her daughter the Caregiver, and her granddaughter the Supporter.   It is so perfectly appropriate to share again, right here... the perspective of the Cared-For...

I am the cared-for

by Phyllis Greene

 

It is better to give than to receive.  We have heard that cliche for so long that we don't really hear it when it's said.  But once you accept that you are old and needy, those words hit you in the face - how you wish you could still be the one who is giving.  I am 91 years old, in bed full-time now, and my heart is giving out.  I am thrice blessed with grown children who give and give to me:  Bob, D.G., and Tim give me care and love and constant devotion.

 

My sons live out of town and visit whenever they can; we are forever on the phone, talking about what's going on with them and with me.  My daughter D.G. lives 15 minutes away and is on daily duty.  She is not only my "designated daughter" or caregiver, but also my rock and my salvation.  Every time she finds a new book at the library for me or buys me flannel nightgowns or chooses a gift for me to give someone who's celebrating an occasion, she does it with a smile.  We have fun together and our bond is strong, made of honesty, trust and mutual admiration.  But - and I know she will protest this - I infringe on her time, on her work, on her life.  And I feel terribly guilty about it.

 

I try in small ways to relieve the guilt - to be the pitcher instead of the catcher - like subscribing to a family cell phone plan for D.G. and me with 500 minutes to talk, of which I use 5.  Can talking on the phone make it easier for her when she can't visit her daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren in California?

 

She visits me every day - at the expense of the rest of her life.  Caught in the vise, in the middle of the family, in the middle of the country, D.G. tends to me needs in Columbus, Ohio, while missing those two adorable grandchildren on the West Coast.  I wish with all my heart that she would get on a plane and go to see them more often.  I promise that I won't fall or get sick(er), as I've done in the past when she's gone away.  Please go, I think.  But what if, despite every precaution, something bad happens?  (Again.)  She will feel worse than ever.  And guiltily, even selfishly, I am relieved when her plane touches down and she is back home, nearby.

 

Living into your 90s is not all it's cracked up to be.  There are down days, when I am lonely and bored.  But there are more good days than bad, days when I look out my bedroom windows and see blue skies smiling at me.  And I can smile back, thinking, Just give me another season, or a season after that, or a season after that...

 

"Every day is a fresh beginning; listen, my soul, to the glad refrain," goes the quote by 19th-century poet Sarah Chauncey Woolsey.  How miraculous, at 91, to still believe you can start anew.  Less a race now, more a hobble, my life retains its luster through the love of friends and family.  Love I can still give heartily.

 

And heartily receive.

 

 

 

 

 

Phyllis Greene and her daughter, D.G. Fulford have written a book about their experiences.  It is called Designated Daughter: The Bonus Years with Mom.