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(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert
This is one of those years when I can’t talk myself into seeing the happy endings—or at least the unhappy endings that lead to deeper understanding and long-term happier endings. No matter what I said about wanting to be done with talking about unhappy topics, I am not. I can’t will myself to come up with the neat and happy moral of the story that will tie up a less-than-hope-filled post.
Although I’m feeling a bit like George Bailey on the bridge, I’m not looking to jump into the river. No, I just want to take that suitcase I bought with happy travels in mind—and run—anywhere that isn’t where I’ve been.
You see, I know God is hearing my prayers, but I’m having a hard time saying them. The good thing about God is He hears the prayers that have sunk so deep within us that we can’t even use our voices to speak them—they become so much a part of us that they rise from our very pores.
If nothing else, perhaps He’ll send me a bumbling Clarence to show me a better path than the one I am on.
Sometimes no amount of research or any continued pursuit for new solutions can fix a problem. And you especially can’t make someone else choose to see the hope in their situation if they prefer to see only loss.
You’re probably thinking I must be talking about myself, right? See, that’s the irony, isn’t it? So easy to see how to solve someone else’s problem, but then you look in the mirror and realize that maybe you’re so busy trying to solve someone else’s problem because it makes it easy not to be responsible for solving your own problems.
The years of trying to help others with celiac disease, dementia, depression, and ADD have taken their toll on me. I’m fresh out of perky solutions that are always met with a big “but”—because after all I have no idea how bad it is for someone else.
Well, the truth is they don’t know how bad it has been for me to watch them suffer. If I could, I would wave a magic wand and remove the problem. Would be much better than searching for other possible solutions that will never be good enough because the only solution the person really wants is to wake up completely healed.
They also don’t know how much I’ve suffered watching them refuse to consider anything but Plan A when I would fight to find them Plan B through Plan Infinity to aid in their movements forward. This week I realize I’m done being the pep squad. All that energy spent helping those who at this point won’t help themselves is making me feel like a failure. I know I am not—I tried, as God is my witness, I tried. Maybe I tried so hard that they didn’t think they needed to do so. But in the end all any of us really can do is help ourselves.
And during all those times of caregiving, I did not help myself. In some ways it’s just not possible to take care of yourself in the midst of others’ crises, but in other ways you have to be careful not to see any results as the only proof that what you did mattered. Some problems can’t be fixed despite anyone’s best efforts.
And so, I need a Clarence to come show me how I helped even if I could not beat back the demons of the diseases. I need to know that without me this place would have become a Potterville. Maybe I have a bit of a savior complex, but, by God, I’d like to know that sacrificing my potential trips around the world made some difference to others.
But short of that, the only thing I can control is the direction of my own footsteps in the future. A future where I stop trying to find solutions for everyone else and start looking for my own regardless of who is coming along with me on the trip.
Clarence, are you ready to earn your wings? Then help me climb down from this bridge so I can pack my suitcase for the trip of my lifetime.
(c) 2011 Trina Lambert
The year I learned my father’s cancer had returned, this time lodging in a lethal location, was the year I discovered just how little real control I had over most things beyond my outlook. My daughter was experiencing seizures we hadn’t been able to manage yet and my son’s AD/HD and his personality were railing against a school day structured the exact opposite of how his brain operated for him at that age.
Yet, I thought I lived in a world where planes did not fly into buildings and cause them to crumble to the ground.
Nonetheless, when the news outside my own home crashed into my home, it felt almost surreal to try to understand that so many homes on the other side of our country were now broken up with private loss. Yet these were fellow Americans who had gone to work or taken a plane trip—and then just fallen from the sky.
For whatever reason, I did not focus on anger even though none of them had really fallen from the sky—they had been forced to the ground by people whose hatred claimed to justify the unjustifiable.
No, what I felt on those early crisp blue September mornings—when the skies remained eerily silent and flags had been planted up and down our street—was our collective sadness. I, like others around the country, gathered in community in prayer services. Our togetherness raised in me a sense of hope. As distracted as I was by my own worries, the actions of so many to restore what it meant to be American buoyed me up.
Maybe I lost track of it all as I needed to retain focus on my own loved ones’ problems, but I don’t know how soon I started losing faith in our ability to work together. Maybe it was as simple as weekly driving by a house displaying a large hand-painted sign that declared “We will never forget—or forgive!” and starting to discover we weren’t as united as I had believed.
Ten years later, I am an expert in knowing that so much of control in life is an illusion. My father’s cancer took him six months after 9/11. Schooling for my son has remained challenging, despite his giftedness. My daughter’s seizures were finally controlled, only to be followed by bouts of depression that continue to linger. Our country has had troops fighting this subversive war of terrorism for most of this past decade.
In some ways I’ve learned to accept those situations—or at least to keep myself focused on what I can and cannot control about them, saving my actions for those that might bring about change.
But what breaks my heart most is how divided we as a nation have become. We dishonor those who did not get to return home that day when we cannot treat each other with respect and work on compromise. The people who removed our collective illusions of control that bright September morning did not believe in compromise either. Despite reports to the contrary, our founding fathers did actually compromise on many matters when they put together this country.
We can attempt to be prepared for outside attacks, but we cannot control what those people think about us. However, as long as we continue to divide ourselves, the terrorists have won—by setting us on the path to our own self-destruction.
Wouldn’t it be great if this were the year when we learned that what we can control is how we treat our own fellow citizens, even when we disagree?
(c) 2010 Sherman Lambert
This April (that cruelest month) I am mourning, but to tell you the truth it’s not so much the recent loss of my mother but that the dreaded disease, Alzheimer’s, took her several years ago. I lost my mother years before she died—that’s one of the harshest aspects of dementia.
Mom was always an absentminded person who often lived outside the norm. We just came to expect her to be slightly crazy. In fact, that was one of the best sides of who she was. Still, when our father died, we realized very quickly that he had been her timepiece, the person who anchored her in the reality of the world of chronos. For her, life was almost all kairos—for good and bad.
But the first time she forgot my birthday, that hurt. Still, it didn’t 100% point out that she had dementia because if she didn’t know what day it was, she couldn’t know it was my birthday. My brother always came to visit at Thanksgiving, so she remembered his birthday longer, but apparently insisted on making him a chartreuse green angel food cake since that was what he supposedly liked—I was the one who liked angel food and the green frosting only happened once, thankfully, when I turned 13 in the mid-1970s.
Looking back, we realize all the dementia checklists in the world don’t necessarily point out when something’s wrong with your loved one. Really what you need to note is when they can’t do the things they always did well. True, she was having trouble with words, but that isn’t so unusual for post-menopausal women. For her, when she started misspelling written words, that was a huge sign of change since she was pretty much a spelling snob. Still, all that’s water under the bridge of sorts for our family.
What I want now is to dream of her as she was throughout most of my life. However, I continue to have these dreams, as I have for the last three years, where she is either in need due to her dementia, or just needs help. Although the final years of her obvious dementia represent only about 5% of her days on this earth—thank God that percentage isn’t even higher—the most recent images seem burned in my brain.
In the pre-dawn hour, I dreamed she and I were at some sort of a roadside stop, such as you find in the Rocky Mountains, where tourists can linger to visit nature. There we saw this circular flagstone or other natural rock structure—water sat deep within this man-made well of sorts. While Mom was looking in, she fell headfirst. I screamed for help, though I didn’t see how there would be time for anyone to climb in before she succumbed to the water.
When my husband showed up, I implored him to do something. Sherman returned to report he had spoken with her and she said she was fine and would get herself out. She’d gotten hungry (blaming blood sugar difficulties was her consistent excuse for any mental or physical missteps and how she attempted to deflect any dementia concerns) and, pointing to a ladder on the inner wall, she would climb out herself after she’d eaten.
Maybe if she had admitted to needing help, she could have avoided some of her distress, but really, there was no way out from her dementia. She was as lost to us as if she’d fallen into a deep well. We could still see her, but could not reach her.
I’d like to think our family’s story is unique, but unfortunately in 2011, the Alzheimer’s Association released a report estimating 5.4 million Americans have the disease and another 14.9 million people function as unpaid caregivers.
I don’t have to read the report to know I am not alone. Sylvia from Deep Water class, Lenny from Yoga class, my nephew’s mother-in-law Anita—these are just a few of the people I know who are walking beside someone they love who has some form of dementia.
Supposedly some people don’t visit their loved ones often because of fear about their own possibility for getting dementia. Suffice it to say, when I stayed away I think it was due to fears about what was happening right then, but that may just be a form of denial. I remember thinking I hoped my kids didn’t have to go through what I had gone through with my mother—and then realizing that if they did, it could be because I had fallen into that well!
So, I will keep working through my own grief and doing what I can for my own brain health, and trying to find more peace in my dreams.
But the thing is it’s not just about my mom or me. We as a nation cannot afford to continue to lose all these brilliant minds—just hearing all the previous professions and past adventures of those who lived in my mother’s care center taught me how much these people had contributed to our society—nor can we afford the costs of caring for them, either financially or emotionally.
Between 2000 and 2008, deaths from Alzheimer’s increased 66%, while deaths from other diseases, including heart disease, decreased. We need to step up the research for this disease in order to both prevent it and treat it. Currently there is nothing that can pull any of us out of the well once we fall in.
But in my sweetest dreams, there really is a ladder on the inner wall, ready for us to climb at any time.
(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert
Here’s a warning: I’m not going to respect the metaphor today. My friend Dawn always said to be careful about mixing metaphors and yet here I am talking about walking and sailing in the same blog post. But in the earliest days of Spring and during the windy month of March, wind is associated with both land and sea in my mind. No respect at all, I tell you.
Yesterday I stepped onto the labyrinth at our church, Bethany Lutheran, prepared to stick with one word in my mind and to let God guide that path. Calling or vocare or however you want to define being called to a profession. What is to be the next turn on my journey now that I am no longer a caregiver?
Of course, my mind being mine, I couldn’t stick with one word—just as I can’t seem to stick with one metaphor. Maybe it’s because I have taken so little time to be contemplative over the last few months.
Oh, it would appear that the busyness of the past few years is over and that I could take time to just be. To sit and listen for what comes next.
But so far that hasn’t happened—I don’t know if that is about to change or if I keep myself from slowing down. There have been so many tasks in these past two months since Mom has been gone. True I have the time I used to spend visiting or doing paperwork—plus I sleep better. My nights have become more restful now that I am no longer being asked to make multiple decisions for someone else or waiting for a call that will tell me things are worse or that the worst has happened.
Nonetheless, I have had tasks associated with the before and after of her services, such as the planning for the services and handling memorial donations and our expressions of gratitude. And a look around our house will tell you that I am still dealing with additional physical items that are not my own, be they for donation, preservation, or disposal. Despite my having given several large bags of clothing to ARC last month, more donations remain. Then there are the photos and papers—to stay or to go—either to someone else or in the trash.
I won’t even discuss the storage unit.
See, I could make up a boatload of excuses for not getting on with my own life, but why do I want to stay in this harbor of uncertainty? I was called to provide care over the last several years, but I feel certain God didn’t put me on this earth to be a full-time caregiver. I just wonder how and when he’s going to give me more directions on how to pull away from the dock in order to go toward other horizons.
(Here’s where I must take care with this metaphor, as I am no sailor though Sherman is. What little I know comes from movies like Peter Pan and Pirates of the Caribbean and a few sails across reservoirs in Nebraska where I was so not in charge—not being in charge is the part of sailing I truly understand! And, that’s how I’m going to “respect the metaphor” in this writing.)
In the meantime I start uncoiling the ropes: I work on a financial plan, search for a puppy, and train for instructing Zumba® fitness. My cleared desk leaves room to focus on the writing work I accepted with the caveat that first I leave home to bid farewell to my mother.
And, so I wonder, can I be a dancing writer who works at home enough to raise a new canine-friend by her feet?
Not knowing, yesterday I took those feet on the path, walking and talking, despite not being still—in the end, my stillness is best achieved while moving.
Today this harbor is calm, but I am at the ready for the wind to pick up, fill the sails on my ship, and guide me out to sea.
My captain (my captain!)—unlike the one in Walt Whitman’s poem—still breathes: Come, Holy Spirit, come.
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
(c) 2010 Sherman Lambert
Consider this blog post my way of raising a cyber-glass to 2011.
Yes, I know we’re already 1/3 of the way into January by now, but I’m very much behind. Now that the kids go to college, it seems harder to get started with my typical beginning of the new year activities. Turns out I’m used to being left alone not long after New Year’s Day, doing dull things such as filing away the previous year and setting out a folder for incoming taxes. Those activities then lead to thoughts on what lies ahead.
But last weekend I was just thinking about how the kids were going to get everything packed into their car and whether the snow would make their return trip dangerous. My mind was focused on the very short-term. In fact, it hadn’t occurred to me that maybe I was going to miss them when they left.
Not until their car pulled out of the driveway with its brand new tires (and a spare) did I “get” that. I was just checking off tasks on a list.
When they first started college, we left them. On that Saturday in late August, we took our car and headed home via a short trip to Taos, New Mexico.
This time there’s no Taos, no big house-painting project, no overwhelming need to sleep off years of exhaustion to distract us from their absence.
Instead we have the openness of rooms emptied of extra clothes, shoes, and whatever else the kids took back with them. In fact, when I slow down enough to notice, I really can feel the fresh beginning that comes once we’ve taken down the Christmas tree and prepare to move into whatever comes next.
However, this year I do not welcome some of what comes next.
After all, my mom is still in hospice care—just because she made it into 2011 doesn’t mean she isn’t on her final journey. Yet, over the last few weeks whenever I came back from visiting her, I could return home to the noise and chaos of a household of people to distract me from that fact. I could see forward movement in my kids in this time when their lives are expanding.
Although Mom’s decline contrasted with their growth, she appeared to have regained some strength. So after the initial shock of her improved health, I think I was expecting to settle into a bit of a holding pattern this month—even if I knew the end result of what the year would bring.
What I now know is that part of me was hoping not to face that quite so alone—somehow it seemed it might be easier with my kids around to enjoy—and to support me.
Imagine my surprise last night when I arrived to feed her only to discover she has begun a pureed diet. If you know me, though, I initially roll with the punches. I just sat down to try what I’d been doing for her—helping her to eat—in a different way.
That eating has been going well for her has been a sign that she wasn’t done here yet. But part of the end process—whether for her Alzheimer’s or kidney disease—is that her body will stop accepting food. This eating method change means she is arriving at another stage—and that I may be losing one of the few constructive things I can do for her.
My touch, voice, and presence are the gifts that remain in these days ahead.
Last night as I left her there, I was so rattled I could hardly turn the car home. I was in need of a gift—which I got. Sometimes all any of us has is to remain open to hearing unbidden words. As I heard the beginning strains of “Let it Be” coming from the radio speakers, I relaxed enough to carry on with my travels for a few more minutes.
Let it be, indeed. Once home, I opened my door to our now uncluttered front room and felt the suggestion of possibility in this year, even as I prepared to face a loss such as this. There is still a light that shines on me . . .
To 2011.
(c) 2010 Trina Lambert
That semester I was involved in one of those group projects from Hell where everyone does the work but doesn’t always agree. Early in December our group came together to put some final touches on the project. One member apologized that she was a little slow because she had been sick while another apologized since she was in charge of the company holiday party and had been up all hours celebrating. That’s when I told them I could top their excuses—not only was I pregnant with twins but also since I had just hit my second trimester, I had been pregnant most of the semester and had been happy to stay awake during class, let alone finish the work. Just completing that term was one of the best gifts ever, if only so I could sleep more.
Our Decembers have been crazy busy ever since, despite our best efforts to keep Christmas celebrations themselves in line. It took me three more Decembers (and another half year) to finish that degree while living with young twins. The first post-graduation Christmas, free from the additional stress and work of school deadlines, was a delight!
A few years later Sherman began his Master’s degree studies—by that time all the activities related to having grade-school-aged children made it even harder for him to fit in his schoolwork, especially during December. When he graduated in December of 2002 (yes—we added a graduation into the December mix—but saved the party until January!) we vowed that from then on, only family members born in 1992 could attend college—and now they are—which means they are experiencing their own December madness right now.
But the years in between Sherman’s graduation and now have been full-speed-ahead years also. Middle school and high school added more challenging final projects and tests and, of course, concerts and parties, too.
(c) 2010 Trina Lambert
When Mom broke her heel three years ago on Christmas Eve, little did we know how much more involved we would become in helping her with her daily life. That Christmas it seems we barely had our tree up two weeks—we needed to take it down to make space for papers and other items we had grabbed to figure out how to transition to having her live in our home, for awhile, and, later, make a permanent move to Denver.
Meanwhile, our kids continued with the fast pace of high school December requirements. Although we finally purchased one of those pre-lighted trees and could set out the tree otherwise unadorned, we were happy to get out the remainder of the decorations by December 21. And what wasn’t necessary didn’t happen.
Which makes yesterday’s activity—a mundane one for many of you—seem all the more miraculous. After replacing our porch six years ago and losing the built-in attachments for Christmas lights, we finally made it possible to hang lights again. Sherman installed new hooks—I held the ladder—while the dogs, Fordham and Abel, surveyed the neighborhood. Then I continued to hold the ladder (or my husband, when necessary, to keep him from falling into the rosebush and its sadistic thorns) while he hung up our brand new chili pepper lights to go along with the 3 Margaritas paint colors. Then he added blue light ropes we already owned that really match our house now.
OK, we still needed new extension cords, but by 9:30, after some additional ladder ballet (and a few inappropriate language choices), our 3 Margaritas home was ready and lighted for Christmas!
Not only that, but there are already presents under the tree—on December 13, no less. Who knows, maybe we’ll write and send out the sequel to our last Christmas letter—the one we sent in January 2006 . . .
(c) 2010 Trina Lambert
At the same time, we’ve given the kids the gift of being able to do their own projects and tests! Jackson finishes today and Christiana finishes tomorrow. With good weather and traveling mercies, we expect to see them very soon—tired from their own crazy busy Decembers—and in just a little bit of awe to see what their parents can accomplish with a little bit of time.
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
My days are much calmer than they’ve been in years—and my nights, too. The kids are away at college and my mom’s health has been relatively stable. Sherman and I have been doing projects that have been put off since my mom fell and moved to Denver almost three years ago—and since her rapid decline into dementia became evident and required so many extra tasks—and brought on a whole lot of worry and loss.
Truth is I couldn’t really even give Mom the attention and love she deserved during much of that journey because my life was divided between concern for her and concern for helping my daughter to find a way out of depression.
For so long I lived one day at a time—and for a while there, it seemed I could only focus on more like one hour at a time.
When stuck in caregiving mode, “everyone” tells you to take care of yourself. You do what you can—I exercised and blogged as much as I could. But so much was left undone. And, as I’ve noted before, when I’m upset, I’m less efficient (thanks to those darn emotions!) than usual.
Since I’ve never really been efficient, the “to do” lists were even more overwhelming during our hard times. To retain sanity, I had to pull in and focus on caring for my loved ones and myself. The larger community of this world was going to have to wait for my time and efforts.
Even after a few months of the slower pace of the empty nest, I’m still saying “no” to many requests. I have the time on the calendar—I do—but I just feel pulled to spend time here in my home where, thanks to some of our recent work, the chaos is no longer overwhelming. It’s as if the adrenaline has not quite left my system and I have to take my pace down to a crawl to relearn that not everything requires a “fight or flight” response. I’ve had to be so flexible and reactive for so long that I find it especially hard to give up planned down time—even when people really need help. I also know that there will likely be more surprises on Mom’s final journey.
This is where the little angel and devil begin fighting over my shoulders about what I do and don’t deserve. I can’t tell if this is a moral dilemma or a health dilemma—or both. Part of me feels as if I am acting selfishly right now, but another part is not sure I am recovered enough yet from all the twists in my own journey to reach out to others very often.
As it turns out, lately, thanks to the little physical ironies of aging, I’ve found myself awake when I would prefer to be asleep. Since my usual get-to-sleep techniques don’t seem to be working, I’ve figured out I might as well spend the extra time praying. If I can’t put my hands to work doing for others, maybe I can put them together in prayer.
All my life I have been much better at giving through actions versus with contemplative offerings. My everyday actions were my prayers. I pray that, in the near future, I will have worked through the scar tissue enough to return to living more as the spontaneous, giving person I used to try to be.
In the meanwhile, just give me Jesus . . . and a little more time.
(c) 2010 Trina Lambert
This may sound like minor news, but to Sherman and me, it’s major news. By now it should be old news to many readers that: a. we live in a modest 1940s house; b. handling “stuff” isn’t our skill area; and, c. we’ve been a bit overwhelmed with my mother’s possessions over the last few years. All those factors did not make the arrival of another couch a happy occasion for us.
We’ve moved Mom four times since 2008—and if we were any good at moving in the first place, maybe he and I wouldn’t have lived in the same house for 25 and 22 years, respectively.
In April 2008 we moved what she would need for her 630 square foot apartment from her 1,100 square foot condo in Estes Park, but we decided it made more sense to get a new couch for her in Denver and have it delivered. That was easier said than done because couches seem to have become super-sized in the past several years. She looked like Lily Tomlin’s Edith Ann on most of the couches in the store—we found one simple beige couch that was comfortable for both her and taller people. Surprisingly, it took five weeks to arrive at her apartment while they made this couch they didn’t carry in their warehouse.
Move number two followed in March 2009 right before her condo finally sold. She had packed a lot into the surprisingly well designed storage of her home and its single car garage. We filled a 10’ x 10’ unit in Denver—and haven’t had much time to cull items out other than for an occasional donation or to find an item someone in the family could use.
August 2009 found us surprised to be moving her into the secured wing where she lived. Moving the couch from the 5th floor to the 1st was also unexpectedly challenging, even with the wide hallways. This time she would live in 300 square feet—so more possessions went into storage, while others, such as her queen-sized bed and matching dresser and night stand, were sold at the same time we purchased a single bed frame, mattress, and box springs.
The most recent move in March 2010 meant she only needed clothing and pictures. Wow. But in the last few months of our kids’ last few months at school, we didn’t have much time to do anything, but hang on and enjoy the ride. The storage unit had room for the bed, but not the couch. So we draped it and left it protected—for the most part—on our picnic/ping pong table on the covered porch, only moving it to the side for our kids’ graduation celebration. Yup, we pretty much looked like the Clampetts (the hillbillies from Beverly Hills, that is!) minus the big mansion.
We didn’t need a couch, having bought one for the upstairs at the same time she bought the couch, and having bought one for the downstairs in June 2009.
Truthfully, it never occurred to us that Mom would only need the couch for less than two years.
And, after the twin near debacles of bringing in our current couches (see blog post for reference), we knew our house could rip up this near-new couch, even if it came in for a temporary stay. Plus, Fordham, our English Springer Spaniel, is a dog’s dog—we don’t buy beige cloth furniture with him in the home. Heck, we don’t even wear light-colored clothes with him in the home.
Mom had paid for the stain protection and with a little cleaning by the chemicals in the provided kit, the couch really did look nearly new. Thus began our summer’s long odyssey to try to sell it on Craigslist for a price that matched the condition.
(c) 2010 Sherman Lambert
Call me stubborn or a fool—after all it was on my patio all summer—but I wouldn’t compromise much on the price. It’s not like my mom doesn’t need the money to pay for her prescriptions or recent hospital stay. What I saw for sale by others showed me couches that had been used regularly by families, just as the ones in our home have been. You can tell where we sit on them—and you could see that in these other couches.
After a few Nigerian e-mail scam replies (“We’ll send you a money order and then you can send the product.” What?) as well as people who wanted to pay a lot less or who didn’t show up, we finally changed our ad to read something like “Couch used only by a little old lady on Sunday” to demonstrate the condition.
We also added in a minimal fee for delivery to those who didn’t have access to a vehicle—a fee much lower than the $69.00 Furniture Row originally charged.
The changes worked! We delivered it to a couple (who, by the way, look about the same age our kids do!) on Wednesday night—they were thrilled to set it down in the previously empty spot in front of their television and game system. The young woman even noted that she could tell from the pictures that it was like new, especially compared to the pictures on other ads she viewed. She wasn’t disappointed.
Now, instead of a reminder of loss, we have space. After we complete our outdoor painting project tomorrow, we will still have time to enjoy our patio before the weather turns cold. Our labors finished, we will be sitting pretty once more.
(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert
But there was no “let me explain” section to that long form, the one that made me glad my kids were away at college, if only because we didn’t have to fill out any “Person 3” and “Person 4” sections.
Instead the form shows me as a middle-aged woman of high education and reasonable health (at least I did not admit to any infirmities on the survey) who has no children in the home, yet has worked only removing snow in the past year.
Such is life in the sandwich.
It doesn’t add much to my lifelong social security contributions. And somehow I doubt there’s a grant available in gratitude for doing what I can to keep my mother off the Medicaid rolls or for trying to coordinate the billing and payments between our former insurance company and the provider so that we don’t get dinged for expenses that aren’t ours on what was already a very painful and costly experience helping our daughter back to health.
These activities are real examples of how many of us employed, underemployed, and unemployed spend our time in the middle years of our lives. Taking care of our loved ones and what we do have is how we help society stay strong.
But as a certain president says while discussing this country’s own difficult challenges, “let me perfectly clear” that there are productivity losses, both individual and nationwide, in the realm of paid employment because many of us cannot always direct our attention to holding full-time jobs without neglecting the personal needs of our family members or our jobs. So far I haven’t figured out a way to balance both concerns and do justice to each.
It is my sincere hope that, with my children away at college, I can work back into more suitable (to my skills!) paid productivity, either through writing projects and/or working for an outside company. However, weeks like the last one remind me that my need for flexibility makes me seem like a less than a reliable worker, at least to those who don’t already have a working relationship with me.
When the ambulance took my mother to the hospital, I had to go meet her there, even if I didn’t stay there round-the-clock. Even with my frequent presence, in my absences my mom still ran higher risks of falls, infections, and skin wounds, problems that would only increase her discomfort and lead her closer to needing that government assistance that the taxes on my little snow removal jobs don’t come close to providing.
I take care of my own because it’s the right thing to do—and that’s what so many others are also doing right now. People like me who have chosen to work reduced hours have to remind ourselves of that when faced with surveys or forms that seem to indicate that what we do isn’t part of the economic formula for our nation.
(c) 2009 Christiana Lambert
We are a demographic, too. Know that without our unpaid labor, so much of what needs to get done in our society would either be done less well, need to be paid for by some other funding source, or just wouldn’t get done at all.
I’ll continue to do that unpaid labor because it needs to be done, but know that if the only paid work I do is removing snow, I will work hard to make sure that snow is removed well and in a timely manner so other people can get to their own paying jobs. Whatever I do, I do with the best of my abilities. It’s helped me graduate at the top of my classes, it’s helped me fight for what my loved ones need, and, by gum, it’s helped me get through snow that’s too deep for my equipment because that snow needed to be removed.
I do what needs to be done . . . including filling out *&^%# census forms that appear to diminish what I do.
(c) 2010 Christiana Lambert
Why? It’s not really because I have all those things to do that I’ve had to do for about two and a half years now. In fact, there have been times when I have written quite a bit during this time. The problem is I have gotten buried under the physical papers associated with the tasks. (Yes, I just had a picture in my mind of my hand reaching out from under all those papers!) Anyone who knows me knows that putting papers away is not what I’m good at—still, the systems I had in place were reasonably sufficient before I inherited all my mom’s papers and acquired those related to some major health care problems—and before our kids’ college paperwork started arriving.
In fact, I have plans to hire an ADD-friendly organizer to help me with knowing what to throw away and how to handle the flow, but there’s not enough money in the world—or at least in our bank accounts—to be able to pay someone to deal with the papers in the current condition!
I can’t stop the volume from coming in, but for over a year now I have realized that part of the problem was that I had outgrown the storage spaces I had created. While I might not know where to file papers that require decisions, I’m usually pretty good at filing when there is a place for something. Long ago I reached the point where I’ve have to cram papers into the existing files to file—so I just don’t do the filing. I also pull out a whole folder and then don’t put it back.
After getting through the kids’ graduation and birthdays, plus a reunion, this is the first time in awhile that I’ve had any open time. While reorganizing after the downstairs remodeling, Sherman realized the three drawer file cabinet there was just in the way—and full of archival things that could easily go in a banker’s box in the garage. And after measuring, he discovered the file could fit right next to my current four drawer cabinet in the narrow 40s closet that is only useful for storing things lengthwise.
The only problem? Said old file cabinet was ugly, utilitarian office green. Those of us who don’t like to file know that aesthetics matter if we’re going to con ourselves into work we’d like to avoid! I’d already spiffed up the other banged-up file cabinet to match my office space with coordinating paints and a faux finish to hide the flaws. While I like such projects, I drag my heels getting started. That’s why I enlisted Sherman to pledge to help me over 4th of July weekend, so I (and we, really) could move on from the paper chase (my moving various papers around to find other papers!)
We did it! Unfortunately, a few of the coordinating paints had dried up, but that made it easy for me to decide how to paint—and at the same time remove a few useless paint cans from our house.
Since we moved the cabinet in last Tuesday, I’ve made great strides. I also decided I would just go with my ADD tendencies and not insist on having a great system for doing the task. Hyperfocus and filing any paper I found at hand got me through a full day and evening on Wednesday. I alternatively shredded, added scrap paper to my printer, and added papers to the recycling bin all day. To the outside eye, my office might not look much neater, but I know that several papers are now in files, right where they belong.
As I explained to my therapist, I really am not stopping doing enjoyable things just to file! (“Do your work or you can’t play!”) In fact, I enjoyed a planned visit with Mary, a longtime friend from my semester in Spain—and it was very relaxing, although I had threatened her that I might be tempted to use her mad librarian organizational skills while we socialized. Yes, I resisted the temptation . . . .and had a terrific time talking with her about those life twists we never imagined when we were twenty and doing things such as sleeping in a hostel for $5 a night (yuck!) and getting cursed at by gypsies for giving kids cookies instead of pesetas.
The other thing I figured out about my filing project is that it is really distracting for anything I want to do on the computer, but (slaps self on the forehead) even if I prefer the larger screen and docking station in my office, I have a laptop! Since I cleaned up the dining room table for Mary’s visit, I can use it for work and play, as long as I put away everything I bring out to go with the computer.
So here I sit, giving myself permission to write after a weekend of more filing and information gathering for the latest bout with the insurance company. Oh, it’s true I have piles and files to go before I sleep, but I also have seen the future and it looks like it just might have more room to breathe (and sit and walk and . . . create!)
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