tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28421354254146772352024-02-06T21:42:24.879-05:00In The Shadow of The SteepleNancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.comBlogger1051125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-22253818247851876082016-06-26T21:19:00.004-04:002016-06-27T10:49:51.476-04:00The Longest GoodbyeIt's been weeks since I could find words to put on a blog. I have been caught in a space where if my words really told the journey around me, it would just cause me to be re-live what I didn't want to go through. If I didn't tell the story, I could somehow delay what will only come.<br />
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The words of a kind hospice nurse helped tell me what I knew. "Your Mom is at a new place of decline." The words through the phone were what I needed her to say. As her words hit my ears, in my heart there was some relief. For weeks I had watched--seeing every bit of what the nurse now affirmed for me.<br />
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Tonight as I kissed my mom goodnight, I asked her if she was afraid of anything or if anything caused her to worry. She said "no". I reminded her that her Mom--she would see again. She looked into my face and said "I don't think I remember that your eyes were the same color as mine. They are just the same." "Yes Mom, I know. As I look at me, I often see you looking right back." "That is so nice,"she said.<br />
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I don't know the day, the week, the month when mom (or a trying not to decline as quickly dad) will have her final good bye, but this I hold on to. Love doesn't end.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-37907461571593220802016-04-19T13:38:00.002-04:002016-04-19T13:38:35.705-04:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">“The odd thing about this form of communication is you're more likely to talk about nothing than something. But I just want to say that all this nothing has meant more to me than so many... somethings. So, thanks.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">From the movie: "You've Got Mail"</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #181818; font-family: "merriweather" , "georgia" , serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">This week my local small and quaint knitting store down the street posted a sign that after more than a decade, it was closing. As I collected a few skeins with their new markdown price, I was reminded of the movie scene "You've Got Mail" where the small and quint NYC bookstore "The Shop Around The Corner" needed to close because a large national chain bookstore was being built down the street. </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">Like "The Shop Around The Corner", my knitting store has served to be a place that I could cross it's doorway and find beautiful yarns and wooden needles. Friendly ladies who showed me what they were working on and how to help me with my latest question. They listened to the stories of mom and her knitting and how I now regret that I really never learned how from her. My lessons now on "youtube", blogs and knitting websites.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #181818; font-family: merriweather, georgia, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">We often grieve when what we have relied on, leaned toward, was familiar, then goes away. In time I suppose what has changed or lost is replaced with what again feels comfortable and the time between what was and then is what we grieve. I suppose also what we hope for. The things to come. Until then....more twinkle lights.</span></span><br />
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-12213936566860475562016-04-11T12:23:00.005-04:002016-04-11T15:51:39.956-04:00"Dad, my name is Nancy"So much of our attention these last days have been on Mom. She fell two Sunday's ago and fractured a vertebrae in her back. She needed control of pain and other symptoms from the fall to get her comfortable and hospice has now joined in her care team. While our efforts have been comfort with Mom, Dad has been our constant bystander. Yesterday as I put their clean laundry away, I heard his voice say to me "Hey girl, thank you for doing that" I froze in my place to look at him. His face showed no recognition that I was his youngest daughter and not a "hey girl" whose role was only to put away their laundry. I moved closer to him and asked if he remembered my name to which he did not. "That's okay I said, I can remind you when you forget," I said in my own attempt to reassure.<br />
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Like juggling balls in a windstorm, my parents are each on their own journey. My moments of being shocked with what is now missing from their memory are for the most part gone and all of my efforts are only to manage comfort and have presence....at least till now, they know that I am familiar.<br />
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There have been times in the last weeks since Mom's fall that I thought she was slipping away. I spoke to Dad to make sure he knew and his words assured me that he did. He asked that he go with her and I tried to explain he can't go at the time she does. He needs to wait until God is ready.<br />
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A physician I work with emailed me this morning asking how I am holding up. I can only say grateful. Grateful for the journey where I have the privilege of seeing right in front of me, mom and dad in this stage of life. I weep for what is no longer part of their memory and I am somehow finding joy in the small moments of good that comes in only presence.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"><i>"And let us not be weary in well doing: for in due season we shall reap, if we faint not."</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "verdana" , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px;"><i> Galations 6:9</i></span></div>
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-71631737969040200172016-03-06T22:20:00.000-05:002016-03-06T22:20:32.075-05:00Looking After YouNancy Reagan's passing announced today as I caught up with the morning news. Her legacy I heard repeated again and again. A devoted wife to her Ronnie. A watch guard to those that might not want the best for him. Grace. Elegance. A voice of strength in her own fight against what robbed him of his mind and his memory of her. <br />
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We are fortunate in our own lives to have a "Nancy". Those that faithfully stick-like-glue, no matter what. Who believe and see within us something greater for us then what our own eyes find to see. How much I am grateful for those.<br />
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I told Mom about Mrs Reagan's passing while visiting her this afternoon. Without missing a moment, Mom told me that she had lunch with Nancy when she was out in California last year. They went to lunch she said and they "laughed and laughed". In the past I would have re-routed her memory till it found its way back. Not this time. I listened. No doubt, I thought, Mom remembering a time with a girlfriend when her days were easier and her mind was free. I began to smile at her story. Who knew she had afternoon tea with Nancy Reagan?<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-16271756706306710282016-03-04T15:10:00.001-05:002016-03-04T15:14:55.691-05:00Knit 1 Pearl 2I watched Mom knit or needlepoint most of my childhood. My brothers had hunting socks and Dad wore the sweaters she made. Although I have "picked up the needles" intermittently, I never sat there long enough to learn from her. Today, I find myself regretting that given the talent she has and my gap in such.<br />
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In an attempt to help bridge the gap of regret and honoring Mom, I found a knitting store near my house where ladies were kind and heard my story of Mom. They helped me pick out yarn and needles and listened perhaps with a bit of empathy at my determination to attempt a sweater. (A scarf they did kindly suggest) </div>
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Some time searching the how-to section of youtube, time on a plane and evenings have been spent getting started. I carried what was done so far over to Mom and her delight will help carry me. She knows she can no longer understand how to do it but seeing yarn on needles made her smile the most I have seen in weeks. How I wish I had learned under her skillful eye. How grateful I am I have had time to show her. #honoringmom</div>
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-6785145140828302262016-02-29T12:57:00.000-05:002016-02-29T12:57:04.464-05:00I Love You FiercelyAs my Dad's speech changes in Alzheimer's relentless advance, he often has trouble telling me what he wants to say on his first, second or now even third attempt. As he communicates, two things happen--the first, he forgets what he wanted to say to me often before the first words come out of his mouth or second, his words become garbled and he struggles in helping each syllable find it's right place. They call this talking with marbles--and that is exactly what it sounds like when it tries to find it's way out.<br />
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As I was leaving on Saturday, I leaned down to both of them to hold their face in my hands and tell them both that I love them. Mom's response clear "I love you too". Dad struggled "I (garbled, garbled), love (garbled, garbled) and then a pause as he tried to combine "you" with another word that I couldn't quite make out. A few seconds went by and then I heard him say "fiercely." "Are you saying you love me fiercely Dad?" A white haired frail man I call Dad nodded his head. "How about from this point on you can just say "fiercely" and I will know exactly what you mean, He nodded again.<br />
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As I gathered my coat and started to walk out the door, I looked back at both of them and said "fiercely" to see what reaction I might find. Dad's face lit up as he leaned forward to wave goodbye. "Yes, fiercely" he replied. Loved.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-13577544424186796332016-02-15T12:41:00.001-05:002016-02-15T12:41:13.266-05:00You have mourned enoughGrief is a tough emotion to let go of. It finds its way to the most center of our being and stands it's ground. In our attempts to shift from the weight of it, often we are only reminded that it won't go away easily. It feels much too heavy to lift away.<br />
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Being raised by a "pull yourself up from your boot-straps" Dad, allowing oneself to sink into grief and accept it with all of it's spiny burrs, hasn't had it's days of easy. As I reach out and speak to other caregivers, it's the same with them. The journey no matter how much you are prepared, has a steep uphill grade. Often in the dark. In what feels like sinking sand.<br />
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On Saturday, sipping some homemade clam chowder, I listened as Dad asked me to buy him a car. A used one without too many miles he requested. A car that will fit Mom and he on their drive back to the jersey shore. In weeks past I would have reminded him that he can not drive as his mind won't know where to go. Today I listened and said "I can see why you would want to do this." Dads grief is about where he wants to go and can no longer be there. My own grief is about what is right in front of me. The man I knew no longer there and on some days just the bad parts of who he was finds a voice that still finds it's way to sting.<br />
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Later in the afternoon with Mom and Dad, I stood to hug them both goodbye, I reminded him about the car. "It has to be red," I suggested. Get away cars from memory care units should always be red.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-8043285568507327382016-02-01T11:52:00.003-05:002016-02-01T11:52:52.968-05:00Tonight As I ListenMom has had the same picture over her bed for years and years. The picture is of the sun shining through a window on a bed in a very simple house with a dog curled up with his head on the pillow, fast asleep. Last evening I brought the picture to Mom and Dad's room to hang in the place it had always been. Mom recognized the picture although not it's long history or where she first bought it. As I centered and banged a nail in the wall she proceeded to fill me in that the dog in the picture, was her favorite dog and she asked if I knew his name. She told me the story of the dog who loved her bed and sleeping there in the afternoon sun. He ran through the fields behind the high school (this would be her childhood house) every morning but always came home when he should. Her story went on and as I listened I knew there were only threads of "truth". None the less it was all very real in her memory and in her mind today, it's what she wanted me to know.<br />
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In months past I might have tried to join the conversation with my own memories trying to help her connect the dots with what I remembered it to be. It was my way of trying to fix what was in some ways painful to listen to as she seemed to "make up" a whole part of her life that I desperately wanted her to remember. On this night I have learned the lesson to listen and nod and validate how wonderful it must have been to have her dog curled up and tucked in on her pillow.<br />
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Dad within the same conversation sees the window in the picture that streams in the sun and tells me that window looks out over the bay in Cape May where they used to live many years ago. He speaks to me as if it was a photograph versus an artist print. A picture captured from an afternoon in the past in a place he remembers as home.<br />
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In a challenging way, I am trying to learn from all of this. To be a better daughter, mom, sister, friend. To be a better nurse. To be a better somebody who is trying to balance the head and the heart within the daily reminder that it is all so very sad.<br />
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When I get back home I pick up the knitting needles once held by Mom and create headbands for 7 granddaughters. While I regret that I didn't learn more within the days Mom could have taught me, each night I get to hold the needles that she once held and her love is carried on in all of this.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-65010192054004562002016-01-05T15:26:00.003-05:002016-01-05T15:26:50.678-05:00RoutineSo much of our "feeling comfortable" within our days is an established routine. We know which key fits the front door lock, where we kick off our shoes, where we keep the scotch-tape in the kitchen drawer, where we keep a pen and paper to jot ourselves a note. We know about the time our body tells us it's time for bed and when our auto-alarm calls inside our head to wake us up. Our individually unique routine that draws us comfort, that makes our days.<br />
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I<strike> have learned</strike> am learning that with the many facets of Alzheimer's comes with it the loss of any routine. I am discovering that no one day is the same. What you think you have settled, resolved, answered, helped with, only becomes easily unraveled, forgotten, changed..... just a few hours later.<br />
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This morning as I sat with Dad for breakfast I heard him say "I never had coffee with cream and sugar before" when I know he has had it that way his whole life. I am learning that what we rely on in helping us find comfortable familiar is our memory. For those without memory the routine to build comfort is gone. What is in the first dresser drawer on Monday will be changed by Tuesday. Where the eyeglasses are put changes every time they are taken off. Their minds don't allow routine to take root. Every time a new experience. These pieces of ever changing"new" falls solidly into my world now too. From a treasure hunt each day to find what is missing to helping listen to what is no longer remembered --(fixing Dad's coffee with cream and sugar).<br />
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I find myself grieving the memories of routine far more than the routines themselves. I have wondered if I will ever <strike>get used to</strike> feel comfortable with what their minds have now lost.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-51260486188945057822015-12-21T21:20:00.000-05:002015-12-21T21:20:02.237-05:00Come Let Us Adore <div class="vk_ans" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif-light, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; margin-bottom: 0px; text-align: center;">
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love and respect (someone) deeply.</div>
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Listening to carols as I finish the last of Christmas wrapping. "Oh, come let us adore him...." has struck home within my heart. Adore is not a word we often hear today. Today we are more likely to hear "love ya" followed by an emoticon. :)</div>
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Our world could use some more adore I think. Not the mushy "watch all men hide under the bed" kinda adore but that respectful and kind love we have for those who hold within their own hands a piece of our heart. </div>
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Adore. For the friends who have faithfully said they are praying for me and are. Who text "How is your day?" knowing in this transition of Mom and Dad, it may have some tough moments. Who celebrate when its been a good day with them and remind me on days that aren't that they are safe and still loved. Who have been kind enough to tell me about their own mom and dad. It is in their stories that I have found some peace in my own.</div>
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God has known I have needed to lean in and accept and yes adore. Adoring tonight those angels among us.</div>
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-78855795541912672392015-12-17T06:32:00.001-05:002015-12-17T06:32:32.864-05:00Rejoice<div class="vk_ans" style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif-light, sans-serif; font-size: xx-large !important; margin-bottom: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span data-dobid="hdw">re·joice</span></div>
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<span class="lr_dct_ph">rəˈjois/</span></div>
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feel or show great joy or delight.</div>
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Among the sounds of Christmas in the bustle the season, a reminder for me......rejoice. Rejoice in this season of joy celebrating the birth of a savior. Rejoice that I still hold the memories of Christmas past and can share them with a mom and dad who now forget. Rejoice in the so-much-to -look -forward to memories with Grands and Great-Grands.</div>
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Taking a moment in the quiet still of the Christmas tree lights before I start this day.....</div>
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A reminder to me.... Rejoice.</div>
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-47084730348111977252015-12-13T20:00:00.005-05:002015-12-13T20:00:56.355-05:00Days of AdjustingThe calls this week have been less as mom and dad adjust to a different place. Their mail now forwarded and I have started to bring them Christmas cards from the friends they have had from different places and different times. Two bright red envelopes have come from friends they went to high school with and I wondered as they opened the cards if they would remember the names. Surprising for me, they remember them as if they still saw each other the day before in study hall. "Bill, he sure can play tennis well on the high school team," Mom said and Dad agreed. <br />
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I have picked up their medical records so that new providers and caregivers can help coordinate care for them. In those records, there is documentation of a doctors visit with Mom last March. The physician has written that she made the appointment because of concerns with her memory "I read the paper and can't remember what I have just read and need to read it two or three more times. Sometimes I forget it all together." There is a similar story with Dad only this time the physician is pointing out to him concerns and the record shows that Dad is denying every word the physician is saying to him. How much I realize now that he didn't want anyone to know.<br />
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In the book "The 36-Hour Day", a family guide to caring for people with Alzheimers, the author reminds the reader of the need to cope with what doesn't feel right to the one experiencing changes within their mind and the grief they are experiencing in their loss. Grief and sadness and fear. I have seen all three with mom and dad. For a daughter who is wired to fix, I have found my head and heart at a loss with the best way to make things right. So I talk with them and help fill in the gaps with what they can't remember. I show them pictures of smiling great grands and remind them of how much they are loved. Right now, it has to be enough.<br />
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Perhaps the hardest thing for me are the moments when they are afraid. Afraid of not knowing and afraid when the room where they try to sleep isn't familiar and I get a call "Please take us home." When I have asked where they remember "home" to be, they mention a place they have lived many decades before. The address of a home where mom was a new bride and an entire life was still in front of them. <br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-51150730220380196822015-12-09T06:11:00.002-05:002015-12-09T15:03:44.526-05:00A Different Kind of FenceDuring the summers between high school years, we took several family trips out west. The pontiac station wagon was packed up with a few paper maps in the front seat and the long drive from south jersey to Colorado began. Mom and Dad in the front seats and my sister and I in the back. An imaginary line separated my sisters side of the back seat from mine and she daily reminded me of the rules--never cross a toe of mine over it.<br />
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The days in the car were routine--up at 0600 on the road by 0700, drive till 1600 after seeing nothing but flat land and corn, check in to the holiday inn, swim in the pool with a sister reminding me that I may have crossed the imaginary line of the back seat too many times, dinner, bed, repeat. Listening to the radio as we drove often became a big deal with one of Dad's favorite songs being sung with his window rolled down and his hand tapping the drivers wheel "Give me land lots of land under the starry skies above, don't fence me in" being one of his favorites.<br />
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I am not sure why but I have thought a lot of his voice to that song in recent days. He has valued his freedom and independence more than any person I have ever known--especially the "don't fence me in" part. Today he and mom reside in a memory unit that helps to keep them safe by "fencing them in". Each evening as I buzz myself in and out during my visit with them, I pray he doesn't realize the "fence" around him now. The right thing to have for them but not what he would have ever planned or wanted for himself or mom.<br />
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Each day there is time when they try to remember the moments outside of any "fence" where there is comfort from what is now strange. The pictures around them reminding of time that brought them joy or good or hope. I watch them every visit looking for a flicker of light that would tell me that they remember those times too. Some days I see it, other days I try too hard to find it for them. It's part of the journey that I myself with both my head and my heart trying to adjust to.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-35542556687853273402015-12-06T18:18:00.000-05:002015-12-06T18:18:00.994-05:00In This MomentWe hung pictures around their room tonight. Pictures of Grands and Great-Grands, daughters and sons. Memories of birthdays and weddings. Walks on a summer beach and fish that were caught on the side of a boat. "Who is this?" Dad would ask staring at family that is now unfamiliar. Our explanations of who was standing next to who and when the picture was taken seemed like we were telling a story that he doesn't have any memory of being part of and how can this be.<br />
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"It seems cruel that a disease would rob a person of memory, because memories are vital for living. They are the key to understanding where we have come from and how we've lived. They provide meaning to the ordinary events of our lives. They work unconsciously to tell us how to function day to day. Memories pop in and out of our minds all day long, their relevance not always apparent. They define us and give context to our lives.<br />
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How does memory define us? Memory doesn't shape us, the events of our lives do, but without memory, you can't make sense of your life and the events you've lived through. What takes over when memory leaves and random black spots appear in the picture of your life? Do you have to fill it in with guess work?"<br />
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An afternoon hanging pictures helping fill the gaps of guesswork. Remembering when.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-79799503275555415882015-12-05T21:19:00.001-05:002015-12-06T18:29:10.777-05:00I will remember these daysNot sure where to gracefully start so I will just begin. My words might not flow as they might and somehow that seems fitting in the world of Alzheimer's that surrounds me.<br />
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Mom's memory was missing what she had always known and her confusion ever increasing--both appeared to be on a fast forward track and my try-to-be-the-fixer could not find the stop-this-from-happening button. Dad insisting to be her only caregiver and he too was showing some shocking gaps. As I patched together care for them, Dad's speech sometimes "garbled" as he tried to share with me what had happened on simple days. I have since learned that people with dementia can be described as "speaking with marbles in their mouth". This describes perfectly the speech sometimes of Dad. I feel guilty. I am not sure why I didn't know.<br />
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The place where they have lived the last twelve years could no longer be safe for them and calls in the middle of the night when darkness was loud coming more frequently. On the Monday before Thanksgiving both admitted to the hospital--one on the 2nd floor and one on the 4th. Dad wanting to see his wife and Mom not knowing he was missing from view. The nursing staff surrounding them took such tender care trying to help their hearts understand what their minds would not. The physicians caring for them let me knew what I had known for weeks. They can't go back to live in the place that was familiar.<br />
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On Friday after Thanksgiving, I picked them up to take them to a place that I knew wasn't home for them. A place where they could be evaluated to determine what level of care they needed. What kind of place they will call their next home.<br />
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On a beautiful day after Thanksgiving, I picked them up and told Dad we needed to move today and someone else would come to get their things. A place I said that could help him with Mom. A place where she would be safe. This picture, a quick stop at the marina to feel the sun and freedom of the breeze on their face before we went to the place where their daughter's knot in her chest reminded her that in the hours and days ahead there needed to be some tough moments and days.<br />
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Their assessment showed moderate/severe dementia. The first days full of struggle as they adapted to what wasn't familiar around them. Daughters I met shared their stories which sounded so familiar to my own. Their words and so much loving support helped me cross a bridge that let my sobbing stop. I craved to understand what I had been denying and this book helped to give me answers that where they were today was the place they should be--they are safe and re-directed by loving staff when their memory doesn't catch up with their 89 year old minds. <br />
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There are times when I question--did I do the right thing--has there been a mistake? Only to find that I am comforted with reminders that loudly stand in front of me. A phone message from Dad where he asks "Nancy, can you ask my mother for additional money in case we need it?" (His Mom died in 1975) or as we fill their room with family pictures they point and ask me names of faces that could be their own.<br />
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The days where I couldn't stop crying have been replaced with a bit more calm. There is peace in knowing they are where they should be and safe. They are now just down the road where I can get to them quickly. <br />
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And yesterday amongst so much change, a moving van picked up my own remnants of apartment living. Today with boxes underfoot waiting to be unpacked, a tree was decorated and new memories were captured. The start of making a new place a home.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-28083864043062272442015-10-15T20:40:00.003-04:002015-10-15T20:48:45.525-04:00Through Different EyesTo write that the last weeks have tested my strength would be a bit understated. I have found myself in places I have never been even when everything within my sight was familiar. <br />
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For over thirty years I have helped people in my view today. I have I thought listened. I have I thought been a champion of their advocacy. Helped dry tears and pray with those who couldn't find words. My work with meaning that filled my heart and life but I don't know today if I worked with the view I see now.<br />
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My Dad recently in one of many hospital ER visits. A middle of the night call letting me know an ambulance was called and why. Lights turned on so I could think and my own phone starts making calls. "He's on his way and he might not know where he is and what to tell you, here is my number in case you need information." Tests, results, and conversations about treatment plans all while the stars and moon moved their way across the sky. Finally with some light of dawn came the call "He has been discharged from the ER. We will put him in the lobby till his ride comes." I heard through my phone. "Are you busy that he can't stay there so he can see people around him and won't be alone?" "He has been discharged from the ER" came the reply. A dad who owned and ran his own company. Who dressed well with ties tied just right and shiny polished shoes was now pushed to a chair in an empty waiting room while dark outside to sit alone in pajamas. His walker the only thing familiar at his side. The call, the image in my head brought me to a place where tears stayed stuck around the brim of my eyes. The ER did everything right with diagnostic tests to rule out the things that brought him there. But they forgot the most important thing. They forgot the person in the patient. The patient who came to them as an old man whose words didn't make sense to them. The "poor historian" was once a person who remembered every detail of his days and would never want to be alone. In a lobby of an ER. Wearing last nights pajamas. Waiting and trying to remember where he was and who was going to pick him up to take him back to the place he hoped familiar.<br />
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His documented treatment plan for what brought him to meet you was perfect. His medication given on time. His x-rays read with pin point accuracy. But if this is how we define providing healthcare we have lost the reason that called us to this profession---we are not seeing what we should. We forgot the person in the patient and the family you have called. We forgot compassion and empathy that would have said "You are well enough tonight and we are sending you home. We have called your family and they are coming for you. We would like you to sit near us while you wait. We have a place to keep you safe. We don't want you to feel afraid. We don't want you, the man we called our patient and the daughter we called who calls you dad, to be alone."<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-79758918310219788792015-10-05T21:13:00.001-04:002015-10-05T21:13:19.401-04:00A woman of few wordsIn my work and within my immediate family, I have been around the dying. In those last days, where end of life seems right outside the front door, there appears with many the realization that love is all that matters. Love for family and friends--for who has touched a heart, for who when eyes have closed, matter. Love that allows the lock of forgiveness withheld, opened. Worry gone from what no longer matters and peace settles in where years perhaps a lifetime of unrest has been.<div>
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Like so many other times, I find myself asking what my heart needs to learn. How can I hold and see the clarity of what in life has meaning by those who see the end of their own? What in the past lives of those that have left do I need to bring with me in the current days I face?</div>
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I was in a meeting a couple of weeks ago and spoke to a man in our community who works at the local shipyard. I shared with him that I was told as a child that my grandfather spent some time working at this very shipyard although I didn't know when. The next day an email arrived letting me know he had found the HR record of my grandfather. My "Pop-Pop" had worked there in 1926. His other dates of employment reminded me of the story of my grandfathers life that we didn't talk about much. His father had a heart attack when he was 12 and he had died in front of him. Right after his father died, my grandfather dropped out of school and went to work full time to support his mother and sister. His first job was with the Philadelphia Shipyard. He stayed working within the shipyard business for his whole life--from 12 to the day her retired in his 60's. For a few of those years he was located in Virginia in the same town I am probably he received health care from the very hospital that I currently work. Perhaps living right around from where I live today. </div>
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With the reading of the email putting life to the work history of my grandfather, for a moment, the grandfather who died while I was in my early 20's, memory came alive. The man he was that I had forgotten. He was brave--at 13 working with men in a tough industry to support a mom and sister. He was a leader--when he retired he was a leader at the shipyard. He was responsible caring for his Mom and sister. He was generous and wise. This granddaughter never knew he had a hard life--he showed us only laughter and fun with the love of his life, my mommom.</div>
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Hoping in the tough days with my own mom and dad I am not missing the lessons that soften and guide this heart of mine. </div>
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The greatest of these is love. </div>
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-24354512580096048072015-08-19T21:16:00.002-04:002015-08-19T21:16:40.416-04:00Did you know?Did you know that how you see your life today will be different as the days turn to years and you evolve to who you are to be? Years ago, I am not sure I really accepted or knew this.....as I do now. What I have learned is life experiences---the good, the bad and the downright ugly, have shaped the heart of me. <br />
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Through my own rearview mirror, I can see the challenges faced in days that have passed, have shaped me to good. They have helped me face and work through the struggle of what I have needed to change and face the weaknesses well established within me.<br />
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Last week during a few days off, a seaplane was boarded to see the beautiful water from a different view. As the plane started to speed up across the water to take off, my heart was pounding. As the plane lifted up and the view below came in to view, I said out loud "Wow..... I am here to see this." What did that mean and what was I feeling?<br />
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Sometimes I don't "see" because I am way too busy in the things that are yesterday or tomorrow. I don't see because I am not in the presence of the now. On that plane, looking down at the earth below me with trees starting to turn yellow and red and water so clear I could see the bottom from way high in the air, I centered on the life living today in the now.<br />
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The now that loves the ever changing life around me that has found she has come to HATE an apartment and signed the paperwork to break the lease. A new place will be moved into in the weeks before Christmas. The now that loves and sees my parents not as they were but today--the now and is loving them through each challenging day. The now that works to see less of me......<br />
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Coming home at the airport an elderly woman sat across from me at the crowded gate. As she looked down with incredible sadness, tears rolled down her face. She reached for a tissue to wipe them away and starred away from the many people around her. I tried to look away but found my heart reaching out wanting to do something to help take away her grief or pain. To the moment where I couldn't sit there any more, I walked over and sat next to her. I said "I am sorry you are hurting. I don't want or need to know why but I just wanted to tell you I am sorry." Her tears opened up and flowed and she muttered a thank you through a voice that cracked. We hugged and I haven't stopped thinking about her and her heart that was hurting.<br />
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Can you pray for her for me? I know God is working in our now.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-59847402578476981802015-08-02T22:10:00.002-04:002015-08-02T22:10:20.126-04:00Before and AfterMy weeks fall now in a mostly predictable path. A busy work week followed by a weekend to pick up a hammer and nail at the lake house then a drive to the 'burg and to pick up Mom and Dad's groceries for the week (orange juice) and have time to listen and help with what they can't remember. And then repeat.<br />
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The good news with one of these paths, the end is in sight for the weekend warrors restoring the lake house. Not sure what all of us will do without a check list and a tool box near our feet.<br />
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Here a snapshot of what it looked like about 10 months ago.<br />
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The heavy furniture filled the space. Popcorn ceilings. A yellow plexiglass triangle window filled the end roof line. The kitchen counters were 1960 laminate with green and yellow triangles. The 1/2 bath to the right of this picture was fully carpeted around the green sink and toilet. I am not sure we all saw potential in the lines of the house. The man who came out to give an estimate suggested we might want to plow it down and use the land to someday re-build. Hope remained and after a few weekends, the "bones" of the house started to show what they might be. </div>
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Here a picture from this weekend. Floors were stained and the last coat of seal applied late into the evening. Quite a contrast from the before picture, right? Popcorn ceiling down. 1960's rug removed. Kitchen updated from the 1960's it held tightly to. The furniture that's been stored in a pod in the driveway will start to find its way back to its place once the floors are good and dry. </div>
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The almost finished project? I love it. It is built with the bits and pieces of all who will gather and make memories there. The hours staring at walls that needed to come down, holding a fist full of paint chips trying to see future. Its now all worth it.<br />
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Why do I tell this story? It's not to blog about a house at the lake that now has pretty walls. It's to write the story of what has been learned and made a reminder in this journey. A journey at what has come to life again.<br />
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A different perspective found while sitting in the dark watching shooting stars. Gratitude felt while sleeping on a deck or a floor or wherever was a space. Hot dogs on the fire tasted like the best date night at Ruth Crisp. Music filled the soul during the million runs to Lowes. History appreciated while meeting neighbors who tell the story of the house that was. Peace felt while sleeping so well at night because exhausted has had a whole new meaning.<br />
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Loving the opportunity to be on this predictable path. The parents have OJ for the week. God is kind.Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-2083845420852490042015-07-19T18:26:00.002-04:002015-07-19T18:26:50.525-04:00A weekend off...sort ofIt's a bit strange in a sea of shifting priorities, what I have found important. I have a memory from my childhood of Mom always insisting we drink our orange juice in the morning. With a lesson probably learned from her time in nursing school, she would say as she put down tiny glasses in front of us, "Drink your orange juice, your body doesn't make it's own Vitamin C." A generation later, while raising my three, she would often remind me to make sure they drank their orange juice for the very same reason she used to tell me. Fast forward to today and I confess with a bit of reservation that I freak out a bit when in between days of getting their groceries, I don't see some available Vitamin C in the refrigerator. In the last few visits to bring them their grocery's, I have stored an extra half-gallon behind the gallon that is already waiting there. Tucked away in their refrigerator, not because they might drink all that Vitamin C in a week butbecause the thought that they won't have it is more than I can deal with today.<br />
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Saturday, I carried the weekly groceries up to their apartment and found no answer when I knocked. Leaving the bags by the door, I found the security guard to let me in to put the cold things away (orange juice) and then went to try to find them. A stop at the front desk let me know a movie was being viewed by the Residents in one of the common rooms. As I peaked in through the darkened room, I could see their outline sitting near the front watching Apollo 13.<br />
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I squeezed in between them and watched along side. When the space capsule landed safely on the water, the room of 90 year-olds lifted their canes in celebration. Tears rolled down nearby faces. This, the greatest generation in so many ways.<br />
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Each time I am with them, despite the distraction of time watching a movie, I see changes that I can't look away to ignore. A belt pulled to a tighter notch. A wedding band that looks like it might fall off with soapy hands. Memories not found despite clues to remind them. Each goodbye is hard for me. Yesterday no different.<br />
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When I returned home, a letter had been mailed mid-week and was waiting for me from Dad.<br />
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While when last winter was starting to thaw he told me he wanted to live till 95, his written words today after months of seeing life through a more challenging fogged lens, write to tell me "the end is close, I am ready. I hope that Marg is ready also. We have been together a long time." And they have. Knowing each other since the 4th grade. Married 68 of the almost 89 years.<br />
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As I read the words he has written over and over, asking God for His loving mercy tonight.Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-64574305517142803442015-06-21T19:46:00.004-04:002015-06-21T19:46:54.674-04:00Dad's DayTwo falls in the last week have put bruises on Dad's chin and scrapes on his hands and arms. He "needed" to walk to the store several blocks away he told me. In 90 degree heat with a walker in tow, he fell on the side of the road. A kind lady found him and helped him up. With many calls, conversations and "looks" from me about this, he has heard the message that he can't do this ever again and my fear is he will forget the words and the "look" and fall again on his similar path.<br />
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Today, over Father's Day conversation, with groceries bought and put away, he wanted to talk for a moment about what is no longer familiar. Things that can't be remembered and what no longer seems to work. Like legs that give out when they should just keep going and a mind that really doesn't want to lose what it wants to forget.<br />
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I have no words that answer their words and questions. I don't know how to fix what they cry to hold on to but find slipping away. I find myself listening more not because it's easy to but it's because it's the only thing I can think to do.<br />
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Like so many other challenges I have faced I ask myself "What am I to learn from this?" "How can I help my own kids when they one day sit across from me as I sat in front of them today?"<br />
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This, the lesson plan to remind me today:<br />
It's okay to just listen and not try to fill the gaps. The gaps will keep coming no matter how much I try to fill them.<br />
It's okay to be sad as I hug them goodbye and hold on just a bit longer.<br />
It's okay to ask God to be merciful to them.<br />
And it's okay to not always be strong.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-22743624919811618462015-06-11T06:23:00.005-04:002015-06-11T06:23:45.278-04:00Hitting the snooze buttonThe last weeks I have hit the shadow of the steeple snooze button a few extra times. Writing hasn't come easy.<br />
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I am finding this chapter of my days with words that don't want to find themselves spilled out on a blog as all I might be holding in feels 10x more vulnerable if they sit out there to be read. I am not sure how to write what surrounds my heart about the days caring for my parents. Those days have been difficult because the nurse in me plans for order and predictability and there isn't anything about what I see and hear that I would have planned or predicted. The stories from friends who have found themselves in similar days have found comfort with me. Me, the forever planner to be prepared has fallen well short as Dad looks at pictures and doesn't know those that wear his DNA or call him grandpop. Mom finds herself on a parallel path filling gaps of time with stories I have never heard. Weeks ago I listened as they fought with each other both struggling to keep ahead of what they felt slipping away. Fast forward a few weeks and at least this day, their eyes find comfort when their gaze looks to see the other sitting near. I have learned so much from them...then and now. Perhaps the biggest lesson from the watching of their life today...not to leave one dream or one I love you left behind.<br />
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Another hit of the snooze button came after I was grouting lake house tiles and decided to help the process and use my hands to get the grey sanded grout into the uneven spaces. The additive I used to help prevent the grout over time from staining was acidic...... Within a short time I found the tips of my fingers with 3rd degree burns that water only helped make worse. The bottle, with directions read after the burn, clearly reads to wear gloves.....oh, this brilliant me. Have I mentioned the grout and tile job now completed looks amazing?<br />
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More writing to come. The blistered wounds are healing. There is comfort in some writing. Letting life's days speak.<br />
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-50410188738630924402015-05-04T20:36:00.000-04:002015-05-04T20:36:07.107-04:00This and That<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A perfect find in the front door, wedged between the wreath and the black front door. Found after a mini-version of Alfred Hitchcock's version of "The Birds" came to life as I opened the door to retrieve a package from the front step. The mama bird flew out of the nest from on top of the wreath as I stepped out the door. The whirr of fluttering wings around my head as I dodged her path out of the nest on her way to a near by tree. {To be transparent, I screamed} The nest couldn't be more perfectly wedged and that blue string she found to wrap the rim? DIY Perfect! </div>
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Saturday, a welcome back to Virginia housewarming and a snapshot of two sons who find their hands full with the gift of family. I am not sure a mom could be more proud to be called their mom. And doesn't that granddaughter on the right look just a little bit like her MomMom? {At least they keep telling me so} JOY!!!</div>
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Sunday, a trip to buy some flowers for the Nurse Executives who help me to lead. The backseat and the trunk completely full of red geranium gratitude.</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">A wish for them and so many who have touched my life, a Happy Nurses Week. </span></div>
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-85922420748661072022015-04-30T18:17:00.002-04:002015-04-30T18:17:41.752-04:00A Time to CelebrateThe celebration of nurses week comes next week and here, my new place to hang my cap, we are in preparation for what that means. While part of the preparation is the "stuff" of nurses week--the cards of thanks and gifts, the real part of nurses week is stepping back and recognizing the privilege of what we do and gratitude for those that share the title of nurse with us.<br />
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Last week I was listening to NPR and heard a story of the comparison of the radio address of Harry S. Truman when he announced to America that Japan had surrendered, and a professional football player celebrating the act of catching a ball. {Stay with me....wait for it....} Truman said in that address that no country (USA or Japan) was greater or better. Both had sacrificed. He said in that address that we should live as Americans to be worthy and be an example of peace. A humble speech given the magnitude of his message. The contrasting example the voice through the radio told was a football player who celebrated that he caught a ball and made a two yard run. He said the football player pounded his chest and pointed to the sky. There wasn't humbleness. He screamed "I am amazing." <br />
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While they are two very different examples of how we look at success, they are tying to my own thoughts of nurses week. {Thank you for very patiently waiting}<br />
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As part of my prep for Nurses Week I did a web search for "things" to help nurses celebrate this week. I was lead by that search to a website that had pins and magnets that said "Let me remind you, you are in a hospital, not a hotel. I am not your maid, I am your nurse." "Be nice to me, I choose the needle that goes in your arm." The website was full of these sniping messages and I signed off a bit disgusted by the sarcasm in the message of caring for patients.<br />
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Like Harry Truman's humble message to America that we should <i><b>live to be worthy of peace</b></i>, I am challenged be a similar message that we {nurses} should work in such a way that we are worthy to care for our patients. Recognizing that what we do is a privilege. Who else can help bring babies into the world and perhaps on the same shift, make sure the elderly assigned to us, never die alone. An art, a science, a privilege that we should hold tight to.<br />
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Have you been cared for by a nurse in your life? Share your gratitude for their work. They are worthy of our thanks.<br />
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<br />Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2842135425414677235.post-90962671940617433272015-04-20T20:23:00.000-04:002015-04-20T20:23:00.523-04:00EnduranceHave you ever trained for a race? Started out slow but over time, distance and strength was tested by your endurance and patience as your body adjusted to being tested? Ummmmmmm......I never trained for a race. <div>
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Accept the race called life. The race of challenges and endurance through them. A race that challenges the will and the heart. The watching of time and the turning of calendars days that add up to a lot of "what's next?"</div>
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I have been reading a wonderful book in my hours on plane and at night before sleep. "You'll get through this" by Max Lucado. A book of hope and help during turbulent (race training) days. The book reminds you that life has paths in the journey that test your endurance. The paths are meant to be there--they are given to you for purpose. The book quotes a passage from author Bob Benson's book "See you at the House". One of his friends had a heart attack. Although the friend didn't know he would survive, he did recover. Months after the surgery, Bob asked him:</div>
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"Well, how did you like your heart attack?"</div>
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"It scared me to death, almost."</div>
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"Would you like to do it again?"</div>
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"NO!!"</div>
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"Would you recommend it?"</div>
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"Definitely not."</div>
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"Does your life mean more to you now then it did before?"</div>
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"Well, yes it does"</div>
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"You and Nell, always had a beautiful marriage, but you closer than you were before?"</div>
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"Yes"</div>
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"How about the new granddaughter?"</div>
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"Yes...did I show you the pictures?"</div>
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"Do you have a new compassion for people--a deeper understanding and sympathy?"</div>
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"Yes"</div>
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"Are you closer to the Lord in a deeper, richer fellowship than you had ever realized could be possible?"</div>
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"Yes"</div>
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"......how did you like your heart attack?"</div>
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As part of the test for endurance--instead of asking God to change your circumstances or change your journey, ask Him to use your circumstances to change you. </div>
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All tests are temporary--limited in their duration. "In this you greatly rejoice, though <i>now for a little while</i> you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials". (I Peter 1:6)</div>
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But then....</div>
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"For when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be strong in character and ready for anything." (James 1:3-4)</div>
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Nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13577187309740998176noreply@blogger.com1