Saturday, June 4, 2011

A quieting and disquieting thought; all at once.

In the middle of balancing my budget (particularly foliowing this latest ended affair as a career grad student) I've realized I need to make some necessary reductions. Some are clearly trickier than others: think grande soy-lattes and weekly hair appointments. They're simply NOT going anywhere... and neither are certain other costs: that of my daughter's and my mother's long-term care (education or otherwise).

Fortunately I'm only 2 or so years away from my daughters astounding-but-worth-it daycare (think college) tuition bills being greatly reduced (suburban public pk2, here we come), that is should we not give her the baby sister she's been requesting, but I realize given my parents age, and the urbane gruffness of their lives, some costs will only rise in time. Largely that of my mom's long term care. It sounds, perhaps cold to think of it that way, but I'll admit, I do, and I have for a very long time. It is expensive, will get expensive, and like my daughter's care, will always be more than worth it.

I perhaps am thinking of it most at this time, as a very close friend of mine lost his own parent abruptly. Like my own mom, his parent too had a long term and chronic mental health diagnosis. His parent (dad) was in the care of family. He was loved, beloved even. And like I've made mention to in previous blog posts, persons with more serious and largely less stable mental health diagnoses, tend to lose their lives sooner, by nearly 25 or so years. Unfortunately, this week, his dad became part of that number.

And while I sit here, nearly numb from how sudden the loss is of this dear and sweet soul (and his is a profound spirit), I also think of the woman, my mother, who raised me as best she could, and whose eyes mirror my own, and whom my daughter looks too for silly talk and kooky knit hats, one day needing more of me than she needs now, or worse, one day not being here to need me at all. And while it doesn't scare me per se, its a quieting and disquieting thought all at once. An inevitable and dis/quieting thought.

And I'll plan for it, and I'll hope for it not to come, but it will just the same.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Dry spell. Don't laugh. Or do. But read.

I think with my recent graduation, and with the enormous heartsong of a card my father gave me, and a coming of age/coming to terms with that relationship, I essentially ran out of words for a few days.

I realize that's fine, and we can/should learn to live and be in happiness however quiet or resounding it is, but this silence has made me feel more uneasy, more questioning, more moreness. And I'm a little-too-much most days as is.

I've been thinking about what true-value this blog brings to folks who read it, folks who know me, and, based on analytics the folks who read and don't know me in Alaska, in Iran (hi friends), those referred from Facebook, from LinkedIn (hi future employers and colleagues).

I have been wondering how and if it is OK that I'm unsure if and how my brand of caregiving fits what folks may remember caregiving looking like, months ago, years ago. Some of my caregiving ends with the last four digits of my social, some of its in urgent-care centers, most of it is on weekends, and in late night phone calls. Some of it will always and only be in my heart.

I remember conversations with my now 92 year old (feisty and cussy) grandmother. Caregiving for her as a nurse was round-the-clock, tiresome. It threatened to grove her even-now perfect skin in sockets, deepen her already deep set eyes. Caregiving for family was even more tiresome, though she never called it that, it was simply, a duty.

I wonder how much it is for me. I'll admit, I don't know about that. It's more magnetic, puling and pushing me at the same time.
And I wonder, for my readers, for my Facebook friends and Family (hi Pauls and Prasads) if that is also ok, in the this is legitimate sense, this is not burdensome of a read sense, and in a this is helpful sense.

I think that's the point.
I'm getting there.

Ultimately, however, I've been thinking, and I'll likely keep doing so.
In the interim, I'll be caregiving, which today looks like ordering fresh edamame Mummi will turn her nose up to.
I'll be coordinating the delivery. Emailing my father to support him in her care. I will be worrying too, but I don't clock those hours.

Profound to me.

Monday, May 30, 2011

The truth about caregiving...


I have no truth. I have a short-story though.

I've been semi-battling with the legitimacy of this being a true caregiver blog in that:
1. Mummi doesn't live here
2. I write almost extensively about me/our past/my kid and her
3. some other shit too.

And I've not come to some meaningful and communicable point about where I stand with that, or if it is a true issue and not a created one...


I'ma let this be my boring post for the weekend. Brief too. Unless I think of something else.