Saving your tears

Today is respite day. After four visits, I am not sure how I went for over two years without a break. That is not to say that dropping my mom off there is a happy occasion. I wonder sometimes, if there will always be tears as I walk out the door. I manage to hold it together until I exit the building, but they always start before I can make it all the way to the sanctuary of my car.

Well-meaning friends have tried to tell me that it’s like dropping your child at school for the first time. Perhaps the sadness of separation is the same, the wistfulness of knowing they will not be yours forever. Beyond that, I don’t see much similarity. When you drop your child at Kindergarten, you know she is there learning valuable social skills and information that will set her on a good path for her life ahead. It may be difficult to let her go and to see that she is growing up, but it’s a good thing, a normal developmental milestone.

The simple act of even taking my mom to respite care is a reminder that the funny, strong, fiercely independent woman who raised me is becoming more fragile by the day. When I take my mom to respite care, I am taking her for a break, because she has a disease that ends in death and I am the only family member to take care of her. No matter how hard I try to sweeten it with euphemisms or not think about it, my mom’s brain is dying and death is the outcome. That seems rather the opposite of Kindergarten.

And the truth is, when you step into the role of caregiver, you’ll find that people say some colossally stupid things to you. I have heard everything from “It will end one day” (yes, it will – in my mom’s death, thanks) to ruminations about the disease being a “bridge to God” (bridge to Hell maybe…God, not so much) and what an “angel” I am for doing the right thing and caring for her (as if she were a burden…human beings may get sick, but they are NOT burdens) to people telling me I need a break and should put her in a nursing home so I can get a “real job” again. (I guess running a fledgling business that I adore, freelancing, and the full-time one I have as a caregiver aren’t real enough.)

And you learn a lot about your “friends”too. I have friends who are truly family and have been truly amazing as we’ve gone through this journey. They make it understood that when they invite me, they are inviting her and they treat her like their own mother and they treat her like a PERSON. I’m not sure they have any idea how truly meaningful this is to us both. So many people, when they hear someone has Alzheimer’s or Dementia stop treating them like they are human.

My mom may be sick, but she also has had a long an interesting life filled with examples of her willingness to help anytime someone needed it. She has done and experienced things many would not dream of doing. She has lived through wars (and I don’t mean from the comfort of her armchair, but memories of bombs, broken buildings and lost loved ones), lost children, escaped from a communist country, and boldly traversed oceans all by herself to start a new life, because she fell in love with an American soldier. She is a human being with feelings and deserves respect and not just some insentient lump to be talked over and around or treated like a child who needs a babysitter.

Then there are the other “friends,” the ones who don’t call as often because I’m not available for all the “fun” stuff, the ones who are filled with advice, but little help, or, even worse, people who make promises with little follow through or who bail at the last minute. It’s a story I hear again and again from my caregiver peers about their experiences with family members and friends. While I’m alone in caring for my mom and am also not typically one to ask for or expect help from anyone but myself, I can say that it makes a HUGE difference to know I have people who would help if it were needed.

This is not an experience I would wish on anyone, but it’s a huge lesson in friendship, in boundaries, in the fragility of life, how important it is to appreciate the ones you love while you have them, and how important it is to keep the promises we make. And, on respite days like today, a lesson about self-care and saving up your tears for those moments when you are alone, so you can put on a brave face when 3:30 rolls around and pretend that everything is “normal” and you don’t miss your mom.


This past week, I took my mom to respite care for the first time. While I’d been looking forward to it after a couple months of wading through Oregon’s Medicaid process, it turned out to be  a pretty emotional experience. It was the first time that I’ve had any time to myself in over two years. My mom is literally with me 24 hours a day, 365 days a year and, while I adore her and treasure the time we spend together, there are times when my introverted soul craves alone time so badly I can barely breathe. Meanwhile, she is the opposite and experiences separation anxiety, often seeking reassurance that we will be “together forever.” Some days this feels like hope, other days it carries with it the finality of a lock clicking on a cell door.

It’s a horrible thing to say or even secretly think, I know, and it’s really only a passing feeling, but I’d by lying if I said it didn’t flit through my mind sometimes for just a moment. It is one of the many ironies of the disease. I am not ready to lose her (I never will be), but it does have a way of sucking away at not only the patient, but also at the caregiver’s emotional, financial and spiritual reserves. Still, our first respite day turned out to be harder on me than it was on her. I felt so lost as I left the front desk at the care center and ended up spending my first 20 minutes of freedom sitting in the car crying in the parking lot.

It’s not so much that I feared they wouldn’t be good to her as that leaving my once confident, strong , fiercely independent mother in a building with a sign out front saying “adult daycare” is just an another affirmation that shit’s gotten real. This isn’t a mirage or a bad dream, she truly has FTD and we really are on a long, slow march to oblivion.

She is aware enough to know she has trouble remembering, but she doesn’t know she has dementia. She was there when it was diagnosed, she takes her “memory pill” each morning, but she doesn’t know. Even if I explained it to her, she’d forget within minutes. And yet, there are times when she will say to me out of the blue that she will never forget me.

It’s almost as though she’s trying to convince herself, to will herself to hold onto each little shard of memory. These days her stories often begin with “I will never forget…” only to be followed with a garbled series of fact that have no adherence to chronology or sometimes even truth. Each time it is like a little dagger in my heart, because I know she will forget. She is forgetting already. She still knows who I am most of the time or at least that we are related, but there are moments.

The first time it happens is like a punch in the gut. It feels like something you will never get used to it, but somehow you do manage to endure this new normal. I saw some ridiculous quote the other day that suggested that Alzheimer’s and dementia are a bridge to God. But there is nothing of “God” in this disease, not any God I want to know. It has its lessons and being close to it changes you. Like all terminal disease, it puts things into perspective, but it’s not a fair trade and certainly not a “blessing” I’d wish on my worst enemy. There have to be less painful ways to enlightenment.

But, for now, I am told that her first day in memory care was a good one and she was obviously enjoying herself when I got there to pick her up. Despite the memory problems, she’s very social and adores being around people. If anything, the changes to her frontal lobe have made me more outgoing.

As for me, despite its bittersweet nature, the few hours of alone time had an amazing effect. I feel more patient, less hopeless, less tired. It’s funny sometimes how we can go on just existing, doing what we must and not realizing how very tired we are. I hadn’t wanted her to go to respite care, because some part of me felt that as long as I could do it all myself it wasn’t real or it wasn’t that bad, but now I realize it was a good thing for both of us. She had some fun and I am a kinder, more compassionate caregiver and know how much we both needed this.


In these days of darkness, this question lives at the forefront of my thoughts. How do I make a difference? How do I make the world a brighter place? How do I leave it better than it was when I got here?

This little light of mine…

For so long, I felt like my work didn’t make a difference, like I wasn’t making a difference. I worked so hard for people who weren’t in need, but were the only ones who seemed to benefit from my blood and sweat. And it felt like my light was dying. I’d strayed so far from the path I’d originally set for myself. I’d see the models of The Hermit with his lantern and Hecate with her torch and my own light felt so tired and small, like a waning ember. Much of the past year has been about stepping out of the hierarchy of patriarchal society to embrace and creating a feminine vocation for myself that allows me to let it grow and shine brighter.

I’m gonna let it shine…

In the past, I tried to make up for it by working for justice in the world. Ignited by the stories of my own family of refugees, I worked at what felt like a sometimes losing battle to create peace in the world. I organized anti-war demonstrations, I volunteered with Amnesty International, with immigrants rights organizations. It was good work and good medicine, but it wasn’t my work, at least not my only work.

This little light of mine…

And slowly, the demands of my own job and life eclipsed it and all around me became dark. But something happens in the darkness. We see new potential sources of light. They are there in our periphery, if we look for them…

I’m gonna let it shine…

And I realized that my light was not in my job or in an organization, but in standing and speaking my true voice and helping others to access theirs.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

My light shines whenever I rescue a stray dog. I shines when I use my voice speak for those who have none. It’s there when I care for my mother as she ages, listening to her tell the same story for the third time that day. It’s there any time I step forward with my best self. And it’s there any time I encourage others to be their best selves too. I’m so grateful that the work I am creating for myself will allow me to do that.

Solitude (or after the fall)

Crow BeachThere are days when I crave solitude. As an introvert, I need it. As a caregiver, I don’t get it very often. And yet one of my most profound periods of stillness occurred last year. At Samhain I fell, breaking a bone for the first time in my 45 years. Not one to start small, my body picked my shoulder. Shortly after I lost my job and a big part of my identity for twelve years. By the time the Yuletide season blew in, I was depressed, feeling betrayed by my body and my life, in pain, and not able to move much. What there was time to do was go within, a luxury I didn’t often have with a 60+ hour a week job and a mother with early dementia.

So, I did the only thing I could. I crawled into a cocoon of solitude to heal my body and soul. Often in modern life we don’t take enough time for these things. It’s not our fault. Many of us work crazy hours, strive to care for those around us, often waking up tired and going to bed even more exhausted. It shouldn’t be this way. We don’t hunt our food, most of us don’t shiver through cold winters, but the stress…It gets to us. And sometimes our higher selves protest, forcing us to slow down. Sometimes for all their effort, we don’t listen and they have to make the tower fall to get our attention.

Looking back, I see the stillness that followed my release as magical. For the first time in years, I had the chance to be silent and really listen. And what did I hear? I heard that I didn’t like the way I was showing up in the world. I heard that I hated the job I’d just lost, that it was slowly sucking my soul. I heard the call of crow.

One day, shortly after the fall, I was in my spot in a recliner, wrapped in blankets, covered in concerned dogs (little canine nurses who were determined never to leave my side), and meditating on where my path would lead me and how I could best use my unique voice in the world when I heard a horrible ruckus outside. Crows. Very excited crows. Drugged up on Vicodin, I shed my blanket and care team and very slowly made my way outside, holding walls and door jambs to avoid slipping on the ice. The cawing continued as I made my way off our deck. I looked up to find dozens and dozens of crows in the old, giant cherry tree in the back yard. Crows are not uncommon in my neighborhood, but I had never seen anything like this.

I’ve always been fond of these birds, but it felt like they were there for me. It’s felt that way ever since. They’ve come up many times over the past months, even in a session with a Shamanic practitioner I worked with in the spring. As we journeyed together, I felt crow pecking at my throat, removing a bloody cherry pit from it then felt myself flying with black, inky wings. You can imagine how surprised I was when my teacher announced with no prompting from me that the medicine he had brought back was crow medicine. Crows and finding my voice, my true voice have become a theme over the past year. And all of that grew out of those first sad, contemplative days and weeks of solitude that I now see as the best thing that ever happened to me.

What we teach

For the past several weeks, my household population has tripled. My niece and her three kids have been staying with us. One of the fun things about having them here was getting to spend time with her kids, who are 17, 14 and 8. The eight year old and I bake cookies and monkey bread. We make a game of testing the chocolate chips to make sure they’re good enough before adding them to the batter. He takes this very seriously, closing his eyes and savoring it. He looks pensive while it melts in his mouth and slowly nods when I ask him, “What do you think? Is it good enough?” Baking together is slowly becoming our thing.

With the girls, it is different, because they’re older. Yesterday I did a coaching session with the fourteen year old. It’s a funny age, fourteen. She’s not a little girl, but she’s nowhere near adult either, yet at the same time, she has incredible insight. I see so much of myself at that age in her – all the excitement and insecurity, the propensity to think I had to carry everything on my shoulders. She is just finding her way and her sense of self is still fragile. It automatically makes you want to encourage and protect her and teach her all the things you wish you’d known at that age.

She just moved here from California a month ago, but already has a boyfriend. I see in that blossoming relationship the same excitement and insecurity, the fear that he doesn’t really like her and insecurity about measuring up to other girls for fear that he will leave her for someone else. In the fashion of early teens, their love is a dramatic one. One day they are the missing pieces of each other’s hearts, the next he is unsure if he wants a girlfriend, and the next he is forbidding her to accept friend requests from his guy friends. My immediate reaction was, “Who is this little pipsqueak to dictate who my sweet niece can have as a friend,” but maybe he’s just as insecure as she is. Whether it’s insecurity or because he’s a junior player who doesn’t want her to know what he’s up to is unclear, but it does make me wonder why we women do that to ourselves. Why do we tolerate it? I don’t see this young man swearing off all female friends. In fact, from what my niece says, there are a lot of girls he’s friendly with when they go to their youth group. I wonder how he’d react, if she told him he couldn’t talk to them anymore. I’m guessing there would be a double standard and there’s something in that about the kinds of conversations we need to be having with our young men too.

And reality is, he seems like a nice enough kid. He’s probably figuring his way just like she is, but it is telling that he has slipped into the role of trying to dominate her into complying with his “don’t friend my friends rules” just as easily as she has slipped right into the role of worrying that if she somehow displeases him, he’ll go looking for greener pastures. I think a lot of it has to do with the kind of role models and expectations we set for young women in our society. From early on, we teach young girls it’s better to be pretty than smart, better to be silent than express ourselves, if it’s going to make waves. We teach them that their value is in their looks, in their ability to please rather than in their minds, their character and sense of self. We tell them this when we say it’s okay for breasts to be sexual and sell everything from burgers to cars, but heaven forbid they could be used, even discretely, for their natural purpose of feeding a child. We might not tell them this in words, but it’s there in our sources entertainment, our media, the images that saturate our brains every day, telling us that our value is in as an object of desire and not as a fully actualized human being. And so, we learn to stuff, silence and deny.

Then, when we reach middle age, we suddenly realize that we’ve spent our lives focusing on putting other people before ourselves and then find ourselves spending money on therapy and classes to help us find our voice. And is it any wonder? Despite the strides made by feminism in the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s, it’s still there in our music, our magazines, our reality shows, our cultural obsession with people like the Kardashians, whose talent seems to lie in self-promotion and whose claim to fame is that they are famous.

A Facebook meme crossed my feed the other day, lamenting that we idolize people like Kylie Jenner, who just turned 18 and spent thousands on  a fancy car, facial reconstruction, and the sort of pouty duck lips that give women a perpetually dazed and vapid look, while we don’t talk enough about our young women warriors like Malala Yousafzai, who at 17 won a Nobel Prize for her work advocating for female education in Pakistan. And it’s right, we shouldbe holding young women like her up as role models for our girls, but a conservatively dressed young woman working for equal rights doesn’t sell the kind of E! ad space or dream a sexy, young socialite does.

And I’m not saying this as anything against Kylie Jenner. She is beautiful. She was beautiful, even without renovating her face. For all I know, she is a lovely young woman on the inside too. The thing is that she and her Kardashian brethren are not the problem. They are just a symptom of a system that teaches young women fucked up things about their value – – and, make no mistake, it IS fucked up to teach a girl that her value is in some unattainable, airbrushed standard of beauty.It is fucked up that we teach girls that her body is nothing more than a vessel for sexuality. And it is fucked up that a sweet, fourteen year old girl is worrying more about whether some boy will leave her for some other prettier girl than she is about whether the content of the boy’s character is such that he would dump her simply because some other girl has a prettier face or bigger breasts.

While my niece is just a young girl, at an age when she should just barely be wetting her feet in the dating pool, I see her already beginning to develop the fears so many women have about relationships. They tolerate so much, because they don’t believe in their hearts that they deserve more. I have friends and family who have endured lies, cheating, even abuse, because they don’t realize that they deserve (yes DESERVE) relationship with a partner who is loyal and kind and that there ARE men like that out there. I’ve done it myself, but I learned. Thank goodness, I learned. As hard as it is to be rejected, the question is not “Am I good enough to hang onto him?” but “Why would I WANT someone who doesn’t think I’m good enough, because, dammit, I am amazing?” That is what we should be teaching young women and not that their only value is as an object of desire.

I did a little exercise with my niece yesterday, wherein I had her list all the good things she recognizes about herself. When we were done, I read them back to her, saying, “I am loving, smart, caring, fun to be around, authentic and kind.” Then, I asked her if that’s the kind of person she’d want as a friend, a partner. Of course, she said yes. And when asked her if she thought someone like that didn’t deserve a boyfriend who saw how amazing she is and loves her for her, she smiled. This was just the first of many conversations to come, but I saw in her eyes that she’s starting to get that she is not only physically beautiful, but strong, smart, loving and kind and has no reason to make herself small, just so some boy (even a nice boy) can feel bigger. And if she blossoms into adulthood knowing that, she will be way ahead of the game.

Wild Roots

“A MANTRA FOR HOME HEALTH CARE. I am my own healer. I have a radiant voice within that guides me. I can make decisions for myself. I can rely on others as needed, but at my discretion. It is my body, my health, my balance, and my responsibility to make right choices for myself. Right choices include working with competent health-care professionals when necessary, allowing friends and family to help as needed, and, above all, being true to my beliefs, with the wisdom and willingness to change as part of the path of healing.
― from “Rosemary Gladstar’s Medicinal Herbs: A Beginner’s Guide: 33 Healing Herbs to Know, Grow, and Used”
For as long as I can remember, herbal healing was part of our medicine regimen at home. It wasn’t so much that anyone made a big deal about it. No one referred to herself with words like herbalist or healer, but it wasn’t uncommon for my mother to pull out some peppermint or chamomile to soothe an upset stomach or ease a bad day. I imagine she learned it from her mother, who grew up in the country and had memory of a lot of traditional folk remedies and customs. My grandmother always had bottles of Franzbranntwein (a mix of essential oils) and arnica for her legs. And, especially when we were visiting my mom’s homeland, we were just as likely to go to the Apotheke to buy some natural remedy as we were to mess around with any prescription or over the counter medicines. It was just a normal thing for our household and not anything I ever really questioned or saw as special.
Sometime during my late teens, I started collecting books on herbal medicine, vowing that I would learn about it. As it turned out, I would become more of a collector than a practitioner. The first one I ever bought was called Health from God’s Garden by Maria Treben. It is a lovely, accessible edition filled with drawings and plant properties. It still sits on my bookshelf today. Over the years, any time I saw an interesting book on herbalism, I’d pick it up. I’d thumb through them, but never really did much beyond casual browsing.
Then, last year, when I lost my job, I had to switch insurance plans. As luck would have it, one of the few places that was covered under my new insurance for my broken shoulder that was not a million miles away and was accepting new PT patients happened to be a holistic health center called Kwan Yin Healing Arts. Their staff was made up of professionals like Acupuncturists, Naturopathic Physicians, Massage Therapists, and other assorted healthcare professionals, and the next thing I knew, I had an appointment with the Naturopath who would become my primary care provider. After one meeting with her, I knew I loved her. I have been seeing her for about seven months now and she truly is the best doctor I’ve ever had. Under care, I started taking things like hawthorn tea for blood pressure, herbal medicines for other health issues and using flower essences for the stress that came along with breaking a major bone and losing my job around the same time.
Parallel to that time, an acquaintance tried to get me involved in joining her team to sell essential oils with one of the big, multi-level marketing company. As it turns out, while I love essential oils and value their healing properties, I am not a big fan of the big MLM essential oil industry itself. Having spend a good portion of my career working on sales compensation, their plans seem like a lot of smoke and mirrors that (like all compensation plans) ultimately benefit the company most. More importantly, however, I don’t feel a lot of reverence or respect toward our plant allies with them, and I have concerns about turning untrained people loose to dispense what are powerful medicines with no training beyond how to build your downline and maximize your compensation plan. I’m not saying that there aren’t consultants who don’t know their stuff, but I know that when I was signed up I didn’t and don’t feel I had any business selling people anything that could be used in a healing way. That is a personal ethics issue for me. It bothered me enough that I enrolled in an introductory aromatherapy course and, wow, was I hooked! Since that course ended, I’ve been learning all I can, concocting my own medicines and toiletries (so much fun!), and looking at certification programs.
All of this is my long way of saying that I feel like I’ve finally reached this space I’ve been travelling toward for a couple of decades. Maybe I wasn’t ready when I bought that first Maria Treben book. Who knows. All I know is that I am now and I am loving it and can’t wait to learn more.

Hang on little tomato

It’s been a rough week in Meville. For almost a year, I’ve been planning this amazing trip to Eastern Washington with friends to go see Dave Matthews Band. We went last year and it was heavenly. I can’t think of any prettier venue than The Gorge Amphitheatre or better company with whom to share it. They indulged my whim to visit a really bad mural in the city of Toppenish of someone called Irish Dick, being mauled by a bear and have good naturedly participated in a year of Irish Dick jokes, so I know they’re my tribe. This year, despite half of the Pacific Northwest being ablaze, we had concert tickets for two nights, a rented house near Leavenworth, plans for floating down the river, horseback riding, barbeques, and ziplining (okay, I was probably going to be more of a watcher for that one. The sense memory of my last break is too fresh to induce me into anything that involves lines breaking and me potentially careening toward the earth, but still…) In short, we were planning to have lots of fun. Because of responsibilities at home, I don’t get a lot of time to myself or as much time alone with my friends as I’d like, so it was a much needed respite. It’s been this bright spot of sunshine to look to any time things were difficult and this week I had to cancel.

I won’t lie. I’ve been feeling disappointed (maybe even a little bitter at first, though thankfully that has passed). Reality is that it’s just not a good time with a tight budget and a house full of guests. There have been some challenges with differing ways of doing things, my mom’s memory, level of patience and adapting to having four extra people in the house. One day she is jovial and fun, the next, she forgets things and blames people for things they’re not doing, then gets mad at me for trying to talk her into being reasonable, which creates a tense environment. They offered to stay with her while I was gone, but I don’t really feel like that’s a tenable situation. I’d take her with me, but then she would spend the whole time freaking out over whether the animals are okay and I’m honestly not yet in a place of trust that sees “here, strangers, stay alone in my house for several days,” so that would not be ideal (or much of a break) either. So, I’m not going and have promised myself that when things quiet down and become more normal, I will slip away for a beach weekend or a short mountain retreat (or if I’m really desperate, maybe just the Holiday Inn down the street!).

Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking of strategies to carve out little blocks of time and replenish my spirit in other ways. So, I’ve signed up for some personal growth classes – one called Warrior – True Voice Restored and another onSnake through wonderful Pixie Lighthorse’s SouLodge program. I’m really excited to be doing this work in time for October 28, which is kind of an anniversary for me. It’s the day I broke my shoulder last year, which ushered in a period of intense transition and rebuilding (I’m still working on the rebuilding part), so working with issues of Voice and Rebirth seems particularly apropos. Ideally, I’d like to celebrate the 28th with something special, though I’m not yet sure what that is. How does one celebrate a symbolic birthday?

The good thing is that I’m no longer really upset or depressed about it. Rather, I choose to look at it as a message from the universe that the time wasn’t right. There are no accidents. Things usually work out as they are meant to and I can’t wait to see what is coming in the next year! Whatever else happens, I know there will be a lot of learning and growth and that alone is enough to get excited about.