Category Archives: Life’s Lessons

It’s All Relative!

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I attended the funeral of my 106-year-old aunt this week. She was married to my mother’s brother and was my last living aunt. Though I know she was ready, it seemed for the three of us nieces and nephews at her funeral that it represented a passing of the last thread we had with our birth family. It also reminded me of the importance of my aunts and uncle’s presence in my life. 

A few of my uncles and aunts on both sides of my mom and dad’s family didn’t have children, so they took the time to make sure their nieces and nephews knew they were important to them. The aunts and uncles that had kids also were present in my life, whether they lived miles away or close by. 

My Uncle Frank was my mother’s brother. Until I was in sixth grade, we lived with my Polish grandmother and him. My folks ran a shoe store, and my mom also took care of my grandmother. Uncle Frank lived with us. He was a quiet man, not versed in the ways of the world. He had stayed home and took care of the animals, gardened, raised vegetables, and helped with my grandmother. Every winter, he turned our extensive garden into an ice-skating pond. And during the winter he took a hay rack and built tracks for a sled to glide down from the tall back to the ground. The sled with me on it would gain momentum on the steep tracks, and take me on my old-fashioned sled across the snow to almost the end of the pasture. Today, that type of contraption would be banned and considered too dangerous for a child.  Uncle Frank built me my own Merry-Go-Round, taught me how to pick eggs, and let me drive the small tractor to pick up hay. He taught me to pick sweet corn and strawberries and took care of my pony along with his work horses. Everyone would say he wasn’t a smart man, slow at learning the book stuff because he didn’t go to school past sixth grade. They needed him at home to help support his mother. Uncle Frank didn’t dress well. Most of the time, his mode of dress was overalls and a flannel work shirt, sometimes torn and not always clean, because of the work in the yard and with the animals. He wasn’t schooled in the ways of the world, and many ignored him because he didn’t match up to what society valued back in the 1950s. To me, he was like a dad. I certainly spent more time with him than I did with my parents at that age. Most of all, I remember his kindness. He died when I was a teenager. 

My mom usually bought Christmas gifts for the family for him, but the year before he died, he chose my Christmas gift himself. It wasn’t expensive, and it wasn’t fancy, it was a necklace with a big red glass stone. I still have it today. It is one thing I couldn’t part with because it reminds me of the love he showed me. 

My dad had two bachelor brothers, too. They were prominent in my life. They always made me feel special when we visited. One of my best memories is spending time on the farm with them, and my Uncle Chester cooking the best baked beans and stuffing I have tasted in my life. He would put me on his knee and recite a poem that went like this: I had a little horse, his name was Tommy Day, his feet were made of cornstalks, his head was made of hay. I saddled him and bridled him and rode him to the ground. There came a little puff wind that blew him up and down. While he would recite the poem, he bounced me on his knee, and then make sure he had my hands when he collapsed his knees at the last line so I wouldn’t get hurt falling to the ground. 

My dad’s sister, Mary, though very quiet and older, influenced my life too. I would spend some afternoons with her. Every day after her meal she would sit with her Bible and quietly pray. Her faith was a quiet faith, but it impressed me in the way she lived it. 

Distance doesn’t always mean family can’t be present in a child’s life. My two California aunts and uncles never seemed far away. They made a point of keeping in touch and taking time for me even when having a family of their own. I was blessed to be able to travel and spend time with both families as a teenager. Of course, there were visits for them back to Minnesota.

My Uncle Dan was a gruff person with a heart of gold underneath the bark, and my Aunt Clara would counter his bite and crab back and laugh off his antics. It was fun to watch them because you never took their bickering seriously. It was their love speak. My memories of Uncle Dan’s Hawaiian shirts could fill a book, and I still have one of his wood carvings on my dresser. My aunt worked for the Culver City Motor Vehicle Department. Somehow, she must have pilfered Ray Milland’s driver’s license application because she gave it to me. I still have it. Youngster’s if you don’t know who he is, look him up. My aunt met many celebrities of that time at her job.

One of my most vivid memories while staying with my Uncle Dan and Aunt Clara was our travel to a Los Angeles Angel’s game. First, my uncle was a Los Angeles Dodger fan, so he wasn’t pleased that we were going to an Angel’s game. Second, he wasn’t a fan of the construction workers building the freeway and having lanes closed which impeded our time to get to the game. His way of handling it? Did I mention he had no patience? He started yelling out his windows at the construction workers and weaving and running down the cones. My aunt was not pleased, but as a teenager it left me and my friend Mary, hiding our laughter in the back seat. To top it off he had earphones on his radio and listened to the Dodger game instead of watching the Angels and then…the Angels game went into overtime and didn’t end until two in the morning. Karma for the construction worker incident? 

My other California uncle and aunt shaped my life too. My Aunt Elsie was kind and soft spoken. She was always welcoming and though she had some health issues, still took the time to make this niece feel special. She always knew exactly what I would love. My favorite Christmas gift was a frilly can- can. Again, youngsters, look it up. One of things I loved best about my Uncle Bernie was his hugs. We didn’t hug much at that time with my Minnesota family. My parents weren’t huggers, but I knew when Uncle Bernie and his family visited, there would be a big hug. He wasn’t one to back down if he felt something was wrong, especially when it came to getting speeding tickets dropped by the courts, at least if the stories he regaled me with were true. When I hear the words speeding ticket I think of him. I’ll have to ask his kids if his stories were true. 

And then there was Uncle Dominic, my Aunt Marguerite’s husband. My aunt that just died. He was a locksmith and owned a key shop in Mankato, Minnesota. At Christmas he set up a Christmas tree lot next to his key shop. I loved spending the day with him at his business. He took me to my first fast food place. I think it was Hardee’s. It was different from a drive-in because you got to go inside and order and then sitnt and we didn’t have a fast-food chain in my small community, so it was a treat. Christmas was always a special time because spending time with him when he was selling Christmas trees was fun. Very cold, but fun.  He made people happy by helping them find the perfect tree. 

Why am I telling you about my relatives, especially aunts and uncles? Because they helped grow me up in the way I should go. They were important to me. They were special. Being an only child, I couldn’t give my kids aunts and uncles from my side of the family, but my aunts and uncles gave them that. My kids couldn’t meet all of them, but the ones that they did have in their lives left a lasting impression.

Uncle Bernie

Uncle Bernie treated our kids to their first taste of lobster and there’s quite a story in that. My daughter remembers his nickname for her when she was little, “the little girl with the tight-fitting jeans.” There was always a place on his lap for our kids when we visited California, and when he visited us. He also taught our kids to play poker. Yes we let him teach our kids to gamble. No money was exchanged, just chips, but this is a memory they remember to this day. My dad died right before our first son was born. Uncle Bernie represented the grandpa they never had. 

Uncle Dan took them to the La Brea Tar Pits while the rest of us were at the Price Is Right. He climbed the rocks with them at Joshua Tree National Park, and both Aunt Clara and Uncle Dan gave them their introduction to staying in the desert and educated them about their surroundings.

Uncle Dominic and Aunt Marguerite lived on a steep hill below Good Counsel Academy in Mankato. One winter he invited the kids over to sled. He hand shoveled and packed down a slippery steep snow path that went from the top of his yard and angled around the house to the front. He made sure it had sides so they couldn’t slide down the next steep hill in front of the house into the traffic. Aunt Marguerite made sure we had hot drinks and food. It was one of our kids’ last memories of him.

On my husband’s  side of the family their Uncle Evan and Aunt Sue took them fishing, boating and even helped one of them shingle their house. They were there for all the special occasions in their life. 

Aunt Audrey was a kind, gentle person, always being there for birthdays, recitals and being an awesome Godmother, making sure she shared her faith with them. And she was a perfect role model in the way she lived her life. 

Aunts and uncles matter, and you may not know until many years later what your caring in a nieces and nephews life may mean. Our kids need all the support they can get in this stressful, fast-changing world. Because I didn’t have those brothers and sisters I wasn’t always the best aunt to my husband’s nieces and nephews. I didn’t get it. I should have understood because I had great role models, but it isn’t until now that I have had so much time to analyze and ponder what I would do differently if I went back, and one of the things would be to take more time with those kids. My aunts and uncles made a difference in my life. It wasn’t a celebrity or a social media influencer or a tv evangelist, it was family. So I guess you can call my aunts and uncles influencers of their day? Can you be the influencer for your family?

Bouncing Back

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Writing has always come easy to me. It’s been a way to get my feelings out
and move on. Lately I have been frozen, not able to articulate much of
anything.

If you’ve followed my journey and the trials of living with someone with
memory loss, then you’ve known the struggles. It was probably obvious to
everyone but me I wasn’t handling it well. I was plowing through. Reacting,
reacting, reacting.

After my husband went into memory care in late November, it was followed by
both of us getting Covid, and for ten days we were both sequestered in our
separate apartments. It gave me some respite, but it wasn’t enough. I thought I
was fine, but I was pretending.

In the middle of January, I had to move out of the senior living community
where my husband was in the memory care section. It meant more packing. It felt
like all I had done during the past eight months was pack. The move went smoothly,
and I now live in a small, peaceful, cute apartment with others my age. My body
did not react well to the peace or the change. As long as things were chaotic,
I could seem to hold it together, but my mind didn’t know what to do with the
peace.

I hadn’t been eating well in a long time. I wasn’t hungry and my throat,
chest and stomach tightened when I thought of eating. The one thing I had going
for me was that I slept soundly at night until about a week after I moved.

I woke up in the middle of the night with a tight chest, feeling like I
needed to burp but couldn’t, and experiencing wanting to jump out of my skin.
Crying all the time was easy. I finally realized I needed help. I couldn’t go
on pretending I was alright, though I was probably the only one that thought
that. My daughter took me to the ER. No, I wasn’t having a heart attack; I was
having a panic attack and severe acid reflux. Basically, I was having a
meltdown.

For the past twenty years, I had been on anxiety medication and medication
for my stomach, but those medications were stopped in October. I foolishly
thought I could do without it during the most stressful period of my life.

Because of my up and down anxiety about our situation, I alienated some of
my family. They couldn’t deal with our drama and if you know me, in good times
I am a dramatic person, so multiply that when I am depressed and anxious.
Knowing this only added to my anxiety and depression. And yet, though I knew
those facts, I didn’t seek help. There was no time in the drama of my life to
do that for me.

The silence of being in a new place after my diagnosis in the ER was a
blessing. My doctor said I was exhausted. I needed rest. Some days I would just
sit on my bed, close my eyes, listen to the silence and breathe. It was all I
could do. The thought of making myself food or paying a bill, doing any cleaning,
and even going downstairs to get the mail was too much. I felt frozen.

After the first week on medication, I was slightly better, although the meds
were messing with my stomach, so I decided I needed to try to do something. My
anxiety and stomach were still yelling at me. I would tell myself: “At 1:00 I’m
going to clean the bathroom.” I’d clean the bathroom and go right back to my
bed to breathe. At 2:00 I’d complete another small task. Surprisingly, I got
quite a bit done this way. Eventually I would have shorter intervals.

Little by little and another change of medication so my stomach wasn’t so
wonky, I am improving. I can go down to coffee, visit my husband and even make
it to Menards with a friend to find curtains for my window without shaking or
feeling I want to run and hide. I’m taking it slow.

For some reason we think we can do it all. Maybe it’s the media telling us
we can do it all. Maybe it’s our stubbornness that we don’t admit we need help
to navigate the hard times in life. It could be we listen to the voices that
have never walked in our shoes and don’t understand, making that known with
their words, and we hear those voices the loudest. It could also be we were
taught to show any weakness is shameful. Growing up in the 50s many times
parents would warn us when we were crying: “You want something to cry about?
I’ll give you something to cry about.” Tears were not accepted, especially for
men.

As a result, many of us oldsters hide what is happening. Wisdom comes with
age and experiences. I absolutely was not the most understanding daughter with
my mom when my dad died. I was 20, newly married with a baby on the way and so
I didn’t understand what a loss it was to her. I was too mired in me. When she
got dementia, at first, I ignored it. I didn’t know how to deal with it.
Because of this I understand the younger generation not understanding our aging
process.

Healing from mental health and physical problems is a journey. Each person’s
timeline is different and whatever they are feeling is real to them and
shouldn’t be compared to our own journey. We need to not judge mental health
issues and embrace supporting those we know whether we understand or not. When
you are in the midst of angst it’s hard to find your way to the resources
available and then navigate the muddy road of the process of organizations.
That’s where the support of friends and family comes in, finding the resources
and gently pointing us to better health while listening and being patient.

I again can laugh and see light in the future. Prayer and family and
friends, along with the medical community, are walking the steps with me. They
are proof angels still exist. I am sharing so those who feel hopeless know life
can be good again. I’m getting there. Find your angels. They are there if you
share your struggle. And you might find them where you least expect it. I did.

Don’t Be Mad

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I have a soft heart. It may not seem that this brash, loud person is vulnerable. A friend whom I love, who is occasionally abrasive, but a tell -it-like -it-is person, keeps a part of herself hidden. She and I are alike in that we seem to be extroverts, but I found I’m really an introvert pretending to be an extrovert and always out there. We have loud personalities. We take up causes. We have loud opinions. Hidden underneath that out-there personality of my friend is one of the softest hearts I know that gets hurt easily. She keeps that hurt hidden.

Going through the transition of my husband moving into memory care has brought much soul searching. I’ve never lived alone. Acknowledging that I’m scared is hard. It’s a secret to be kept inside and I realize over the years, especially the last five, I have run on fear. Fear of upsetting the person I lived with, fear of upsetting my children. That fear came out of me as someone that was always whining, asking for help from my family, and in desperation it came across to others as a person to stay away from because I wasn’t pleasant to be around. By being opinionated and verbal about issues that weren’t mine, and taking up some other cause, I could hide my fear or put it out of my mind for a short time. My behavior distanced myself from people I love.

I was breaking inside but on the outside I was pretending, trying so hard to be this I’ve got this person to those around me that weren’t family, this social person, the perfect grandma and good friend. And I complained and cried. Why weren’t family coming home more often to see us and help, to ease what was happening. The Pandemic caused isolation and loneliness but when it was over the visits still were sporadic. I knew it was because of busy lives, but still I suspected it was the drama our life represented because of the memory loss, and me being completely emotional and irrational. Maybe emotionally they couldn’t handle what was happening either. Don’t get me wrong, if it was an emergency they were there immediately for us. Now having some quiet and alone time I pretty much accept it was me that kept them away for the small things, for more frequent visiting.

I have spent the major part of my life wanting people to not be mad at me. I can just hear Dr. Phil saying, “And how’s that working for you?” Looking back I tried too hard, came out as over the top, giving mixed messages and being wishy- washy in my actions. I am always being told by my family , “ Make a decision.” And yes I have been very outspoken. I will tell you right now that those who are caregivers 24/7 don’t think rationally either. They are too caught up in the drama of their lives.

I now see it wasn’t the situation, but me and my crazy personality that made close ones stay away. And it was fear that made me act that way. Fear of being rejected, of making the wrong decision. Fear that I would never get out of the nightmare, and fear of saying I felt I was living in a nightmare, not being able to say those words to anyone because the person I lived with really was living a worse nightmare, so what he needed is more important. His fear was there but not expressed as fear, but anger. Who wouldn’t be angry? So I felt my fear was not rational because I was fine, the healthy one. .

I suspect I am not the only caregiver that doesn’t show who they are to their families, doesn’t express their true feelings, and what they do express comes out wrong because the stress turns their ability to verbalize their emotions, making the words irrational. Not only are we fearful but angry. We keep that inside too. Caregivers compromise who they are, withhold their anger and sadness about the situation to keep the peace, and not have their families upset with them. And yet it isn’t working.

Family is love and that love doesn’t leave because of discord, but it may be hard for all of us to remember that. Our kids live in a world today that is very stressful. They are busy just trying to live and excel and don’t have time for all the drama we may bring to their lives. They have learned to set boundaries to protect themselves. And because of that, we as parents may not understand. Us oldsters were brought up in an entirely different world. We didn’t know about boundaries and stress reduction. We didn’t have media telling us to protect ourselves by staying away from toxic people. The mental health help was not there.

The two worlds of the younger generation and the older generation today are having a hard time, in some cases, understanding the dynamics of the world growing us up differently.

My generation didn’t know it was acceptable to put the toxic people out of our lives, even if they were family. If my mom would have known that she might have put my grandma out of her life. My grandma was always yelling. You can ask her grandkids, we never remember her smiling, but because she was family she was taken care of until she died. My parents sacrificed a lot to take care of parents and brothers because that’s what you did in the olden days. The nursing home and mental health weren’t options.

My mother wanted to teach in Alaska. She wanted to travel the world, but gave up her dreams to stay home and take care of her mother. Others did the same. Family came first. I always thought that was why she was crabby, now I surmise she was crabby from Caregiver burnout, not because she sacrificed her dreams. I did not understand how hard her life was. The generational difference. But the one thing I understood was that family was everything above work and even money. Both my mom and dad financially helped out family members when they had a need. Occasionally supporting them financially until they could get back on their feet. They helped both sides of the families. They helped friends. I still have my dad’s billfold with all the IOU notices from people he lent money to. Their brothers and sisters were the same way. Before her death my mom told me what she had wanted to do with her life, but that she did not regret giving up her dreams to help her family. I believe that. It was the caregiver burnout that caused the crabbiness and I didn’t understand. It was a different generation.

I think my generation has a hard time understanding the difference of today’s world and where the shift is. So we hurt, we hide it and we don’t make sense to our kids because they don’t understand that our expectations come from our past. And we don’t understand the world they live in and how stressful and time consuming the reality that is their life is.

We have a communication gap between what our hearts feel and what we say. If we choose to share, how we say it because of our emotions, it comes out wrong. Emotions that we keep hidden and don’t always recognize ourself such as fear.

Caregivers have so much fear hidden inside of them. Their world is changing. The people that love them don’t always see that their needs are getting lost in the abyss of whoever they are taking care of. A caregiver wakes up in the morning, if they’ve gotten any sleep, and puts one foot in the front of another and takes a step, and occasionally that one step is all that is holding them up. If you know a caregiver ask them what they fear. Do they feel their security is gone and they no longer feel safe? If they are that tender hearted person with a brash exterior, you may have to read between the lines because if they let all the hurt out that they are hiding, they might break. Or they may be that soul who doesn’t want to make anyone mad for fear they will disappear from their life and they will be totally alone, and so the decisions or words they speak may come out as complaining or whining, but really it’s a cry for help, for you to help them be who they are. And love them anyway.