Resistance Is Futile

Addie was not just any cat. I’m quite sure she was a gift from my father – a man who believed a house was not a home unless it included a feline or two. 
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I was still thinking about my dad as I pulled into my driveway after work one evening. It was the five-year anniversary of his passing and my mind had been flooded with memories all day. Glancing at my front porch, there seemed to be a piece of crumpled newspaper lodged under the plant stand there. Getting closer, I saw it was actually a small black and white cat with eyes the size of Oreo mini’s.

My first thought was, “Oh, frick.” All my life, this was how I came to own pets. As if a cosmic “down” arrow hung over every place I ever lived and said, “Come here and you will be spoiled and adored.”

This time was different though. Well-intentioned friends had been urging me to get a pet for awhile, but after the six year roller coaster ride of caring for my parents and processing the grief that followed, I felt fractured by love and loss. I’d also decided to write a book about all I’d learned to help other adult children doing the same. In my mind, this meant shelving any kind of caregiver role for the foreseeable future.

Since neighborhood cats often strolled by, I took that as a sign that this furry little visitor was no different.  Hearing my half-hearted “shooing” sounds, she ran and hid under my car, and I went inside to cook dinner, figuring that was the end of it.

Of course, the next day, there sat the cat at the front door with a look on its face that said, “Let’s try this again, shall we?” I stood there still resisting the inevitable, but decided it wouldn’t hurt to feed her before she moved on. Yeah, I know.

Since nothing in the house resembled pet food, I opted to make oatmeal, adding extra water until it resembled the gruel in a scene from Oliver Twist. The cat attacked the bowl with gusto, making growling sounds to let me know that sharing was not an option. After finishing every last bite, she followed me into my room, hopped up on the bed, and stretched out on her back, purring loudly. Is there anything more irresistible? Laughing and shaking my head, I reached down to stroke her soft white belly and suddenly caught a familiar whiff of my dad’s favorite pipe tobacco. At that very moment, we both looked over at the same corner of the room and then looked back at each other. Five minutes later, I was heading to the grocery store for a litter box and kibble. Addie Jacob – Addie, a name I’d always liked, and Jacob, my father’s middle name, was curled up in the sheets, sound asleep.

The rest of the story? Turns out she would need her rest. Becoming my writing “mews” was going to be a full time job.

 NOTE: Addie J is no longer with me, but the gift of her presence is one I still carry in my heart.

An Act of Love and Laughter

If you’re familiar with my book, The Dutiful Daughter’s Guide to Caregiving, you’ve probably read the chapter called, Planning Mom’s Funeral With Barbra Streisand’s Help. My blog post of the same name touched a cord with caregivers everywhere and has been shared numerous times, and posted on other blogs, since the book came out in 2015.

I was recently invited to record an audio version of that story as a service of our public library system. It’s just a few minutes long, and, as I state in the introduction, it was my way of initiating a difficult conversation by reframing it as an act of love and laughter.

I hope you enjoy it.

For The Mother In All Of Us

I wanted to share this beautifully inclusive message, sent by a dear friend several years ago.

Happy Mother’s Day

A day for all of us who have loved

our own children, and the wonderful four

legged, winged and other creatures

who have graced our lives; for the students

and patients we have nurtured, and the people

in our lives we have gently loved and treasured,

giving our best when we often felt our worst

and feared we were empty… this is the grace

and strength of all women and men who

mother others… and who know how to hold

on and how to let go.

 

Covering My Bases Since 1959

A moment from the past. Is it any wonder that caring for my parents in their later years, and writing a book about it, was the natural thing to do? Many thanks to the Florida School System for eventually teaching me the difference between “to,” “too,” and “two.”

Living An Artful Life

When someone asked my mother who or what was most dear to her, the two-fold answer was given without any hesitation. My siblings and I came first, and art was second.

Always focused on the positives in her life,  she embraced family, friends, and a variety of painting mediums, in much the same fashion – with profound appreciation and attention to the qualities that made them unique. Her signature work was all rich jewel tones and welcoming flowers, which, over time, offered a visual reflection of her personal journey as both a woman and an artist.

When she died in 2013, her supplies came home with me. It didn’t matter if, or when they might be used again. What I needed most were her well-worn paintbrushes standing at hopeful attention in a favorite coffee mug, and those boxes of brightly smudged tubes of paint.

Working through the grief, I threw myself into writing a guide book about caring for both my parents in their final years; giving workshops on the topic; and even creating a writer’s group especially for caregivers. It has been soul work for sure, but at the same time, I’ve yearned for something less end-result and more about finding joy in the process.

Just like the Zen saying, “When the student is ready, the teacher arrives,” this month I found my way to a glorious collage and painting class called Big Bold Blooms, given by Lynn Whipple, one of my favorite artists. The irony is not lost on me since I could kill a plastic plant if given enough time.

The old paints and brushes are thrilled to be needed again, and my collection of tissue paper and oil pastels are calling out, “Pick me! Pick me!”  Feeling my mom’s presence close at hand, the first piece emerges in a mix of ripe purples, greens and turquoise, with a few tiny buttons thrown in for good measure.  Is it perfect? No. Do I care? Not a bit. Discarding judgment and being open to wonder are the real goals here.

Thanks to Carla Sonheim, a private Face Book page has been created for Bloomers, as we’re known, to share our progress. The wildly diverse styles and colors are breathtaking, and so is the generosity of spirit towards sister painters, from newbies to professionals, around the globe.

Starting with the warm and wonderful Lynn, our gifted guide, everyone’s words are kind, the encouragement is enthusiastic, and for those going through difficult times, there is comfort and compassion to be found.

Every day, I become more enchanted with each creative session, and with my gracious teacher and classmates, as well.  Like my mother, they understand that living an artful life is not just about learning to paint. It’s about celebrating each other with an open heart.

Carla and Lynn’s websites: You’ll want to check them both out.

http://www.carlasonheim.com

http://www.lynnwhipple.com 

The Facts of Life-A Different Perspective

Dad & Gee

Most kids learn the facts of life from their more well-informed friends or from some vague reference in personal hygiene class. I got my first lesson from a banned British novel.

In my childhood home, shelves groaned under the weight of books celebrating great opera, classic literature, and fine art, while stacks of Scientific American, Mother Jones, and National Geographic vied for space next to heirloom Sabbath candlesticks.

A voracious reader, everything intrigued me, including the backs of cereal boxes, toothpaste tubes, and warnings on household cleaning supplies. My parents used to pay me a penny for every billboard I didn’t read aloud on the family’s four-hour road trips from Orlando to Fort Lauderdale during summer vacations.

One Saturday, having turned boredom into an art form as only a thirteen-year-old can do, I went in search of something new to read while my parents were out buying a new washing machine. Nancy Drew and her penchant for making a mystery out of a molehill had grown stale and all my beloved horse books had been read and reread a dozen times. Exploring the bookcase in my parents’ bedroom, I noticed a copy of Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D. H. Lawrence. While I didn’t know that “first edition” stamped inside its cover gave this book far more value than most, no one had to tell me what the word  “lover” meant. It could only be one thing . . . sex. And so I sat on the floor of my parents’ room and discovered for myself why Lawrence’s book had maintained its “banned” status for so many years.

Knowing my parents would soon be back, I got busy dog-earring the juiciest pages for a secret return engagement and never heard my father’s footsteps across the terrazzo floor until his wing-tips appeared in the doorway. It took just a few seconds for him to assess the scene — the hole on the shelf where the book should have been and me hunched over speed-reading and pushing horn-rimmed glasses back onto my nose while nervously twirling strands of brown hair between my fingers.

Looking up and seeing my father’s pained expression, I braced myself for a lecture on reading a book that was obviously meant for adults only.

“Judy, it appears your mother and I cannot trust you to be alone in the house without supervision. I am extremely disappointed. How can I make myself clear? NEVER, EVER treat a book in this fashion. Only lazy people with no respect for property consider it acceptable to dog-ear pages. Until I say so, this will go back on the shelf and remain there.”

My father eventually got over the fact that his now sullied copy of Lady Chatterley would no longer be funding his retirement, and I took what occurred as his permission to push the boundaries even further by exploring a collection of writing well beyond my years. Beginning with the bookcases that lined our dining and living room walls, I read works by Herman Wouk, Leon Uris, and Nevil Shute, which taught me about harsh realities, impossible to put aside.

Yet,  some of the most profound lessons have come, not from books, but from being there for people in ways I’ve never imagined; accepting what is, including my imperfections and limitations; offering comfort even when I cannot find it for myself; and realizing that loving invites loss, regardless of how hard we try to hold it at bay. This is a truer definition of the facts of life, and the very stuff of caregiving.