A good mystery book ends with the mystery being solved, but we go through life with a series of unsolved mysteries. At any particular time in our lives, we puzzle over why things happen.
Why did a relationship end? Why do nations fight wars? Why do people develop life-changing diseases like Alzheimer’s? The “whys” of real life mysteries can drive us berserk.
Last night, I picked up the Sedalia Democrat and two front page headlines caught my immediate attention. “Fundraiser planned for Bruce reward coffers” was an update on Dana Bruce, a 23 year old mother of two, who went missing on October 5. Flyers with Dana’s picture are posted at most Sedalia businesses. Wooded areas have been searched and a person of interest interviewed, but Dana is still missing and nothing has been resolved.
Another story on the front page “Missing wife’s husband arrested” is about Michael Yarnell’s arrest in connection with the disappearance of Michelle “Angie” Yarnell. Twenty-eight year old Angie disappeared October 23, 2003 from the Ivy Bend area of Morgan County. Angie’s husband claimed she ran away with another man. Michael Yarnell admits to sending a postcard to Angie’s mother indicating that Angie was alive and well and on her way to Texas. Where is Angie? That question still can’t be answered five years later.
Hopefully, these mysteries will be solved eventually. If family members do not have a happy reunion with their loved ones, they will at least find closure. It seems that no matter how bad the news, we face the known with courage, but we fear the unknown.
What were Dana’s goals before she went missing? What were Angie’s dreams? Whatever happened to these young women, their lives veered from the pathways they had traveled. Their fates are unsolved mysteries.
Why did Jim develop dementia? What happened to our hopes and aspirations? This is my life’s greatest unsolved mystery.
Life is not a book, and we are not the authors of our own pages. Too many times, our biographies are cut short, and our legacy is an unfinished manuscript with a lot of loose ends. Our pathways through life are mysterious, and we don’t know exactly where they lead or when they will end. We do our best to conquer our fear of the unknown and complete our journey with faith that in the end we learn the answers.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Taking Inventory
At work we are conducting our annual inventory. I’m no longer directly involved in the process, but I remember the headaches, frustration, and anxiety of trying to reach an acceptable discrepancy between what you have on hand and what you should have.
This morning, I have been cleaning house, and I thought about all the stuff that I have crammed into this house after eighteen years of living here. I can’t imagine taking inventory of all the items I own. In the first place, I would have to find everything. I’m still looking for the computer connection for my MP3 player. If I ever find it, will it be in a logical place, or some place where I stuck it to get it out of the way? It wouldn’t get counted in the inventory if it’s still missing.
Jim used to call me Imelda Marcos Junior because of all the shoes I have. The last time I counted (at his insistence!) I had fifty pair. As far as how many pair I have now—we won’t go there. I watch these people on TV help packrats like me clean their closets. “You have a hundred tee-shirts? Oh. My. God. Throw ninety-seven of them in this big trash can and we will buy you a new wardrobe.” Nope. Keep your new wardrobe. I like my memories. I just need a bigger closet!
If my 401K completely disappears, I could live by selling my stuff on E-Bay. I wouldn’t even miss most of my “inventory” for a few years.
I no longer count my collectibles. I display part of them and pack part of them away. Seasonal decorating gets to be such a pain, that I wonder why I do it. I need to take down Halloween and put up Thanksgiving. Fortunately, those two overlap some. I hate to take down my fiber-optic witch before anyone gets to see it. Last year I left my decorations up for a few extra days and my granddaughter said, “Halloween is OVER, Grandma Linda!”
Sometimes when I have a moment of quiet time, I begin to think strange thoughts. Last night as I drove home, I began to think about things I’ve done in my life that I wish I hadn’t. Things that I knew were wrong, but plunged into them anyway. I began to take inventory of my dark side. When we ruminate, it’s our failings that bear heavy on the soul and seem to clog up the inventory. In fairness to myself, I should inventory my accomplishments and the good things too.
I’ve always heard that we should count our blessings which sounds like another inventory. Thankfully, I couldn’t possibly inventory my blessings either. Not even an industrial strength calculator would be capable of that task.
So, at work, inventory is bogged down and holding up my October month end closing, but in my personal life, I’m just plugging along. I’m the only one accountable for any discrepancies between what I have and what I should have, and more importantly, the person I am and the person I should be.
This morning, I have been cleaning house, and I thought about all the stuff that I have crammed into this house after eighteen years of living here. I can’t imagine taking inventory of all the items I own. In the first place, I would have to find everything. I’m still looking for the computer connection for my MP3 player. If I ever find it, will it be in a logical place, or some place where I stuck it to get it out of the way? It wouldn’t get counted in the inventory if it’s still missing.
Jim used to call me Imelda Marcos Junior because of all the shoes I have. The last time I counted (at his insistence!) I had fifty pair. As far as how many pair I have now—we won’t go there. I watch these people on TV help packrats like me clean their closets. “You have a hundred tee-shirts? Oh. My. God. Throw ninety-seven of them in this big trash can and we will buy you a new wardrobe.” Nope. Keep your new wardrobe. I like my memories. I just need a bigger closet!
If my 401K completely disappears, I could live by selling my stuff on E-Bay. I wouldn’t even miss most of my “inventory” for a few years.
I no longer count my collectibles. I display part of them and pack part of them away. Seasonal decorating gets to be such a pain, that I wonder why I do it. I need to take down Halloween and put up Thanksgiving. Fortunately, those two overlap some. I hate to take down my fiber-optic witch before anyone gets to see it. Last year I left my decorations up for a few extra days and my granddaughter said, “Halloween is OVER, Grandma Linda!”
Sometimes when I have a moment of quiet time, I begin to think strange thoughts. Last night as I drove home, I began to think about things I’ve done in my life that I wish I hadn’t. Things that I knew were wrong, but plunged into them anyway. I began to take inventory of my dark side. When we ruminate, it’s our failings that bear heavy on the soul and seem to clog up the inventory. In fairness to myself, I should inventory my accomplishments and the good things too.
I’ve always heard that we should count our blessings which sounds like another inventory. Thankfully, I couldn’t possibly inventory my blessings either. Not even an industrial strength calculator would be capable of that task.
So, at work, inventory is bogged down and holding up my October month end closing, but in my personal life, I’m just plugging along. I’m the only one accountable for any discrepancies between what I have and what I should have, and more importantly, the person I am and the person I should be.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Remembering American Veterans: Some Gave All
Branson celebrates “Veterans Week” out of respect for those who served our country. For several years, Jim and I traveled to Branson for this annual event. Patriotic songs are performed by talented people dressed in glittering red, white, and blue costumes.
Our first stop in Branson was always the 76 Music Hall where we registered Jim for his ARMY, 169th Engineers, Vietnam nametag. Until we began to celebrate Veterans Week in Branson, Jim had not experienced the pride associated with fighting for his country. Jim and I both had tears in our eyes when a man saw Jim’s nametag and shook his hand. “I just want to say thank you, and welcome home.” Vietnam veterans returned home one at a time on commercial airlines—no parades, no thank you, no appreciation.
Vietnam irrevocably changed Jim. He felt more stigmatized than honored for most of the years following his tour of duty. Jim suffered from post traumatic syndrome before anyone knew what it was. He became withdrawn, suicidal, paranoid, and sank into a dark depression. Eventually, he received psychiatric treatment and with medication improved. Yet, throughout the remainder of his life, Vietnam was a burden on his soul.
At a Country Tonite show, one of the performers sang, “All Gave Some, and Some Gave All.” Most people probably think of the soldiers who died on the battlefield as the ones who “gave all.” Jim stood beside me in the darkened theatre, his solemn face changing colors because of the flashing stage lights. As I held his hand, my arm brushing against the denim of his Levi jacket, I knew in my heart that Jim was one who gave all.
Today, my sister-in-law and I visited the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville to place red, white, and blue flowers in front of Jim’s niche in the columbarium. The cemetery, peaceful and quiet, beneath a cloudless blue sky, is in stark contrast to sweaty soldiers carrying M-16s through a Southeast Asian jungle.
How many will pause on November 11 to honor our veterans? Or has Veterans Day simply become another excuse for retail stores to have a sale? I know that in Branson, at least, veterans will be thanked, honored, and welcomed home with a parade that begins at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.
As long as our country sends troops throughout the world to fight in wars, it is our obligation to provide support to veterans for as long as they need it. Outer wounds are visible, but scars on the heart may be the deepest. All gave some and some gave all to keep the stars and strips flying high and proud over this country.
Our first stop in Branson was always the 76 Music Hall where we registered Jim for his ARMY, 169th Engineers, Vietnam nametag. Until we began to celebrate Veterans Week in Branson, Jim had not experienced the pride associated with fighting for his country. Jim and I both had tears in our eyes when a man saw Jim’s nametag and shook his hand. “I just want to say thank you, and welcome home.” Vietnam veterans returned home one at a time on commercial airlines—no parades, no thank you, no appreciation.
Vietnam irrevocably changed Jim. He felt more stigmatized than honored for most of the years following his tour of duty. Jim suffered from post traumatic syndrome before anyone knew what it was. He became withdrawn, suicidal, paranoid, and sank into a dark depression. Eventually, he received psychiatric treatment and with medication improved. Yet, throughout the remainder of his life, Vietnam was a burden on his soul.
At a Country Tonite show, one of the performers sang, “All Gave Some, and Some Gave All.” Most people probably think of the soldiers who died on the battlefield as the ones who “gave all.” Jim stood beside me in the darkened theatre, his solemn face changing colors because of the flashing stage lights. As I held his hand, my arm brushing against the denim of his Levi jacket, I knew in my heart that Jim was one who gave all.
Today, my sister-in-law and I visited the Veterans Cemetery in Higginsville to place red, white, and blue flowers in front of Jim’s niche in the columbarium. The cemetery, peaceful and quiet, beneath a cloudless blue sky, is in stark contrast to sweaty soldiers carrying M-16s through a Southeast Asian jungle.
How many will pause on November 11 to honor our veterans? Or has Veterans Day simply become another excuse for retail stores to have a sale? I know that in Branson, at least, veterans will be thanked, honored, and welcomed home with a parade that begins at the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month.
As long as our country sends troops throughout the world to fight in wars, it is our obligation to provide support to veterans for as long as they need it. Outer wounds are visible, but scars on the heart may be the deepest. All gave some and some gave all to keep the stars and strips flying high and proud over this country.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Never Too Old to Learn from Mistakes
Those of you who read my posts on a regular basis know that I’m always up to something. My hectic lifestyle allows me to sample a smorgasbord of new experiences and gives me ample opportunity to make mistakes. I believe that mistakes are the most powerful teachers I’ve ever had.
At Alzheimer’s Support Group, the best advice I can give to people who are just beginning the dementia journey is to tell them what to avoid, or “not do.” I hope others can learn from the mistakes I made during my ten years of caregiving. Some of life’s greatest lessons are the result of mistakes, and it’s always better if we don’t have to make them ourselves.
An incident this week reinforced my belief that I am never too old to learn. First, I learned that it is a bad idea to decorate a food table with tea lights although it makes the petite sandwiches, fruit and vegetable laden table, lovely. I also learned that paper napkins are quite flammable and when someone reaches for food and dangles a paper napkin over a burning candle, fire happens.
This leads to another lesson: a lace tablecloth can catch fire quickly if a blazing napkin comes into contact with it. Before the tablecloth reaches the flash point, you need to knock the napkin off the table and onto the tile floor and stomp it. I learned that burning napkins totally disintegrate and leave only a few pieces of ash and a scorch mark on tile.
The only way to know if you pass the final exam for all the lessons you learn in life is whether you can brush the ashes off the floor and press onward. Did you know that Comet cleanser removes tell-tale yellow scorch marks from a tile floor? I didn’t know that, but someone else had already learned that lesson. We can’t always “erase” our mistakes with Comet, but we can’t let the fear of making them hold us back.
At Alzheimer’s Support Group, the best advice I can give to people who are just beginning the dementia journey is to tell them what to avoid, or “not do.” I hope others can learn from the mistakes I made during my ten years of caregiving. Some of life’s greatest lessons are the result of mistakes, and it’s always better if we don’t have to make them ourselves.
An incident this week reinforced my belief that I am never too old to learn. First, I learned that it is a bad idea to decorate a food table with tea lights although it makes the petite sandwiches, fruit and vegetable laden table, lovely. I also learned that paper napkins are quite flammable and when someone reaches for food and dangles a paper napkin over a burning candle, fire happens.
This leads to another lesson: a lace tablecloth can catch fire quickly if a blazing napkin comes into contact with it. Before the tablecloth reaches the flash point, you need to knock the napkin off the table and onto the tile floor and stomp it. I learned that burning napkins totally disintegrate and leave only a few pieces of ash and a scorch mark on tile.
The only way to know if you pass the final exam for all the lessons you learn in life is whether you can brush the ashes off the floor and press onward. Did you know that Comet cleanser removes tell-tale yellow scorch marks from a tile floor? I didn’t know that, but someone else had already learned that lesson. We can’t always “erase” our mistakes with Comet, but we can’t let the fear of making them hold us back.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
The Day the Music Died
I went to our local Liberty Center last night with a group of BPW ladies to watch the Buddy Holly Story. The day that he, The Big Bopper and Ritchie Valens died in an airplane that took off in a snow storm from Clear Lake, Iowa, is referred to as the “day the music died”. The play begins with a man, hat pulled low, playing an acoustic guitar and singing about the day the music died. Buddy Holly takes the stage and plays a Fender guitar that immediately reminds me of Jim’s 1952 Fender Telecaster. In a scene I found particularly poignant, Buddy picks up a guitar and sings a song just for his wife.
Unless you have been personally serenaded, you do not understand the intimacy of a song meant just for you. Certain songs Jim played were always meant for me regardless of how many people were in the room. Some of the special songs were Buck Owens’s version of “Cinderella” and Elvis Presley’s “Tender Feelings.” These songs expressed Jim’s own philosophy and capacity to love. He would strum his guitar and sing, “There wasn’t any palace and you weren’t a queen, In your faded cotton dresses anyone could see…but you’re still Cinderella to me.” Another Elvis song he sang for me was, “Come take what I offer you, and kiss me tenderly, and you will be forever young, and beautiful, to me.”
I don’t remember the last time Jim sang a special song for me. I don’t remember the date or the year. He lost his songs one-by-one but I remember one June day in 1999, he picked up his Fender Telecaster and played Buckaroo without a flaw. Jim’s music didn’t die in one tragic day—it faded away over ten years.
When I watched the play last night, I was reminded of Jim saying, “Waylon Jennings was supposed to be on the plane, but he gave up his seat to Ritchie Valens.” When you think about the talented people killed on that plane, you can’t help but feel a sense of loss. How high would those young and upcoming stars have risen with their careers?
In a sense, the singers killed February 2, 1959, have been immortalized in movies, plays, and with their recordings. They died, but their music didn’t—only the music that could have been.
The show symbolizes loss, with the man returning to the stage, hat pulled low as he sings about the day the music died. The lights go low and Bart Kuhns as Buddy Holly returns to the stage to sing a rousing rendition of “Johnny B. Good”. The show ends with the audience on their feet, clapping and smiling.
That’s the way life should be. Instead of crying over what could have been, we need to rejoice in the music that lives in our hearts. The music only dies when we let it.
Unless you have been personally serenaded, you do not understand the intimacy of a song meant just for you. Certain songs Jim played were always meant for me regardless of how many people were in the room. Some of the special songs were Buck Owens’s version of “Cinderella” and Elvis Presley’s “Tender Feelings.” These songs expressed Jim’s own philosophy and capacity to love. He would strum his guitar and sing, “There wasn’t any palace and you weren’t a queen, In your faded cotton dresses anyone could see…but you’re still Cinderella to me.” Another Elvis song he sang for me was, “Come take what I offer you, and kiss me tenderly, and you will be forever young, and beautiful, to me.”
I don’t remember the last time Jim sang a special song for me. I don’t remember the date or the year. He lost his songs one-by-one but I remember one June day in 1999, he picked up his Fender Telecaster and played Buckaroo without a flaw. Jim’s music didn’t die in one tragic day—it faded away over ten years.
When I watched the play last night, I was reminded of Jim saying, “Waylon Jennings was supposed to be on the plane, but he gave up his seat to Ritchie Valens.” When you think about the talented people killed on that plane, you can’t help but feel a sense of loss. How high would those young and upcoming stars have risen with their careers?
In a sense, the singers killed February 2, 1959, have been immortalized in movies, plays, and with their recordings. They died, but their music didn’t—only the music that could have been.
The show symbolizes loss, with the man returning to the stage, hat pulled low as he sings about the day the music died. The lights go low and Bart Kuhns as Buddy Holly returns to the stage to sing a rousing rendition of “Johnny B. Good”. The show ends with the audience on their feet, clapping and smiling.
That’s the way life should be. Instead of crying over what could have been, we need to rejoice in the music that lives in our hearts. The music only dies when we let it.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Retirement Dreams
The world economic meltdown has endangered a lot of retirement dreams. Wall Street hit Main Street when American workers lost $2 trillion in retirement savings. Hardest hit are Baby Boomers who watch 401k’s turn into 201k’s. My 401k has lost more than $30,000 this month. I’m sure that’s only peanuts to a CEO who draws a multi-million dollar salary, but where I come from, $30,000 is a lot of money.
Those of us who believed “diversified” retirement portfolios would help us weather hard economic times have been rudely awakened to a new reality. Not only are stocks going down, but our safety net, bonds, are losing value too. In our efforts to out earn inflation, we fell victim to the fickle stock index.
I have always put as much as I could into my 401k because I want a secure retirement. The money that went down the tubes could have bought a lot of things. Not that I really need anything I don’t have. My home is eighteen years old, but it doesn’t have a mortgage. My car has more than 100,000 miles, but I own it.
I have chosen not to let my shrinking 401k ruin my life. I’ll be OK in my retirement. It just may be a lot farther in the future than I thought it would be. Or, it may not be as financially stable as I planned it to be. It irritates me that I put money aside for almost thirty years to see it become the incredibly shrinking fund. Irritates me, but does not depress me, or scare me. I grew up poor, and I have no fear of poverty. I really don’t want or desire a lot of material items. The Dow Jones Industrial Average and the S&P 500 will not dash my dreams!
This is the second time I’ve made major mental adjustments to my retirement expectations. The first time was when Jim developed dementia, and I realized we were not going to grow old together. Jim’s retirement dream was to purchase a motor home and travel.
Now I plan to enjoy the peace and quiet of home with occasional trips to the Rocky Mountains, the Oregon Coast, or other places that pique my interest. I want to spend a lot of time with my family and have more time to write—neither of which is costly. I can still retain ninety percent of my retirement dream irregardless of what happens in the stock market. Home-brewed coffee on my deck sounds good to me and costs only a fraction of Starbucks. I look forward to my share of total relaxation, deep breaths of fresh air and sunshine, squirrel and bird watching. With slight adjustments, futures are looking up for retirement.
Those of us who believed “diversified” retirement portfolios would help us weather hard economic times have been rudely awakened to a new reality. Not only are stocks going down, but our safety net, bonds, are losing value too. In our efforts to out earn inflation, we fell victim to the fickle stock index.
I have always put as much as I could into my 401k because I want a secure retirement. The money that went down the tubes could have bought a lot of things. Not that I really need anything I don’t have. My home is eighteen years old, but it doesn’t have a mortgage. My car has more than 100,000 miles, but I own it.
I have chosen not to let my shrinking 401k ruin my life. I’ll be OK in my retirement. It just may be a lot farther in the future than I thought it would be. Or, it may not be as financially stable as I planned it to be. It irritates me that I put money aside for almost thirty years to see it become the incredibly shrinking fund. Irritates me, but does not depress me, or scare me. I grew up poor, and I have no fear of poverty. I really don’t want or desire a lot of material items. The Dow Jones Industrial Average and the S&P 500 will not dash my dreams!
This is the second time I’ve made major mental adjustments to my retirement expectations. The first time was when Jim developed dementia, and I realized we were not going to grow old together. Jim’s retirement dream was to purchase a motor home and travel.
Now I plan to enjoy the peace and quiet of home with occasional trips to the Rocky Mountains, the Oregon Coast, or other places that pique my interest. I want to spend a lot of time with my family and have more time to write—neither of which is costly. I can still retain ninety percent of my retirement dream irregardless of what happens in the stock market. Home-brewed coffee on my deck sounds good to me and costs only a fraction of Starbucks. I look forward to my share of total relaxation, deep breaths of fresh air and sunshine, squirrel and bird watching. With slight adjustments, futures are looking up for retirement.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Poltergeist or Short Term Memory Loss?
Do you believe in ghosts? Recently, I answered a survey about ghosts in the affirmative: “Yes, I believe in ghosts.” More than 70% of the people answering the survey said the same thing. Enough strange things have happened in my life that I don’t scoff at the idea. Jim always explained weird things by saying, “It’s just harmless poltergeist.”
September 30 was one of those days when strange things happened to me. It was the anniversary of my dad’s death, and he died on the anniversary of his dad. As I left the gym, my thoughts turned to a friend of mine who had died in 2005 and how a Rod Stewart song makes me think of him. I always seem to hear the song on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. I just realized the date had passed and I hadn’t heard it this year. I turned left on 65 Highway a few minutes later and the song came on the radio. That’s creepy, I thought.
I drove home and walked into my house to discover a plastic bag in front of my coffee pot. Oh, Ginger must have left something for me. Curious, I picked up the neatly folded bag and looked inside. It was my cat’s medicine which is normally on top of the refrigerator in a basket. I called Ginger, “Did you put Katrina’s medicine on my counter?”
“No, I haven’t been in your house today.”
I felt prickles on the back of my neck. “I don’t know how it got there,” I said, “but this is weird.” I walked through the rest of the house and didn’t see anything else disturbed.
I called my son, “Were you in my house today?”
“No, why?” I told him my story about finding the cat’s medicine on the counter where it hadn’t been when I checked my coffee pot just before I left for work.
“Could Katrina have knocked it off the refrigerator?”
He knows how Katrina climbs and although she once managed to break one of my light fixtures, even she couldn’t have gotten something off the refrigerator and folded it neatly on the counter across the room.
“Oh, Mom, you probably took the medicine down and got interrupted.”
About that time, a loud knock startled me. It was Ginger. She and I checked all the doors and they were all still locked, with deadbolts in place.
“I know I didn’t get that medicine down!” I said. “This is creeping me out. Why would someone come in my house and put Katrina’s medicine on the counter?”
Ginger said, “This is creeping me out too!”
“Well, it wasn’t Jim,” I said. Jim always reminded me to give the dogs their medicine. “I didn’t find Katrina until after he died. And it wasn’t my Dad because he didn’t like cats.”
So how did the medicine get on the counter? The logical explanation is, I did it, but don’t remember doing it. Does this mean I have short term memory loss?
Which is truly scarier—short term memory loss or poltergeist? ...Does anyone have a phone number for Ghost Busters?
September 30 was one of those days when strange things happened to me. It was the anniversary of my dad’s death, and he died on the anniversary of his dad. As I left the gym, my thoughts turned to a friend of mine who had died in 2005 and how a Rod Stewart song makes me think of him. I always seem to hear the song on his birthday and the anniversary of his death. I just realized the date had passed and I hadn’t heard it this year. I turned left on 65 Highway a few minutes later and the song came on the radio. That’s creepy, I thought.
I drove home and walked into my house to discover a plastic bag in front of my coffee pot. Oh, Ginger must have left something for me. Curious, I picked up the neatly folded bag and looked inside. It was my cat’s medicine which is normally on top of the refrigerator in a basket. I called Ginger, “Did you put Katrina’s medicine on my counter?”
“No, I haven’t been in your house today.”
I felt prickles on the back of my neck. “I don’t know how it got there,” I said, “but this is weird.” I walked through the rest of the house and didn’t see anything else disturbed.
I called my son, “Were you in my house today?”
“No, why?” I told him my story about finding the cat’s medicine on the counter where it hadn’t been when I checked my coffee pot just before I left for work.
“Could Katrina have knocked it off the refrigerator?”
He knows how Katrina climbs and although she once managed to break one of my light fixtures, even she couldn’t have gotten something off the refrigerator and folded it neatly on the counter across the room.
“Oh, Mom, you probably took the medicine down and got interrupted.”
About that time, a loud knock startled me. It was Ginger. She and I checked all the doors and they were all still locked, with deadbolts in place.
“I know I didn’t get that medicine down!” I said. “This is creeping me out. Why would someone come in my house and put Katrina’s medicine on the counter?”
Ginger said, “This is creeping me out too!”
“Well, it wasn’t Jim,” I said. Jim always reminded me to give the dogs their medicine. “I didn’t find Katrina until after he died. And it wasn’t my Dad because he didn’t like cats.”
So how did the medicine get on the counter? The logical explanation is, I did it, but don’t remember doing it. Does this mean I have short term memory loss?
Which is truly scarier—short term memory loss or poltergeist? ...Does anyone have a phone number for Ghost Busters?
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Early Onset Dementia: Write Your Story
Did some event happen that made you realize your life was irrevocably changed? What is your story of that moment?
Each morning of my life, I have awakened with confidence that life will plug along on an even keel. Without warning, a few simple questions changed the course of my family’s lives.
Jim and I were at our local Nissan dealer to co-sign a loan for our son. The dealer, Kevin, asked Jim his social security number and after a few moments, Jim said, “I can’t remember it.” Jim knew his social security number well because it had been his service number for three years in the U.S. Army. It surpised me that Jim couldn't recall the number, but it didn't concern me because I have glitches with numbers all the time. I gave Kevin Jim’s social security number.
Then, Kevin asked Jim his birth date. Jim said, “I guess I don’t know that either.”
That was when we began our journey. A family in the United States begins that journey every 71 seconds. The Alzheimer’s Association estimates that more than 500,000 people in the U.S. have dementia that began before age 65, or early onset dementia.
For several months, I have worked on the Early Onset Project. My objective is to collect stories to create awareness of early onset dementia. I need approximately thirty-five true stories to complete the book. My plan is to have three sections: In Their Own Words (people with dementia), Care Partner Stories (for primary caregivers) and Family, Friends, and Professional’s Stories.
Although I extended the deadline to October 31, I do not have enough submissions. I know it’s hard to take time to write a story, but consider how much your slice-of-life story can benefit other people who have just begun the Alzheimer's journey.
Writing life stories is therapeutic for the author. It is amazing how committing your challenges to paper can begin emotional healing. I knew this instinctively, but research supports the beneficial effects of therapeutic writing. Dr. James Pennebaker’s studies have shown positive emotional and physical benefits for people who wrote about traumatic experiences for fifteen minutes, four to seven consecutive days. The participants were instructed to write their emotional reaction to the traumatic event without regard to grammar or spelling. This writing can be kept completely personal and never shared with anyone. Most participants found that by the end of the study period their writing had developed into a story.
Try it and you will be amazed at how easy it is to write a slice-of-life story and how cathartic the process will be. If you want to contribute the story to the Early Onset Project, email it to earlyonset(at)hotmail.com.
Watch for a publication date announcement for: Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles by L. S. Fisher.
Each morning of my life, I have awakened with confidence that life will plug along on an even keel. Without warning, a few simple questions changed the course of my family’s lives.
Jim and I were at our local Nissan dealer to co-sign a loan for our son. The dealer, Kevin, asked Jim his social security number and after a few moments, Jim said, “I can’t remember it.” Jim knew his social security number well because it had been his service number for three years in the U.S. Army. It surpised me that Jim couldn't recall the number, but it didn't concern me because I have glitches with numbers all the time. I gave Kevin Jim’s social security number.
Then, Kevin asked Jim his birth date. Jim said, “I guess I don’t know that either.”
That was when we began our journey. A family in the United States begins that journey every 71 seconds. The Alzheimer’s Association estimates that more than 500,000 people in the U.S. have dementia that began before age 65, or early onset dementia.
For several months, I have worked on the Early Onset Project. My objective is to collect stories to create awareness of early onset dementia. I need approximately thirty-five true stories to complete the book. My plan is to have three sections: In Their Own Words (people with dementia), Care Partner Stories (for primary caregivers) and Family, Friends, and Professional’s Stories.
Although I extended the deadline to October 31, I do not have enough submissions. I know it’s hard to take time to write a story, but consider how much your slice-of-life story can benefit other people who have just begun the Alzheimer's journey.
Writing life stories is therapeutic for the author. It is amazing how committing your challenges to paper can begin emotional healing. I knew this instinctively, but research supports the beneficial effects of therapeutic writing. Dr. James Pennebaker’s studies have shown positive emotional and physical benefits for people who wrote about traumatic experiences for fifteen minutes, four to seven consecutive days. The participants were instructed to write their emotional reaction to the traumatic event without regard to grammar or spelling. This writing can be kept completely personal and never shared with anyone. Most participants found that by the end of the study period their writing had developed into a story.
Try it and you will be amazed at how easy it is to write a slice-of-life story and how cathartic the process will be. If you want to contribute the story to the Early Onset Project, email it to earlyonset(at)hotmail.com.
Watch for a publication date announcement for: Writing as Therapy: Rocks and Pebbles by L. S. Fisher.
Monday, September 22, 2008
I Will Remember You, Will You Remember Me?
Sometimes you are better off when you don’t get what you wish for. We had wished for our Memory Walk to be last weekend, but settled for this weekend instead. What a difference a week makes! Last Saturday I was flooded in, but Memory Walk day couldn’t have been more perfect if the request had gone straight from our lips to God’s ears.
It’s been a busy weekend. We began on Thursday evening with Bank Day. Besides collecting team money, we put together goody bags and handed out tee-shirts. Friday, I introduced our new coordinator, Lisa, to the fine art of schmoozing. This is a long-standing tradition with our Sedalia Memory Walk. We visit our corporate sponsors bearing gifts. It shows our appreciation and reminds everyone of the upcoming event.
Friday was a good day. Lisa and I solved our last two remaining problems: (1) ice and water and (2) balloons for our balloon release. When Wal-Mart gave us a gift card, we solved Problem #1 and knew we could buy water and ice the next morning. Problem #2 was balloons for our balloon release. I knew from past experience that inflating the balloons, tying them off, and hauling them around is not a job for sissies. Balloons and Tunes quoted Lisa fifty cents a balloon. For $25 we bought fifty white and purple balloons ready for flight.
Saturday morning, festive music played in the background, and Don the balloon man made magical animal figures and hats for children of all ages ranging from a few months to 96 years. We served breakfast snacks with coffee and plenty of iced down beverages. Center Stage Dance Academy performed three delightful dances that lived up to the slogan on their shirts: “Dance Like Everyone is Watching.”
We began our walk to “I Like to Move It” from Madagascar and finished our mile to “Chariots of Fire.” After the Walk, we gave away door prizes and awarded the two traveling trophies to Fairview. Lisa handed out balloons and with a purple marker, we wrote names of the loved ones we wanted to honor.
“Whose name would you like on your balloon?” I asked Connie from Fairview Nursing Home. Jim’s Team and Fairview have been long-time friendly rivals for the trophies. As a former coordinator, I truly appreciate their commitment to Memory Walk.
“Put Jim’s name on it,” she said. I wrote his name and drew a heart around it.
The music keyed up and fifty balloons soared to “I Will Remember You, Will You Remember Me?” Some of the balloons flew toward the heavens and some caught in the upper branches of a stately tree.
“Those are the ones who are still with us,” my Aunt Labetta said. Before the song was finished, most of the balloons slipped on through the tree and disappeared into the bluest sky possible. Tears flowed for our loved ones lost to the disease. We will always remember them with love, even when they don’t remember us.
It’s been a busy weekend. We began on Thursday evening with Bank Day. Besides collecting team money, we put together goody bags and handed out tee-shirts. Friday, I introduced our new coordinator, Lisa, to the fine art of schmoozing. This is a long-standing tradition with our Sedalia Memory Walk. We visit our corporate sponsors bearing gifts. It shows our appreciation and reminds everyone of the upcoming event.
Friday was a good day. Lisa and I solved our last two remaining problems: (1) ice and water and (2) balloons for our balloon release. When Wal-Mart gave us a gift card, we solved Problem #1 and knew we could buy water and ice the next morning. Problem #2 was balloons for our balloon release. I knew from past experience that inflating the balloons, tying them off, and hauling them around is not a job for sissies. Balloons and Tunes quoted Lisa fifty cents a balloon. For $25 we bought fifty white and purple balloons ready for flight.
Saturday morning, festive music played in the background, and Don the balloon man made magical animal figures and hats for children of all ages ranging from a few months to 96 years. We served breakfast snacks with coffee and plenty of iced down beverages. Center Stage Dance Academy performed three delightful dances that lived up to the slogan on their shirts: “Dance Like Everyone is Watching.”
We began our walk to “I Like to Move It” from Madagascar and finished our mile to “Chariots of Fire.” After the Walk, we gave away door prizes and awarded the two traveling trophies to Fairview. Lisa handed out balloons and with a purple marker, we wrote names of the loved ones we wanted to honor.
“Whose name would you like on your balloon?” I asked Connie from Fairview Nursing Home. Jim’s Team and Fairview have been long-time friendly rivals for the trophies. As a former coordinator, I truly appreciate their commitment to Memory Walk.
“Put Jim’s name on it,” she said. I wrote his name and drew a heart around it.
The music keyed up and fifty balloons soared to “I Will Remember You, Will You Remember Me?” Some of the balloons flew toward the heavens and some caught in the upper branches of a stately tree.
“Those are the ones who are still with us,” my Aunt Labetta said. Before the song was finished, most of the balloons slipped on through the tree and disappeared into the bluest sky possible. Tears flowed for our loved ones lost to the disease. We will always remember them with love, even when they don’t remember us.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
The Days are Getting Shorter!
Today, slate skies are gushing rain onto Mid-Missouri. Ike is pushing inward and brings more of the same for next few days. The NOAH weather station on my weather alert radio spews out county after county with flash flood and tornado warnings. The days are getting shorter, and not just because autumn is nigh.
My days seem shorter because I’ve got more to do than time to do it. When I look around at other people, I see the same scenario played over and over. Life is hectic and the days aren’t long enough.
I work four ten-hour days each week. My “Day Off” To-Do List is jam packed with items. Some days, I barely scratch the surface. Weekends fly by and my list gets longer yet. My calendar for this month has events for every weekend—sometimes for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday. This is a month with two family reunions, Memory Walk, writing, speaking engagements, radio/TV interviews, the BPW Chicken Dinner, writers’ guild, support group, fundraising for three different groups, and more. Whew! No wonder the days seem too short.
The dreary weather depresses me and makes me anxious. Our Memory Walk is next weekend and I pray for sunny skies. So much needs to be done before the walk and the morning of the walk. I have nightmares about downpours and no walkers. We will not cancel the walk for rain, but rain changes the entire dynamics of the event.
I may grouse about the constant rain, but I’m not complaining about the short days. The big advantage is that while the days are too short, they are full and fulfilling. Would I trade my short busy days for long leisurely ones? No, BUT I might be willing to swap some of them. A little down time seems like a dream come true. I would like to read a book, watch TV, and eat chocolate bonbons. I would be especially interested in a week on a tropical island—without a hurricane.
My days seem shorter because I’ve got more to do than time to do it. When I look around at other people, I see the same scenario played over and over. Life is hectic and the days aren’t long enough.
I work four ten-hour days each week. My “Day Off” To-Do List is jam packed with items. Some days, I barely scratch the surface. Weekends fly by and my list gets longer yet. My calendar for this month has events for every weekend—sometimes for Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday. This is a month with two family reunions, Memory Walk, writing, speaking engagements, radio/TV interviews, the BPW Chicken Dinner, writers’ guild, support group, fundraising for three different groups, and more. Whew! No wonder the days seem too short.
The dreary weather depresses me and makes me anxious. Our Memory Walk is next weekend and I pray for sunny skies. So much needs to be done before the walk and the morning of the walk. I have nightmares about downpours and no walkers. We will not cancel the walk for rain, but rain changes the entire dynamics of the event.
I may grouse about the constant rain, but I’m not complaining about the short days. The big advantage is that while the days are too short, they are full and fulfilling. Would I trade my short busy days for long leisurely ones? No, BUT I might be willing to swap some of them. A little down time seems like a dream come true. I would like to read a book, watch TV, and eat chocolate bonbons. I would be especially interested in a week on a tropical island—without a hurricane.
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