Many Miles Between Here and There

I didn't note any progress or regression in my mother's cancer or her treatments today over the span of ten years. Sometimes I just had to walk away to gain some perspective. But I did note an interesting pattern to my posts. On this day for several years in a row between 2014 and 2019, I returned home to Kentucky after spending time with Dad over the holidays in Virginia.

Taking care of my father between those years is another story, so I'll save most of those details for later. The distance I traveled between 2015 (after my spouse died) and 2020 (when my father died) added up over the years, though, and that is a point of interest for now.

I'm fortunate that my little black 2014 Chevy Cruze LT, which I purchased after my husband died, made all those trips without major issues. We'll not count the time a buck charged at my car outside Beckley, West Virginia, in 2015 with my daughter and infant grandson in the car. It was rutting season, after all. We all were fine, and the Chevy braved it.

The one-way mileage between where I live and where my parents lived equals about 750 miles, or about eight hours. That's 1,500 miles per visit, which is why most visits were extended ones. Of course, I became very bored with traveling the interstate time and again, so I took back roads sometimes. I will never do that again when driving alone, because I saw so much beauty in the Appalachian mountains, and I couldn't stop, because--you know--a single woman traveling alone...

Back roads also added to the mileage. So, I often kept to the interstate along with a book on disc. I kept measure of my time on the road by the towns I passed on my way, the roadside oddities, such as iron bridges spanning the interstate and log cabins off in mowed fields, and by pit stops. I tried to make only two restroom stops, one at the halfway mark, and one when I left the interstate to travel the mountain road into Lynchburg. One never knows how long that leg of the trip might take. It would depend upon any slow drivers or 16-wheelers in front of me.

Plus, I would always stop in Clifton Forge to visit with my father's brother. He passed this last year, so I won't need to make that trip unless I wanted to visit the cemetery. I guess that's a mandatory thing, so I'll see that gas station above at least one more time, I guess. The photo is one I took in 2019 in a pit stop outside Clifton Forge. It was the one time I didn't stop to see my uncle. I had bad feelings on that trip, and they came to a head at this stop, which is why I took the photo. I didn't know what was going on with me then, but I have a good idea now. Sometimes we do have premonitions.

At times I long to take that trip again. I would have a reason, as I still have an aunt and cousin in Virginia. I learned this past year that I have many more cousins, thanks to DNA testing, and they all want to meet up the next time I return. I wonder if I can take someone with me.

Overcoming Another Major Organization Hurdle

My desk this morning and then...this afternoon.

By the end of November, I should have this house in fairly decent shape. I need to be more organized, because I'm juggling several balls right now -- my Etsy shop, Amazon book sales, an upcoming writing workshop, clients, and -- the main purpose behind all this activity -- my memoir.

It made perfect sense for me to tackle my desk today in light of the deadline I set for myself with clients and the book. In the photos above, you can see a cluttered desk filled with items that I needed to list on Amazon and other items I need to photograph for sale on my Etsy shop (links to both venues are listed in the right column). All those items now are in their proper places, mostly. I did make it through the books today, and they're all out the door, listed on Amazon, or on my bookcase in the bedroom. I'm limiting myself to one bookcase for books I want to keep.

The other items are sitting on the folding table behind me as I sit at my desk. My next task is to photograph those pieces, then list them on Etsy and put them away in a nice, neat box until they're sold.

I don't know if I would have found the motivation to become more organized without Caregiving.com's 30-Day Organization Challenge. I don't like to fail at anything, and making a commitment to this challenge was one of the best things I could have done for my family and for myself. I have been battling depression for the past two years since before mom's diagnosis, and my struggle seems to be worse lately. I think it's because I don't have to focus on mom's caregiving anymore, so the focus is on me and my losses. It's all part of grief and grieving. A competition to become more organized was, surprisingly, just what I needed to begin to look at my life with new perspective and with less stress.

I'm happy about seeing my desk again. I'm also happy that I've untangled the speakers and separated them for better sound since I took that second photo. During this "desk-cleaning" project I was pleased to find a bracelet I thought I had lost. Bonus!

Now, to rid myself of this paranoia. I feel like the objects lurking on that table behind me are making fun of me and just waiting for me to fail at moving forward on these tasks. Little do they know that I have them on my "organization" hit list for tomorrow.

New Post at Caregiving.com -- a Great Community for Caregivers

Dad and my husband at a market this past fall.

I have a new post up about long-distance caregiving for dad at caregiving.com. This task of caregiving for dad is not a chore at the moment, but changes have altered the scenario both here at my home and at dad's place. My footing as a caregiver for dad is totally off-balance and unsure. I don't really know what he needs right now, but I guess that unknown is alright. At least, he seems to be doing well for his age. He seems to be doing somewhat fine alone, but I think I know he's not happy.

I'm not happy. None of us are happy right now. Life is stressful, but we all keep going along, doing what we think we need to do. Some of that "knowing" has changed, though, since mom's death. I am finding support at Caregiving.com -- what a great little community with some great leadership through Denise. In fact, I can't keep up with all the blogs, the activities, the podcasts, or the events this site offers; but it's great to know I have those resources available.

Without caregiving.com, in fact, I wouldn't have had the initiative to get organized around here. Hugh, my husband, wouldn't have a studio for making his baskets. I owe all that to the short amount of time I've spent with Denise and the other caregivers at that site.

I wish dad would find a community similar to what I've found with caregiving.com. He's not computer savvy, though, so that community would have to meet in person. But again, I don't know what dad needs right now. I don't think he knows what he needs.

Things People Say to People With Cancer

During my stint as caregiver to my mother, I was privileged to accompany mom on her visits to her various doctor appointments. There were many appointments; but, as mom continued to hang on to life, the appointments dwindled. Instead of explaining why those appointments began to shut down, I'll share a few quotes that I heard first-hand from mom's primary physicians and nurses:

• We didn't expect you to live this long (doctor who was treating mom)
• Cremation? Why? You're so beautiful, I thought you'd go the open casket route (nurse).
• You're still with us? (doctor who was summoned for mom's treatment for a second time within four months)
• I can't look at the cancer count. I want to sleep at night (a doctor's answer to my question about mom's cancer advancement).

You get the idea -- out of the mouths of babes scenarios, right? Except the individuals who offered their opinions were professionals. What, then, can cancer patients expect to hear from friends and relatives who aren't professional doctors or nurses?

If you know a cancer victim, please don't try to excuse yourself from making stupid remarks to that person because you're not a professional. If anything, as a friend, relative, or neighbor, you might have a bit more insight into that cancer patient and become more compassionate. At least, that's the hope.

A friend of mine found that sometimes that hope runs slim. Craig Allen has cancer, and he is a realist about his prognosis, and responses to his current treatment option drive him mad. Literally. He's taking hormone treatments that provide him with physical reactions that are similar to menopause hot flashes. When he shares this news with female listeners, they often respond with:

"Ha! Now you know what we go through."

Excuse me? Your menopause hot flashes are similar to my cancer treatments? I'm sharing a link to Craig's justifiable rant. Please read to understand how a simple statement (like "We didn't expect you to live this long") can affect a person who is dying from cancer.

Thank you.

A Ritual I Developed During My Caregiver Stint

My ritual is somewhat like a pinata ceremony.

I write these blog entries in hopes that readers won't judge me, as I am bringing my own perspective to topics that deal with a death in my family. Although death is common ground, and should -- above anything -- unite us somehow, I've learned that folks may not agree with my outlook on certain topics. Feel free to disagree; but don't tell me I'm wrong, especially over a ritual that saved my sanity for the past two years.

According to The Chaplaincy Institute, ritual can make a person "stop, focus, and make sacred that which is ordinarily taken for granted. A ritual can be used as a way to give voice to the unspoken, facilitate healing, or remember a person or event. It can also be a way to refocus personal thought patterns so they become self-serving, not self-defeating. A ritual does not need to be elaborate or take a lot of time. In fact, to keep meaning from getting lost, the simpler the better."

That article goes on to provide an example of a ritual that involves an altar, candles, and prayer, which is fitting for that particular perspective. Other rituals I've known caregivers to use include yoga for meditative qualities and also for keeping the body fit. I love yoga practice, and I understand how yoga benefits me. But, I haven't had a class since the last one I took with Terri Hug, and that was before I even learned about my mother's illness. Terri is a sister from another mother, and I'm having a difficult time choosing to take on another yoga instructor after becoming so close with Terri. I need classes, because I don't have the self-discipline to practice alone.

Other caregiver rituals might include a set time each day/week to get away, or time to be alone. In my experience, however, getting away from home was fraught with anxiety, because every time I did leave home, mom would encounter an emergency situation. The only time I was able to get away was during Easter weekend, when some friends kidnapped me to spend a weekend with their poet and bard neighbors. But, that wasn't a ritual, although the escape was sorely needed and appreciated.

My alone time and ritual came about without planning. I still practice it after mom's death, especially when I'm at my folks' house. I leave the house proper to sit in the screened porch with my Android and begin to play Candy Crush Saga. Playing that game in itself is not a ritual; but, playing game #75 over and over and over again became a ritual for me, one that isn't elaborate or that takes a lot of time.

Other friends who play that game continue to offer free passes for me to get past game #130. Yes, that's how far I got before I learned about mom's cholangiocarcinoma. But, I'll never go there again. I doubt if I'll ever get past game #75. If I play the game without thinking about the game, it provides me with time for reflection and planning. If I play the game with intent on beating the other two women who are ahead of me, the play takes me away from everything. The fact that the game only allows play for five games unless the player wins a game (garnering one free game per win) is convenient, too. Once I've played through those five or so games, I'm revitalized and ready to get back to more pertinent tasks at hand.

I play game #75 when traveling, too, because my husband refuses to let me drive. But, the game isn't a ritual then -- in fact, it's boring. The only time Candy Crush Saga game #75 becomes a satisfying ritual is on my parents' back porch. This rite offers me comfort, mindlessness, and even some sense of self-worth and achievement. I am only a few points away from obtaining the #1 spot on that game. When I achieve that goal, I don't know what I'll do.

Note: Candy Crush Saga is a puzzle game distributed by King.com. The logo image is from Wikipedia.

Taking a Day for Dad

Dad in the Air Force, about 1950.

If I learned nothing else from taking care of mom during her last phase of her life, it was that I also was taking care of dad. Dad was like a deer in headlights when it came to emergency situations. Plus, even though he says he knows how to pace himself, he tends to overdo when it comes to an obsession -- like mowing the lawn. Oh, he has a riding lawnmower, but that thing tends to beat him up like a roller-coaster ride.

Losing a spouse can be one of the most stressful events in a partner's life, especially among elder couples. And, for men, the long and drawn-out final phase of a wife's life can be more stressful than that wife's sudden death. Men, especially, suffer more after a spouse's death, and reasons behind this rationale include the loss of social support or the inability to cope with stress.

Another study [PDF] tends to put other myths about spousal survival to a test. in this study, Deborah Carr discovered that:

...the closer the marital relationship, the more depressed both men and women were likely to be after their spouse died. She also found that surviving spouses who were better off economically, as measured by home ownership, were likely to be more depressed than peers who lived in apartments or retirement communities. "Those who own a home may do worse because they have the added strain of caring for a house," Carr speculates. "They may be more socially isolated, lonely, and even afraid of living in a home alone, compared to surviving spouses who live in apartments and have neighbors close by."

I worry about dad. A lot. Dad and mom had a very close relationship, and mom took care of everything in and around the house, including the bills. Dad had to learn how to do laundry, and he had to re-learn how to balance the checkbook. He also had to learn how to cook, although he always made a mean pot of beans.

But, I worry. It appears that the six-month and eighteen-month marks are the most crucial times. We're still three months out from the six-month mark, which puts him at higher risk, supposedly, right before the Christmas holidays. That juxtaposition alone is a stressful thought for me.

If you've read the introduction and other materials, you know that dad has a heart problem. What I've not mentioned -- except to friends on Facebook -- is that dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer this past February, just four months before mom died. He's supposedly doing well, but he's not in the clear.

I don't want to be writing a sequel about being my dad's caregiver. I hope and pray that dad can survive and thrive through the next year. I'll do all I can to help, but I'll need help in determining what's best for him. Hopefully, this is just another chapter in my current story.