Priceless Giving ...

Although they weren’t clad in matching flashy ensembles, the Motown choreography was unmistakable.  David Ruffin, who sang lead for My Girl, must have been smiling down from Heaven, content this time to be singing back-up from a small radio in the community room of a memory care facility.  An elderly man who holds a PhD in physics, and who more closely resembles the late children’s program host Mr. Rogers than one of the Temptations, was sharing the song, a dance and pure bliss with a young African-American woman who according to statistics, earns less than 65 percent of an average U.S. worker's salary. 

Just a few minutes earlier, the elderly man had to be physically restrained by two male attendants to keep him out of harm’s way.  In an effort to calm him, the quick thinking aide flipped on some music, moved a few chairs, and took him to a happy place just a couple steps away.  Each day, the aide and others like her, offer kindness and consideration to those they serve, often returning distressed residents to a state of mental calm and serenity.   Their actions, though treasured gifts, often go unrecognized.    

Last month, U.S. consumers spent $52.4 billion shopping at malls and on-line during the Thanksgiving weekend preparing for Christmas.   I wasn’t among them.  Crowds aren’t my thing.  Besides, I’ve been trying to think outside the box, or shopping bag as the case may be, in terms of holiday gift giving this year.  This may come as unwelcome news to my 12 year-old son who has been requesting an “X Box” game system for the past six months.  To him, thinking outside the box is seemingly an impossible task, not just an idiom describing a more creative approach to problem solving.  While he is very vocal about exactly what it is his heart desires, most who share my world are not. 

Still, I remain hopeful that it will not come down to wandering aimlessly around department stores in search of random gifts during the next few weeks.  This year, I have been fortunate to witness many gift exchanges, such as the song and dance, that did not involve a paper receipt. While they might not have been pre-planned, there was nothing hit or miss about them.  I’m hoping they inspire me to be more creative with my offerings this holiday season.  Gifts given with nothing expected in return, but perhaps a few minutes of joy for the recipients who live their lives moment by moment as that is all their minds allow.  Gifts offered by caregivers, who indeed understand it is better to give, than to receive.  

Another day I arrived at the memory care unit noticing many of the female residents wearing beautiful scarves around their necks.   The scarves were all different – chiffon, silk, knitted – and few of them matched the accompanying outfits.  During lunch I overheard several of the residents, who rarely converse with one another, commenting on how lovely they all looked.  Knowing these women are not able to dress themselves, I inquired about their fancy attire.  The supervisor told me the aide who dressed them that morning tries to do something each day to make the residents in her care feel special.  That particular morning she decided it was pretty scarves.  Delightful inspiration:  doing something extra that makes someone feel special. 

A few months ago, a client who has Alzheimer’s disease required a hospital stay.   She was sick, alone and very frightened.  Knowing I could not be there around the clock as a parent might be with a small child, I picked up a teddy bear, a little ball that when squeezed changed colors, and a plastic slinky at the local dollar store.  I hoped these items would give her something to focus on, helping to keep her fears at bay.  As it turned out, I could have saved myself $2.12 because the teddy bear was the only thing that caught her interest.   The nurse was amazed by the change in her patient’s demeanor as she clutched the small bear and cheerfully chatted away at her new inanimate companion.  

The next morning I noticed the small dollar store bear was nowhere to be found.  In its place, however, was a much larger bear.  The same nurse from the day before walked in the room and said, “Oh, I hope you don’t mind, but the other bear must have been taken with the laundry so I ran down to the gift shop during my break and gave her this one.”  A medical professional who understands there’s so much more to making your patient feel better than pharmaceuticals.  What a gift!

Yes, I’ve learned a lot about gift giving during the past few months.  This year, amid all the holiday hoopla, I have added the following items to my Christmas shopping list:  kindness and consideration; doing something extra; and a small empathetic gesture.  They can’t be found at the local mall, but they will most likely be the most treasured presents I offer this season.  What do I want?  What more can I ask for?  I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day …When it’s cold outside, I’ve got the month of May …

Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved. 

Lessons of Compassion

Jerry, Noah and Michael with their grandmother in 2006.

“Give children at least as many chances to show compassion as they have to be competitive.

Erica Layman, Mother

I’m thinking it might have been divine intervention that caused lightening to strike our house a few days before school resumed this year.  The strike wiped out every electronic device we own.  At least all the cable connected items including, but not limited to, four televisions and three game systems.  It might have taken an act of God, but finally, well into the last week of summer vacation, with nothing else to divert his attention, my fourteen year-old decided it was probably time to start his reading assignments for AP Literature due on the first day of class.  For close to three days, he was glued to a book instead of a cable driven box, and for that, I was delighted. 

Given that the assigned reading was To Kill a Mockingbird, one of my favorites, only added to my pleasure.  The story teaches timeless lessons about developing and examining our own courage and compassion.   Valuable instruction we can all learn from, let alone teenagers striving to find their way in a very complex world.

Years before it actually happened, my husband and I made the decision that we would welcome my mother into our home when we/she thought it would be best to have around-the-clock care.   Not unlike other situations we face in life, the enormity of this decision came to light in many small ways during the year she lived with us.  Not surprisingly, it was a year that required great showings of courage and compassion by all involved.

Some of those moments were heart-wrenching .  Others unimaginable.   Many were tender and touching.  Watching someone you love decline on a daily basis, surrendering their independence is heart-wrenching.  Telling your mother that it is time to call hospice when clearly she does not want to die is unimaginable.   

Last week I celebrated yet another birthday.  Among the lessons I have learned as I try to comfortably ease into my own aging skin is that the most difficult times in life often create our most treasured memories.  The tender and touching moments of that year carried us through the heart-wrenching and unimaginable ones.   

Throughout the twelve months, I fretted about how having their grandmother live and die in the next room would affect my sons.  At times it seemed unfair.  The three of them had to share a bedroom.  They had to be quiet.  There were many school and sporting events I missed because “Grandma” needed me.  They often had to be home with her when my husband or I could not.  Then one day I realized the proverbial glass was not only half-full, it was over-flowing with lessons of love and compassion.  Lessons for me.  Taught by my children.

I watched as my oldest son, checked on her every evening, often fetching and sharing a piece of fruit as a late night snack for the two of them.  The youngest tidied her room on a daily basis.  Unbeknownst to me, he had been putting away her clean clothing, emptying the trash and gathering her laundry, as well as dusting and sweeping each day for several months.  I just assumed she had been taking care of such things herself until I started to gather her laundry one afternoon.  “Leave it there,” she told me, “That’s Michael’s job.”

Still, I worried about my middle son.   He is the loud and boisterous one who seemed to bear the brunt of many scoldings … “Noah, be quiet.  Noah, settle down.”   However, he also spent many touching moments with his grandmother.  A needlework expert, she taught him to knit and crochet.  Currently, he is working on a pair of fingerless gloves that transform into mittens to wear during a winter survival expedition he’s planning for when the snow flies.   He’s an Eagle Scout with a passion for high adventure.  I don’t think he’s come across a kid yet who is bold enough to tease him about knitting.   

Still, as her health failed, I became increasingly concerned that Noah seemed to be distancing himself from his grandmother, whereas, the other boys moved in closer.  Understanding that children, like adults, need to deal with grief on their own terms, I left it alone.  Little did I realize, once again I was clueless about some of the goings on in my small house.

Just a few days before her death, I thought I heard someone moving around in the middle of the night.    Softly creeping into my mother’s room to check on her, I found Noah sitting quietly in the darkness next to her bed.  Breaking the silence for only a moment, he said, “Mom, don’t worry about Grandma, I’ll keep her company until she can get back to sleep.”  It was a school night and although he didn’t say so, I knew it wasn’t the first time he sat with her during the night while the rest of us slept.

The image of that moment will forever rest upon my heart.  Just one small act of compassion among many others demonstrated by my children that carried me through a very tough time.   Valuable instruction we can all learn from.      

  Copyright 2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All rights reserved.  

Cause for Celebration, Not Cosmetic Procedures

Yesterday, I showed up at Maggie’s assisted living facility with my arms full of celebratory offerings.   A couple dozen cupcakes, a heart-shaped balloon, several cards, a few small gifts and a bouquet of flowers.  With the help of the activities director and a caregiver, we gathered as many folks as we had cupcakes, and cheerfully marked her 82^nd.birthday.  When asked how old she was, Maggie honestly replied she didn’t know, but added, “I don’t think it really matters.”   Some might think it was dementia speaking, I smiled, certain it was wisdom.  Then, upon being told she was born in 1929, she gasped and was visibly joyful as she considered the span of her years.  I had to choke back tears.

Just as we finished singing “Happy Birthday,” a few in the group started in with the Polish counterpart     Sto lat translated as “Happy 100 years to you.”  Talk about a group of optimists!  Wasn’t it enough we were celebrating an octogenarian’s birthday?   Now they were wishing her close to twenty more.  In Poland, sto lat is also suitable for other celebrations, not just birthdays.

The moment was in stark contrast to one earlier this week, when a friend who is still a few years away from 50, told me she just received an invitation to join AARP.   She asked, “Isn’t that an organization for senior citizens?”  As the mother of a 10 year-old child, she was appalled that an association for “old” people would contact her regarding membership.  I assured her they start recruiting members a few years before eligibility, and recalled feeling the same way when I received my invitation from the group.

Society certainly sends us mixed messages about growing old.  A while back, I thumbed through a senior living supplement to my local newspaper.  It was well written, and full of informative articles directed at the ever increasing number of aging “boomers.”

Most stories covered what one would expect; medical updates, hearing loss, diabetes and so on.   Somewhere near the middle of the tabloid, a two-page spread caught my attention.  Nestled among advertisements for mobility scooters, Medicare health plans and walk-in bath tubs, was an article on anti-ageing (their spelling) or cosmetic procedures.  Huh?  Facelifts! 

The writer explained how both men and women in the over 55 crowd are turning to surgical and non-surgical procedures, not as a way to boost their own self-image, but instead, as a measure to keep them competitive in today’s workforce.   Most employed people in this economy understand competitive means you get to keep your job.  Cosmetic procedures can lead to career success was clearly the message of the article.  What happened to hard work, keeping your mouth shut, and finishing your task before the end of the day?

As a woman of a certain age, I must confess I have stood in front of a mirror studying my face while gently pulling up on the skin near my hairline, and woefully wondering what gravity has yet in store for me.  To date, I haven’t considered any procedures, medical or otherwise, to restore a more youthful look.  However, given my current career of choice, perhaps I’ve been fooled into a false sense of job security.  Are others my age seriously thinking about eye-lid surgery, facelifts and fat injections?  (Yes, I had to read that one twice!)  The non-surgical procedures sounded even more frightening – laser resurfacing, botox and fillers.  All things considered, these treatments sound like they might be better suited for construction crews trying to keep our roads in good repair during the orange barrel months.

With my anxiety building to the point just short of a full-blown panic attack, I was relieved upon turning the page to learn about the power of optimism, and how it relates to good health.  A full two-page spread, no advertisements, six-photos of happy faces and a much needed editorial dousing of good ol’ common sense.   This article’s message was also clear.  A better quality of life results from living with optimism as your guide.  The optimistic person generally copes better with stress leading to improved health.    Improved health means less visible signs of growing older.   

Sounds like the best anti-ageing plan that I’ve read about in a while.   Sto lat!

Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

Finding What We Seek

I find it interesting how an offhanded remark can revisit my mind for years, while a discussion of much more importance can quickly vanish from it, seemingly without a trace. Years ago, while I was attending a classy evening affair featuring cocktails, dinner and dancing, one of several young women sitting at my table jokingly announced, “That will be us one day.”   She said it while observing two much older ladies delightfully enjoying a waltz with one another on the dance floor.  You get the visual:  the young women were stylish, coiffed and escorted by handsome men donned in tuxedos.  The older ones?   Not.  The comment haunted me for several decades.   

For years, I worried.  Would that, indeed, be me one day?  Gray hair, wrinkled skin, sagging bosom, nylon stockings rolled just above the knee so that bare skin shows when my dress rides up and gets stuck in the waistband of my underpants.   Perhaps it was the part about the men, or lack thereof that got to me the most.  It could have been the older women just gave up on asking their husbands to accompany them, but chances are there simply were no men around with whom they might dance.  Mortality statistics tell us that men die earlier than women, and the gender imbalance increases with age.  Working among the 65+ crowd, I see it every day.  A woman facing life alone following the death of her husband.  In itself, that is not astonishing.  The grace with which many of them do so is. 

 

Psychological studies show happiness is not a product of the events in our lives, but of our response to those events.  It doesn’t matter if we’re wealthy, educated, young or old, single or married.  These studies tell us that happiness depends on facing life, no matter what comes at us, with a positive attitude. Smile a lot, remember the good things and enjoy the moment are among other prevailing strategies in almost all studies of happiness.  I found the generalized happiness information in the form of a pamphlet.  It was directed toward incoming freshmen at a university campus mental health fair.

Interestingly enough, many older ladies, especially the ones you might see dancing with one another, seem to get it, even without the benefit of a college education.  Some of them were children during the Great Depression and came of age during World War II.   For others who came later, it was the Korean War.   Journalist Tom Brokaw, calls them in his book of the same name, “The Greatest Generation.”   They faced rough times, worked hard and lived productive lives.  Now, in their later years, they take time to smile, remember the good things and enjoy the moment, even if that means dancing with your “lady friend” as my grandmother was in the habit of saying.   I see a lot of that these days.  Ladies who can barely stand without a cane, patiently waiting their turn to dance with the female activities director at the assisted living center.  She prefers they dance with her, rather than each other to offset the likelihood of someone taking a tumble.    

Cheek to Cheek was written by Irving Berlin for the 1935 film classic Top Hat featuring the dancing team of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.   In attempting to win her heart, Fred’s character croons to Ginger’s, “and I seem to find the happiness I seek … while we’re out together dancing … cheek to cheek.”  Perhaps that’s where the grace comes in, finding the happiness we seek wherever it might be. 

As I get older, I try to worry less about my autumn years, and pay more attention to the lessons I can learn from those who are already there.  At times, I even find myself making mental notes, remember not to act crabby like so and so, be pleasant like her sister  …  By the way, if you pass by me on the dance floor thirty years from now while I’m dancing with my lady friend, will you give the back of my dress a little yank?

Copyright © 2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

The Sound of Silence

Political blog writers use the notion of chirping crickets to signal that the author believes he has made a point that the hypothetical opponent cannot answer. The use of *crickets* or *chirp chirp* in his text represents the rival’s imaginary silence because he has been rendered speechless. It suggests the only thing one can hear is the sound of the singing insects.

During recent months, I have been haunted by such a sound. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you view political debate, it is not a result of reading too many opinionated blogs. One night, I actually opened a window in an effort to determine if one of the noisy pests – a cricket, not a political essayist - had somehow entered the house. I smiled in spite of myself when I realized the sound was, literally, in my head. You know how it is when you ask your companion, “Is it me or …? In this case, the question was, “Is it me or is there a cricket in the house?” Given that it was early April and still snowing outside, I knew it was most likely me, but it never hurts to get a second opinion. I was right. It was me. More accurately, it was my ears. My otolaryngologist (ear doctor) confirmed it – tinnitus – or ringing in the ears. He tells me patients often describe the sound as that of chirping crickets. Really? As it turns out, I have an ear disorder that, one day down the road, could render me hearing impaired. If that happens, studies show I’ll have plenty of company.

Approximately 30 percent of the population, between the ages of 65 and 74, experience problems with their hearing, according to the National Institute on Aging. The percentage increases along with age. Working among the elderly, I am surprised the number isn’t larger. It is disheartening to know someone who could benefit from the use of a hearing aid, but will not consider it. Oftentimes, vanity is to blame. Today’s hearing aids are very discreet, and although cartoons are now the only place you’ll actually see one, images of the old-fashioned ear trumpet still come to mind for many. Hearing aids are also very expensive, and not often covered by health insurance. Given the new models, vanity is not an issue. Yes, they are expensive, but the benefits are priceless.

As most people do, my mom suffered from hearing loss for close to seven years before she consulted an audiologist. Every so often, my family enjoys a good laugh while telling stories about the communication mishaps that occurred before she wore hearing aids. Once, while she was observing my children build Lego© boats, Noah, then seven, referred to his younger brother’s as “a little ship.” Not paying careful attention to their play, she didn’t hear it that way. Calling me into the room, she insisted that the use of inappropriate language and name calling should not be tolerated. My mom demanded action. Noah pleaded innocence. I could only shrug and suggest that everyone calm down. Now it’s funny. It wasn’t at the time. I had grown weary of similar misunderstandings taking place on a regular basis. (The joke won’t go away. At times, the older boys still refer to the youngest one as “a little ship.”)

I was elated when she finally agreed to address the problem. Suggesting to my mother that a hearing aid could vastly improve her quality of life, the recommending geriatric specialist handed us a long list of nearby providers. Overwhelmed by its length, I asked if perhaps they could recommend just one or two. The office assistant said the risk of liability would not allow them to do so, but with a wink suggested I take a good look at the list. In doing so, I discovered that one name had been starred and highlighted in yellow. We were on our way.

It hadn’t occurred to me just how long it had been since I last chatted with my mom until she was fitted with her hearing aids. Up until then, I basically shouted what needed to be said and nothing more. Conversation had become painstakingly difficult. Although I had noticed that she rarely participated in conversations with others, it totally slipped by me that we were not talking to each other much either. I don’t remember what the weather outside was like the day we picked up the first pair, but I do know the chitchat in the car on the ride home was warm and sunny. As it is for many, our road to better hearing was long and arduous, however, the final destination was delightful. *chirp chirp*


Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

A Soft Place to Fall

A close friend of mine has a rapport with the house in which she is raising her children.  She said she felt it the first time she walked in the door.  The old house, with its red brick and heavy wood trim, welcomed her with a kind of sincerity that said life would be good there.   For close to two decades it has been, and there’s no reason to think that will change.

Once, during the midst of remodeling chaos lasting several months, she felt a tug on her leg as she was hurrying up the stairs.   She was home alone at the time.  Describing it as nothing that seemed  threatening, my friend later explained it felt like the old house just wanted her to take a few minutes, sit awhile, and remember things as they once were.  She did, and said doing so seemed to have a calming effect on the household turmoil.  Novelist and philosopher Ayn Rand was quoted as saying that a house can have integrity, just like a person.   Maybe, such is the case with my friend’s dwelling.  It has integrity.

I think there is an underlying truthfulness that accompanies most homes.  Perhaps that is why helping our parents empty theirs and move on, is one of the most difficult tasks we face in adulthood.   The clean, but worn carpeting turns our thoughts to simpler times when moms stayed home even though it might have meant going without new furnishings.  Now, it’s a matter of paying the mortgage.   The cameo-pink fixtures in the bathroom were left in place, because while they could have been replaced years ago, our parents kept them as reminders of the times their three toddlers, now in their 40s, piled into the tub together.    The old box of silly party hats tucked away in the corner of the basement brings back to mind the New Year’s Eve party when everyone danced to the tunes of Guy Lombardo.  Yes, if you listen, a house speaks volumes about those who reside within. 

Of course, it’s easy to rationalize why it’s a good idea, or even necessary, to adjust living arrangements as people age, but to actually say goodbye?  Not so much.  After all, our parents’ house is oftentimes the same place we called home for many years.  Regardless of whether we ever lived there or not,  divesting ourselves from mom and dad’s house, a soft place to fall when the rest of the world’s hard surfaces became too much to bear, is not easy. 

A few months ago, following my mother’s passing, my siblings and I gathered at her condominium to sort out her furnishings and other belongings.   Close to 20 years before, we went through a very similar process, working alongside her as she prepared to downsize shortly after being widowed.  She knew the big, old, Arts and Crafts style colonial, though charming with its leaded glass windows and never painted-over woodwork, was too much for her to manage alone.  My mom, not unlike my friend’s house, had integrity. 

She made and stuck with the tough decision to go toe-to-toe with the big lump in her throat, swallow hard and move forward.  If she ever looked back, she didn’t speak of it.  She did, however, enjoy the swimming pool at her new condo, friends she made at Senior Citizen card parties, and the sense of security she had from living in a building which included three neighboring units.   She no longer worried about who would cut the grass or shovel the snow. 

All the same, there are still fleeting moments I look back and miss that old house.  The bright red tulips that bloomed in early May; the front steps where my best friend and I would spend hours sharing secrets; and each year a Christmas tree decorated with shiny ornaments and tinsel come to mind.  No, the house never physically tugged at my leg as I went up its stairs, but to this day, memories of it can unexpectedly pull at my heartstrings.  Just maybe, those are the times I need to take a few minutes, sit awhile, and remember things as they once were.

Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

While I'm Gone ...

Oh while I’m gone

Everything’s gonna be alright

So woman no cry, no, no woman no cry

Bob Marley

She cannot remember my name, even though for the most part, I have been her only visitor for years.  Repeatedly, she asks me what it is.  Experts on aging will tell you she keeps asking because she doesn’t recall I just answered her.  I believe it’s because she desperately wants to remember it this time.  As I said, I am her only visitor.  That she remembers.

She cries frequently.   She said she cries because she is lonely.  There are others just down the hall who will sit with her.  She said she cries because she is confused.  There is an entire staff ready to guide her.  She said she cries because she can’t do things for herself.  There are aides available 24/7 to help her.  She said she cries because she is fearful.  You don’t know what it is like to be alone she tells me.

She is right.  I don’t know what it is like to be alone.  I live with those I love dearly.  I hit the ground running when I wake in the morning, coaxing my three sons out of their beds, and hurrying them off to school.  Self-employed, I work from home, alongside my husband who has been there for me more than 20 years.  During the evenings, I am among my children.  They laugh, chatter, bicker, and as three teenage boys will do, they sometimes get on my nerves.  At night, sleeping next to the man with whom I plan to spend forever, I feel safe and loved.  I attend business meetings, social gatherings and school events.  I go to the grocery store, the library and church.  I stop by the pharmacy, a friend’s house and the bakery to pick up bagels for breakfast.

While I am busily absorbed with other aspects of my life, Maggie waits.  She isn't always crying.  Generally, she seems happy enough.  Tooling around in her wheel-chair, she greets other residents with a friendly smile.  If someone tries to engage her in conversation that is too much for her to handle, she responds with a quick “If you say so,” then rolls on.  She favors repeating common sayings such as if you say so and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.  She has a whole repertoire, and they easily slip off her tongue at appropriate times.

I visit her at least once a week.  Usually, I bring flowers or a small treat – she likes chocolate milkshakes.   Sometimes we go out for dental or other medical appointments.  However, this is difficult and costly due to mobility issues requiring special transportation.  Every now and then, I straighten her closet and drawers while we chat.  In the warmer months, we sit on the porch, and she recalls happier times in the old neighborhood.   At times, she teaches me a few Italian words, and then tells me how much she misses her mom and dad.  This brings tears to my eyes as I am also familiar with the big empty hole in your heart when you miss your mom and dad.

I stopped by on Valentine’s Day, and found Maggie sitting with a bag of cookies in her lap.  When asked where they came from, she paused and said she wasn’t sure, but thought it must have been a fellow who was sweet on her many years ago.   I smile, knowing it was most likely the kind-hearted family friend, 30 years her junior, who hired me.  Heeding the advice of an Alzheimer’s specialist, I meet her where she’s at, and simply comment on his thoughtfulness.

Oftentimes, as I prepare to leave, she begins to cry, insisting I am the only person who is nice to her.  My conscience does not allow me to meet her on this one.  I remind her of blessings and the many others who care for her.  She regains her composure, thanks me again, and quips, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”  Waving goodbye, I respond, “If you say so.”  She smiles as I walk out the door.

Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

How Many Loaves Have You?

This past Christmas found me pondering more than one biblical miracle. Of course, most of us are plenty familiar with the obvious one, the miracle of Jesus’ birth. But Feeding the Multitudes? What was that all about?

Each year during mid-December, the management at Maggie’s assisted living center hosts a lovely and festive holiday party. Folks gather together to eat, sing carols, and greet one another with words of cheer and goodwill. This year was no exception. The place was filled with friends, neighbors and families. Maggie enjoyed it immensely. So did I.

When I was a child, my family was all about Christmas Eve. Anyone who didn’t have someplace else to go was invited to our house. Come one, come all. Now, as an adult, although we tend to focus more on Christmas Day, the rule still holds true. All are welcome. Friends of friends, in-laws of in-laws. It doesn’t matter who. Much like the well-know marine mantra, when it comes to celebrating the holidays at my house, no one is left behind.

Usually, I carefully avoid mingling my work and personal lives. However, it was Christmas Eve, and although Maggie is a client, she is without family, and I was determined she would enjoy some holiday hoopla. Gathering up a small loaf of pumpkin bread, some punch and my three teenage boys (much to their disgruntlement,) I headed off to see her. In as much as it was to be a treat for Maggie, the promise of homemade bread was used to entice my boys to be a bit more agreeable. In my experience, I have found that nothing lights up an older person’s face like that of seeing a younger person’s face.

As we arrived, I suddenly identified with the miracle of the five loaves and two fish with which Jesus was reported to have fed the multitudes. I had mistakenly thought there would be a celebration of sorts going on, and our festivities would go unnoticed. Instead, approximately eight other residents, without the company of family or friends, were sitting in the main room when we walked in. Much to my alarm, it occurred to me they now had visions not of sugarplums dancing in their heads, but those of pumpkin bread and punch.

Discretely, I dashed the boys’ hopes of getting even the smallest portion of the culinary delight. If questioned about why they weren’t having any, they were instructed to say they prefer water and popcorn (which is always in abundance at the facility.) “Yeah right, like they’re gonna believe that Mom,” my fourteen year-old taunted. With a raised eyebrow, I suggested it would be in his best interest to be very convincing.

Praying for yet another Christmas miracle, I divided up the food and drink, and although there was not a crumb or drop to spare, there was enough for all to enjoy. I was humbled, as were my children, at our new friends’ appreciation of such a small celebration. Although the refreshments were meager, it was clear to me, the healthy side-serving of compassion and companionship was much more satisfying than the main dish.

In retelling the story to a friend, I said I was certain my children learned a lesson about the importance of giving simple gifts that day. After a brief pause, she asked if her family could come along next year. We both laughed as I promised her kids would be all for it. “Can’t wait to see you there,” I said, “plan on bringing some bread.” With that, the number of children’s hearts and minds nourished by taking part in a small act of kindness will double. Feeding the multitudes …

Copyright © 2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

A Rose Rests ...

One long stem rose rests in a pilsner glass on my table. My husband brought it home last Wednesday. He said Otto would have wanted me to have one. He added that Otto would have wanted every woman he knew to have one. A rose from his funeral. I met him only two weeks ago. He was ninety years old and ready to die. He said as much. His body was so frail, I was certain he would die that night. As cliché as it is, I guess it just wasn’t yet his time to go. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come soon enough.

The Otto I knew – barely, all of an hour - was a man of few words. Maybe it was his weakened condition, but he didn’t seem to have much patience for small talk. Perhaps, it was that he didn’t want to waste what breathe he had left talking about things that didn’t matter. Whatever it was, it was clear to me, his hours on Earth were numbered, and God most likely had a motive for bringing us together. Given this, I decided to not squander the moment, but to sit awhile with this man, and listen carefully to his few words.

He said he married rather late in life, and talked about his wife of more than three decades, who died twenty years ago. “God knows she was a better wife than I was a husband,” he said. Wistfully, he reminisced about another love affair that didn’t end the way he hoped. He summed it up with, “God, I fell hard.” He wondered aloud whether or not a close friend will marry the woman who loves him. Obviously perplexed, he shrugged and added that the friend said he “just wasn’t ready.”

Otto, who didn’t have children of his own, then turned his attention to my three sons, 14, 12 and ten, who had quietly wandered into the room. He invited the boys to sit down, and then made sure he was square on their names and ages. He asked them about school, what sports they played and their other activities. His interest was sincere. He had met them a few weeks earlier when they were recruited to help clear out his belongings from his beloved and recently sold lake home.

The boys had been impressed by his generosity, sharing with each of them, an item from his home – a couple of decaled drinking glasses from his Catholic alma mater for the oldest, old twine for the middle one, and a container of cocktail sword picks, the kind used for olives, onions and the occasional cherry, for the youngest. To most, just junk for the dumpster, but the boys were genuinely thrilled when they brought home their treasures. It was obvious to me, though I had not yet met him, that Otto paid attention to what other people valued.

The oldest wears his parochial school education on his sleeve like a badge of honor; the middle one is a Boy Scout knot head who spends hours fine tuning his skill; and, the youngest never leaves home without his electronic game system, but constantly loses his stylus. Now, he carries a nail file and a few swords in the game case.

From what I hear, Otto was a larger-than-life legend in the small town he called home. He was the type of guy who drank gin, and wore a lime green jacket, plaid pants and white shoes to the local country club. He enjoyed playing Pinochle and loved to throw parties at the lake. If it happened to be your birthday, oh boy, he was sure to make it special.

As we left that afternoon, my husband told Otto he would be back within the month to have lunch with him at his favorite restaurant. I shook his hand good-bye, and felt the presence of a friend who understood what matters in this world: the importance of reflecting on love and relationships; paying attention to the needs of others; and, enjoying the simple things in life. Two weeks later, with my husband in attendance, a memorial luncheon was held in Otto’s honor at that favorite restaurant.



Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.

Introduction

As life expectancy increases, more of us struggle with caring for our aging relatives while trying to maintain the fragile balance of life’s other obligations.  Difficult economic circumstances force us to consider just how much time we can spend away from our jobs.  Oftentimes, guaranteed employment requires relocation to somewhere far away.  Even if we manage to juggle our work responsibilities with those of caring for our parents, where do we find time for our children, spouses, friends, and the daily routines of our own lives? 

 NextFriend, LLC provides individualized support in helping area seniors manage daily living by coordinating necessary services to maintain a current lifestyle or manage change that accompanies a new one.  Sometimes families need help in caring for an elderly loved one.  Sometimes, it is an acquaintance or a trusted professional who has power-of-attorney for an individual who needs assistance. 

As the owner of NextFriend, LLC, my work as a lay case manager for the elderly is varied.  In short, I act as a personal advocate, always keeping the client’s best interest in mind.  If a personal aide, health care provider or medical case manager is required, I work with the client to hire an appropriate professional.   In addition, I manage daily finances and personal business. More than once, I’ve waited in an ER to consult with a physician following a fall.  I’ve scouted out acceptable living arrangements, hired home improvement contractors, emptied a home and arranged for its sale.  I’ve demanded action from assisted living facilities when they were falling short of their promises.

My work is challenging, time-consuming, joyful and at times, heart-wrenching.   It is both a job and a journey.  What follows is a collection of stories giving light to that journey.  Careful precautions are always used to protect identities, however, it’s my guess your heart will recognize someone you know along the way. 

Carol Bagazinski

Email:  cmwbagazin@aol.com 

Blogger’s Note:  Early on in my career as a lay case manager working with aging clients, a geriatric professional told me it is best to meet Alzheimer’s Disease patients “where they are at” in terms of their reality.  Although, most of the people I work with are not Alzheimer’s patients, I have found the advice works well when dealing with most folks both on and off the job, regardless of their age.  This blog allows you to take a peek at my reality, and meet me where I am at.  Maggie is one name I have chosen to use frequently throughout my posts.

Copyright ©2011 by Carol M.W. Bagazinski – All Rights Reserved.