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.