Relocation Day

For the past several months I have been planning and preparing for today’s move.  For the third time in 5 years I will be relocating my mother to a facility to take care of her while she’s living with dementia.  I remember the first move like it was yesterday.  It was the most gut wrenching decision I’ve ever had to make. At that time she was more independent, she knew who I was and even though there may have been some confusion, she could communicate with ease.  She hated leaving the comfort of her home, losing her driving privileges and living in a community of people where she felt no connection.  Thinking about this as I type brings tears to my eyes.  At that time, upon my departure after every visit, she would watch me walk down the hallway.  Before I’d turn the corner I would always turn around to wave goodbye to her. My heart would break every time seeing her yards away hanging outside her doorway just to bid me adieu.  My feelings of guilt were strong; I always felt like I was abandoning her.

As the years went on and the disease progressed, it continued to be difficult for me and I became more numb.  I’ve experienced every possible feeling in the book and had to come to terms with my new reality.  To this day I still have some feelings of guilt that she is not living with family.  I envy those who can keep their loved ones home, have the means to do so and have the family members who believe it’s normal to help with the care.  But I realize that those that are caring for her and the other residents who I’ve witnessed watching over her are now part of her family.

That is why today’s relocation will be hard…again.  You build attachments to residents and staff members – some more than others, but all the same I am saying goodbye…again.  There are many residents who I’ve enjoyed spending time with, especially since there are those who do not get many visits from their own family members.  Now we are off to a new place with a new system, new surroundings and new people who I hope will become like family to my mom.  A physical relocation is one thing, but an emotional relocation is very different.  I am praying I will find comfort with both.

Faith Restored…Slightly

Last week I expressed concerns about the choice of nursing home I made for my mom.  Listening to my gut took me on the journey of researching new options and hitting the road with my aunt to visit half a dozen new places.  After crisscrossing three counties, meeting some really wonderful administrators and learning a lot about the different nuances of elder care facilities all roads led back to my original choice.  I am happy I went the extra mile to see more places, which takes the notion I had for settling on a place off the table.  I do however still have concerns for a few of the attitudes and personality traits of some of the “front of the house” staff members I have to deal with to get my mother’s affairs in order.

I am happy these individuals will have nothing to do with my mother’s daily hands-on care.  The staff managing her care has presented themselves to me on every occasion as being warm, caring and competent.   I will continue to take the brunt of any awkward exchanges with the business manager and the admissions coordinator.

It amazes me when the people who should ease the concerns of family members during such a difficult time in their lives, don’t and continue to retain their employment.  I have chosen to take on the new mantra of The Osmonds’ One Bad Apple.  In this case there are a couple of bad apples, but I can’t let their shortcomings spoil the whole bunch.

Having Reservations

I wish I could say I secured a table for a decadent meal or I am preparing for a dream trip.  Instead I am having reservations about the choice of nursing home I plan on moving my mother to on May 1^st.  For thousands of caregivers who cannot provide the proper care at home and make the difficult decision to place a loved one in a facility it is a heart wrenching choice.  I have had to live with this decision for 5 years now.  Five years of paying the astronomical costs for care is forcing me to move her to a facility that accepts Medicaid.  The money runs out so quickly when you’re paying $6,000 to $10,000 a month.  A month.  Not all facilities accept Medicaid so that slashes your options.  Then from those options, none of them really live up to the standard of where you’d want your loved one to be.  The idea of having to settle is not a comforting feeling.  In life we are encouraged to never settle – not in relationships, not in choosing a hairdresser, a therapist, a place of employment.  You always want to find the best fit.  There is no such thing as a best fit when it comes to health care facilities.  There will always be something or someone who rubs you the wrong way.

I have a couple of days to finalize my decision on the move.  At this hour my gut is telling me not to move her to this new place.  I know I cannot keep her at her current facility because they do not accept Medicaid.  I don’t have the time or energy to write about how I feel about elder care in America and the Medicaid system right now.  Thinking about this will only upset me more.  All of this is timely and what I am dealing with today as you read this.  I pray the solution will reveal itself quickly and the only things that will become settled are my concerns.

Rest Assured

I’m an 8-hour girl.  My body works best on 8 hours of sleep.  I like the room dark and quiet.  The ideal bed would have a slightly firm pillow-top mattress with a fluffy comforter.  The glow from a clock, a night-light, or a cracked blind can keep me from drifting off.  The slightest sounds keep my mind preoccupied so dozing is delayed.  My method for a good night’s sleep doesn’t work for everyone.  In college one of my roommates couldn’t fall asleep unless music was playing.  That year Minnie Riperton sang me a lullaby each night; subsequently I learned her greatest hits in a couple of weeks. 

Yesterday the family of Trayvon Martin heard the news that was music to their ears; I know it was for mine.  Forty-five days after her child was murdered Sybrina Fulton said she was hoping she could finally get a good night’s sleep and rest.  I am sure the arrest of George Zimmerman finally put several minds at rest.  It’s interesting in cases like this that for one to get “rest” someone else needed to be “arrested.”    In the long run no rest is truly assured for all parties and families involved, but justice can now be served in a court of law.  It will be a long road before we hear the words “I rest my case,” but it’s on the horizon.  Amen.

The Payoff of Being E(r)ect

Recently there has been a wave of positive acknowledgement regarding my posture.   The way I sit or stand hasn’t been something I consciously thought about for decades.  As an adolescent I must have suffered from the “tallest person in the class” syndrome and probably slouched a bit so I wouldn’t stand out so much.  I remember my mother telling me constantly to stand up straight and to have good posture, so I did as I was told.  Then puberty hit and all that comes with it.  Once I blossomed instead of hearing positive acknowledgements about my posture I got wind of the catty comments from some peers of “she’s just walking around sticking out her chest for attention.”  Meow.

Paying attention to my posture came in hand this past week when I decided to kick off the month of April with an unlimited week of Bikram yoga.  It’s been almost three years since I’ve taken a hot yoga class and I am so glad I treated and “tortured” myself to 7 straight days of the practice.  105 degree room.  90 minutes.  26 postures.  Even though you perform the same postures each class, no two classes are the same because your body is different each day.  The postures are challenging especially based on your body type and if you have any previous injuries.  I don’t have the greatest knees and due to my torso I feel like I am breast feeding myself during some of the poses, but I do the best that I can with what I bring to the mat.  The biggest hurdle for people is the heat.  You are faced with the mind over matter experience and dealing with your fight or flight response.   Remaining still in between the postures while sweating profusely and breathing deeply only through your nose is a test within itself.  Overcoming the urge to flee and staying to fight through the next pose is what the practice of Bikram teaches you.  This is a lesson that is carried outside the yoga studio.  Even though my hair was “wrecked” for the week, the benefits outweigh having fly looking hair.  Last week I was calmer, more focused and centered.  I slept better and I stopped craving sweets.  I’d say those are great reasons to stand up tall.  Namaste.

Ring Me Out to Dry

Hello.  My name is Kelly, and I am a sweater.  You read that correctly.  I didn’t say I am wearing a sweater, I said I am a sweater.  I don’t have that sweaty palm/feet thing.  It’s more like everywhere else.  Even though some people exclaim “Oh, that must be so healthy,” I am still searching for how this is benefiting my health.  If anything it is more of an annoyance.  It’s embarrassing and quite gross. I’ve been dealing with this ever since hitting puberty in the early 1980s.  Since I played a lot of sports growing up, I found myself quickly being compared to one of the greatest basketball players from Georgetown University.  I am convinced I was cursed with PESS: Patrick Ewing Sweating Syndrome.  During pre-game warm-ups for my high school basketball games, I too would be drenched before tip-off happened.  Not cute.

Sweating is something that men are supposed to do – women are supposed to perspire or glisten; at least that is what some old Southern expression once said.  When Dry Idea came out with their “Never Let Them See You Sweat” marketing campaign in 1987 I felt like they were taunting me.

People who know me well are used to me complaining about my “condition” and backing out on various outings or activities because I can get grumpy when I get overheated.  I wish the reason my body gets hot just like an oven is only because of Sexual Healing.  I simply think I have a higher internal body temperature than the average gal; maybe the average guy too.  My friends who see me when I get overheated still get shocked and have an expression of sympathy for me.  I know it’s hard for them to understand because it’s not something they have ever experienced physically.  One of my best friends barely sweats at all.  When she played volleyball in high school, she told me her coach would “punish” the entire team during practice by making them do drill after drill until she shed a few droplets of sweat.  If I had been on her team I would have thrown some of my sweat on her so she could pass it off as hers just to end the torture.

It’s mid-March and Mother Nature has asked her son Heat Miser to bring summer like temperatures our way already.  Everyone around me is going bananas about how wonderful the weather is, but I am not overjoyed.  For me it just prolongs the period of time where I will want to stay in a cooler environment.  I’m the Debbie Downer who prefers air conditioning in the car while everyone else wants fresh air.

Almost a decade ago I was working out with my trainer and one of his clients asked us if we wanted to go to a Bikram yoga class.  When he explained that it was 90-minutes of yoga in a room with the temperature of 105 degrees I laughed at him and said there was no way I would subject myself to that.  After hearing about the benefits of the class, I thought why not try it.  I ended up practicing it off and on for a few years.  Taking the class taught me many things; the primary was about control and pushing through my fight or flight response.  If my mind is set to spend time exercising then sweating doesn’t bother me.  If I have taken the time to do my hair and makeup and put on any gear that’s non-athletic, then sweating irks me.

I was excited to hear that actress Nicole Ari Parker was flexing her entrepreneurial muscles to create a head wrap for women to save their hairstyles while they are working out.  It’s called Save Your Do.  I ordered one and it just arrived in the mail. 

I am not convinced it will work for me because of my extreme circumstances, but I wanted to support her effort.  Plus, a portion of the proceeds benefit the Sophie’s Voice Foundation - the organization she and her husband Boris Kodjoe founded to support better healthcare for children (like their daughter) and adults living with spina bifida.

If the GymWrap works, great.  If it doesn’t, then I will just chalk it up to I am just someone who sweats more than others and my “do” can’t be saved.  C’est la vie.  I’m a 70s girl: it’s the decade I was born, an era where I dig the tunes and the number of temps I like.  My name is Sweaty Betty, and it is what it is.

The Long and Winding Road

I took a walk down Alphabet Street and I was struck by what appeared.

A begins the alphabet

L falls in the middle

Z ends the alphabet

ALZ.  Alzheimer’s.  You’re born, you live and then you die.  We all have a beginning, a middle and an end.  Alzheimer’s is simply a horrible way to live out the last moments on this earth.  My education about ALZ and dementia began in early 2004 when I saw the first signs in my mother’s personality change.  Eight years later, she is living with severe dementia and needs assistance to do the basic everyday things we all take for granted: bathing, dressing, eating, grooming, etc….  During these eight years I have met well over a hundred people who have been afflicted with this unforgiving disease.  Each and every one of them had a full life prior to their diagnosis.  I’ve met a Senator, a Tuskegee Airman, a judge, educators, veterans, doctors, a jazz band drummer, and the list goes on and on.  More importantly they all are/were someone’s loved one: mother, father, sister, brother, daughter, son, wife, husband, friend.

The mark you leave on the world, whether big or small is uniquely yours.  I understand that living your life to its fullest is easier said than done when the day-to-day responsibilities take precedence.  As a caregiver this is a daily struggle for me; it’s a struggle for millions.  Writing this blog is an exercise for me to remind myself to revel in the now; to live life with purpose.

If you are reading this, join me in taking a moment to pause. 

Stop.

Reflect on your life; your relationships with others.  Think about what you’ve accomplished and what’s still on your to-do and wish lists.  Think about having the ability to think clearly – to make judgment calls – to plan.  Imagine those capabilities being erased because some neurons in your brain have other plans for you.  It’s a scary thought, but it’s nice to have thoughts…isn’t it.

My Rack

I never really understood that nickname for cleavage, but if I had a nickel for every nickname I’ve heard about my girls, Wilma and Betty, I’d have a couple extra Andrew Jackson’s in my wallet.  Yes, I coined them Wilma and Betty.  This happened at some point in high school, and I don’t remember why but the names have stayed with me ever since.  I developed at a very early age.  I was always the tallest girl in my class and I feel like I never budded – I just blossomed overnight.  I don’t recall ever wearing a training bra – there was no training to be had.  I do recall that time in the dressing room with my mom trying on bras for the first time and I was not a happy camper.  I loved playing sports and I was crushed thinking I was going to have to wear this contraption to keep me from knocking everyone’s eye out, including my own.  Undergarments in the late 70s and early 80s were nowhere near as advanced as they are today.  There weren’t endless options of sports bras on the market until the 90s.  Therefore, gym and game time was always an adventure.  Some highlights:

• My bra strap breaking while running sprints at the track and having to excuse myself from gym class.
• Being greeted by a male classmate after a basketball game as he came by to check my face and saying he wanted to see if I had black eyes.
• Another male classmate hiding behind a door then jumping out in front of me to squeeze my breasts like they were door knobs.  In turn, I perfected my knee reflex kick. He ended up in the nurse’s office.

My mother was diagnosed with breast cancer the summer I turned 24.  Thankfully they caught it early and she didn’t need radiation or chemotherapy.  She did however get a partial mastectomy, and chose not to have reconstructive breast surgery.  It just wasn’t a popular procedure to do in the mid-90s, and at her age she didn’t feel it necessary to pursue.  During this ordeal I became more reflective about my own breasts and what they meant to me, and unfortunately what they meant to other people.  Knowing I had been identified as the girl with the large chest since the 5th grade I knew there had been a value put on my breast.  Then here I am confronted with my mom who is now lopsided with one breast, which made me ponder what if I too one day was faced with the need to remove Wilma and/or Betty from their home.  What kind of woman would I be without them?  I believe that is the question all women with a breast cancer diagnosis ask themselves.

I understand being well endowed and built like Barbie has its advantages.  People pay big bucks for enhancements.  We are a culture obsessed with size:

• Supersizing meals
• Marketing campaigns convincing you that bigger is better
• The number on clothing tags being contradictory to the bigger is better mentality
• Plastic surgeons becoming wealthy based on breast and butt enhancement procedures
• The stereotype that big hands, big feet dictates penis size

I know I should embrace what has been given to me, but having to brace myself in order to move comfortably through my day can be exhausting.  It’s funny how you cannot spell ‘embrace’ or ‘brace’ without b-r-a.  It’s the bra that takes it to a whole new level.  I learned at a recent fitting at the specialty store Intimacy more about bra structure especially for women of a heftier size. I told the bra specialist that I preferred a smooth silhouette and was not a fan of the lacey details showing through your clothing.  I didn’t like the seam that goes across the nipple/areola that also shows through.  She informed me that there is a purpose behind bra designs with seams. Basically she was telling me: get used to your new silhouette kid!  These bras are cut and sewn, which provides a special structure for extra support. The seams of the bra allow for precise shaping of the bra and restrict the amount of the stretching the bra can do.  While seamless bras may look better under certain clothing, bras with seams often last longer and sometimes offer better long-term support than seamless ones.

Almost 85% of women are wearing the wrong sized bra.  If you are a female reading this post, chances are you are one of those women.  If you are a male who read through this entire post, you are more than likely checking out a multitude of women wearing the wrong sized bra.  Needless-to-say check out this guidance from bra specialist and Intimacy founder Susan Nethero.  Apparently, we all can use the support.

Remote “Out of” Control

I think my feet are mad at me.  And they should be.  After working remotely for the past 5 years, last week I began a new job in an office building.  There is something to be said about working from home.  Substituting the rush hour commutes with a stroll from your bedroom to a home office is priceless.  The luxury of walking around in my sock feet and being braless (if I so desired) is now a thing of the past.  My uniform for the past several years was yoga gear and sneakers.  This comfortable attire trapped me – spoiled me.  I wasn’t “forced” to wear “real” clothes everyday.  My “gotta-go-out-into-the-real-world-office” wardrobe had to be dusted off and tested out.  It had been neglected and it retaliated against me.  Somethings didn’t fit, somethings were out dated and even some of my shoes spoke to me by saying:

Girlfriend, please, you know you’re gonna have to re-break me in!

Before life as a remote worker, I lived and worked in New York City for 7.5 years.  That’s 7.5 years of walking and schlepping bags day and night uptown, downtown and cross town.  I remember the first week or two in Manhattan my feet were mad at me.  Maneuvering the concrete jungle was a shock to my body, but at 29 years old I adapted quickly.  Now, once again, I am hitting the pavement and my 41-year-old body is responding a bit differently but in due time it will all be for the better.  During my work day I now have 130 steps from my desk to the bathroom, instead of 10.  It’s just another great way to achieve the suggested 10,000 steps a day.

I remember the days when it wasn’t commonplace to have a TV remote control.  Getting up from your seated position and walking to the TV set was the only way to switch channels.  The word ‘remote’ means far away; implying distance.  Ironically working remotely and using a TV remote control means there is no distance for your body to go – movement is suspended – you can be sedentary.  Although there may be some aches in pains in the days ahead, I am looking forward to regaining control of my stride.  Now I need to go pamper my feet and get ready for the new week ahead.

Really!?!

For 37 seasons Saturday Night Live has been an NBC staple.  With that kind of longevity, it is hard to keep the material fresh and funny.  So, it’s such a treat when there are episodes where sketch after sketch you find yourself crying from laughter.  This season the shows hosted by Melissa McCarthy and Maya Rudolph filled that bill for me and were complete grand slams.  Thinking about these funny gals made me remember last year’s SNL reunion show on Oprah where original cast member Jane Curtin said that during her tenure (1975-1980) it was a misogynistic environment.

[John Belushi] said, ‘Women are just fundamentally not funny.’ You’d go to a table read, and if a woman writer had written a piece for John, he would not read it in his full voice. He would whisper it. He felt as though it was his duty to sabotage pieces that were written by women.

Speaking of sabotaging women — with the great birth control debate in the news the past couple of weeks, I loved how SNL addressed the issue in their popular bit, Really!?! with Seth and Amy.  I also loved how Representative Carolyn B. Maloney, Democrat of New York, called out the panel by asking the obvious question:

Where are the women? It’s outrageous that the Republicans would not allow a single individual representing the tens of millions of women who want and need insurance coverage for basic preventive health care services, including family planning.

If the House committee wanted to only address a panel of religious leaders why not include women?  Last time I checked there are plenty of female religious leaders that could have taken part.  So much for the expression “You’ve Really Come A Long Way, Baby.”  Oddly enough, the Virgina Slims ad campaign that brought that expression into our daily dialogue highlighted a photo in the background of how men oppressed women, while showing a colorful splashy photo of a happy model appearing in control of her life in the foreground.

Background copy says: In 1962, Mr. Lee Evans made it clear that he wore the pants in the family. But once a week, he didn't mind giving them to his wife.

Background copy says: In 1913, equal opportunity employer Richard Pittman gave women every opportunity to shine.

Looks like the background image and messages from those ads continue to be more appealing to some men and places women exactly where they want them to be — in the background.