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Cheeky: impudent or irreverent; typically in an endearing or amusing way.

Caregiver: a family member or paid helper who regularly looks after a child or a sick, elderly, or disabled person.

What do you get when you cross, dementia, mental illness and a global pandemic?  

The punchline, “This entire blog.”

2020 hands down was the worst year of my life. That is until 2021 arrived and said, “Here, hold my beer.” Little did I know that 2022 was just around the corner, ready to play a spectacular remix of Bachman Turner Overdrive’s, You Ain’t  Seen Nothin’ Yet!

If you are a caregiver of an aging loved one looking for some sanity steeped in impassioned sarcasm and wit, you have come to the right place.  I am so glad you are here.

What Led to This?

My father’s dementia was progressing and my mother was dealing with both mental and physical challenges. Their home had been sold and they had moved into an assisted living facility. If that life-altering decision wasn’t bad enough, things took a nosedive when the COVID pandemic paralyzed us all. 

To battle the isolation imposed on the senior care facilities, my brothers and I decided to move our parents to my house. 

Caring for aging parents is hard under normal circumstances (although I have no idea what “normal” means), but caring for fragile, aging parents under such adverse conditions, during a global pandemic - fucking hard. 

I needed to vent.

I was losing the two loving people who raised me. They made every sadness bearable and every joy exceptional. Slowly and permanently, they were fading in the most harrowing way possible. This was a hopeless journey with an inevitable end. I found myself fighting back the only way I could – privately, in my basement on my computer.

I began to write a diary in an effort to cope. My computer would become my friend and my therapist. This writing practice would allow me to lean on the absurdity and find humor in the daily mayhem. The cathartic release became my salvation. It was not always pretty or positive and, at times, it was absolutely contemptible. It made me uncomfortable to say the things I needed to say about the two people who were always my guiding lights. Eventually I would realize that my animosity was not intended for my parents but, in truth, it was directed at the forces that were taking them from me.

Through it all, I shared my stories with my childhood friend, Lisa.  She set up a Google file for my diary so she could see the humorous or disturbing account of the day's events. Lisa could relate, on some levels, because her mother was on a similar trajectory. The 900 mile distance between the two added a layer of difficulty, as her willful mother aged under very different circumstances. Lisa’s dad, a gentle soul, had passed away some 30 years earlier. Her mom never remarried and continued to live in the home they built, together, anticipating their retirement. Always this mulish force (and I mean that in the most endearing way), Lisa’s mom adjusted to her companionless lifestyle by becoming more uncompromising. She refused to surrender to the normal geriatric deterioration associated with her maturing journey. She was hell bent on shoveling snow at the age of 92, washing windows (inside and out) twice a year and considered a doughnut a healthy meal. 

Lisa also knew my parents well. Mom and dad were very approachable and Lisa was a beneficiary of that unconditional acceptance. She has fond memories of the hours spent in our basement. As adolescents, we built doll houses, enjoyed slumber parties, played our guitars and dreamed of our futures. My parents willingly chauffeured us around town, later including new friends as our group expanded across the city. They would even take our slumber parties on the road, to places like Cincinnati, where we could enjoy an amusement park after a sleepless night in a hotel. Once I could drive, our family car became the wheels that took us everywhere we wanted to go. My parents’ many kind gestures enabled our friendships to flourish. My loss truly became our loss as Lisa shared my parents’ final days, all the good, the bad and the ugly.  

When I would write, Lisa would add her perspective, and sometimes she would write about her own challenges. Being a consummate artist, she would draw graphics to represent the narrations, which you will be treated to in the coming posts. If my story grew dark, she would call to be sure the doom was fleeting and she would skillfully help restore the courage I needed to face the next day.  More than anything, someone was hearing me. I had a beloved companion on this insane journey.  I was benevolently sustained.

When I engaged with others sharing a similar reality, I would bluntly and honestly tell my stories. It seemed to resonate and, at times, comfort. They could see their experiences in mine and it would open them up to talk about their own wounds; their feelings of inadequacy, failure, resentment. I knew what being validated felt like and I wanted to pay it forward. 

You Are Cordially Invited

Through the art of storytelling, I want to invite others, living a similar altered reality, into my macabre existence. The hope is that others can find unity in my words along with inspiration to pick up a pen or open a computer and write. Everyone in this circumstance has their own story of unimaginable challenges inflamed by “not great choices” and amateur decisions. As well as the joys of “one more” - another holiday, another graduation, another engagement, or a great-grandchild - the special moments you were never sure would be shared. 

Write it for yourself or share it with the world.  (Hello - this blog site!)

Oh and don’t worry about the spelling or the punctuation. Take it from someone who went to an all-girl’s Catholic high school in the 70’s and who’s perceived capacity for learning was slightly above a sea sponge.  In other words, if I can do it, you can do it.

This blog is intended to energize and provide a refuge. These stories are here to set examples, to affirm and to create connections. As you read my stories, you may see a reflection of your own. Looking for the light and finding the humor in the absurdity would be my redemption. 

And if you feel comfortable sharing your stories, the opportunity is here. Maybe, just maybe, we can compose a dialogue, documenting genuine accounts of shared struggle. My hope is that we can create a shadow of what Lisa and I have. A tender, honest and, at times, sarcastic understanding of the sacrifices we make for those we love.

This is a place to find reverence and sustenance. Your journal or computer will be the place where you respond, conveniently located in the drawer of a nightstand or inside the zippered pocket of a backpack.  Always present, patiently waiting for the stroke of a pen or the beat of a key to ease a tired spirit. 

I look forward to our kinship! 

Love, The Cheeky Caregiver

References:

cheeky:https://english.stackexchange.com/questions/22303/what-is-the-right-definition-of-cheeky

caregiver:https://samaracarecounseling.org/november-is-national-caregivers-month/#:~:text=A%20caregiver%20is%20a%20family,individuals%20that%20support%20another%20person.