#HeroesAndSheroes

Posted on by sonsyrea

 

For the first day on the job I wore my dark blue Calvin Klein pants suit, a light blue striped Ralph Lauren blouse, the one with the white collar and white French cuffs, and clunky blue Tommy Hilfiger loafers. My coif was frizzy, but I don’t mind looking like an Afro-headed Anne Taylor – Anne Taylor on a budget. I found all my designer pieces at Marshall’s and TJ Maxx, and did my hair myself.

I got up in time to make an egg sandwich and coffee for breakfast before I left. I was determined to arrive feeling comfortable rather than rushed. I read the Washington Post on the train, and felt sufficiently briefed by the time I arrived at my stop. It was a good thing I left early because the Capitol Hill campus is a maze. Not long after I passed through the metal detector and collected my keys and purse off the conveyor belt, I realized I was in the wrong building.

“O.k. Who moved the elevators?” I joked, smiling at a pair of security guards.

“Where are you going ma’am?” the woman guard asked with a cocked smile, her sandy-colored dreadlocks pulled up in a ponytail.

“I’m going to work for Senator Jackson,” I said, digging in my purse to find the card with the room number on it. “I was here just a couple weeks ago for my interview.  The elevators were right there,” I laughed, pointing.

“Ma’am you’re in the wrong building.  I could send you through the tunnel, but I don’t want to get you lost again.” She opened the glass door next to the revolving glass doors and pointed the way.  “What you want to do is go back out here, hang a right and go in the next building,” she said.  Her partner lit up with a smile.

“Tell her the truth,” he said sarcastically.  “What she really wants to do is make a left and run.” He shook his head. “I seen Madame Jackson make grown-ass dudes cry,” he chuckled.   “Grown-ass white dudes. She breaks ‘em down.”

I laughed with him.

“Run? Me? Don’t let the smooth taste fool you,” I said. I hate it when people mis-read me as soft because I smile easily.

I was glad I wore sensible shoes as I walked two city blocks to get to my building. The work crowd was just beginning to trickle in.  I took the stairs to make up for lost time.  The worn white marble steps and polished wooden rails held a certain charm I could enjoy even in a rush. I pushed open the heavy steel double doors leading out of the stairway. My steps echoed through the corridors. I noticed the flags posted on each side of an office entrance – the U.S. flag and the state flag.  I smiled when I reached my new office.  There stood one grand ole stars and stripes on one side of the entrance, our state flag – a lone white eagle under a big yellow sun against a red background – on the other.

The office door was locked. I slapped the wood a few times, waited a few seconds, and then pounded. A woman about my age woman opened the door gave me a strange look.

“Oh. My bad. They said someone would be here early.  I’m Ruqiyah Paige, the new communications director,” I said.

“Come on in.  I was on a call.  I’m Octavia,” she said.

I followed her through the office lobby where photos of Senator Jackson with Corretta Scott King, Nelson Mandela, Bill Clinton, and the first woman Speaker of the House, Nancy Pelosi adorned the walls.  The front desks were vacant and the only sound was a fax machine spitting out papers.

  • List 10 people in your life you admire and tell why you admire them.
  • What personality traits of theirs do you have or wish you had?
  • Knowing that your admiration of him/her is likely a reflection of dormant strengths you have, just waiting for your permission to blossom, consider an upcoming big decision or project in your life. How would you handle it if you were acting more like the people you admire most?

#DifficultPeople

Posted on by sonsyrea

 

June 15, 2008

 

I hoped I made the right decision. I prayed about it but got no answer.  Should I go to work for Senator Billie Jean Jackson, knowing what I know about her? Or should I follow my first instinct? I cringed when her chief of staff asked me to apply for the job. Then I thought better of it. It would be an honor to help her tell her story her way as her communications director.  I could use all the reporting, writing, and political skills I had gained over the years to get her messages out.  I had worked for Madame Senator before – ten years ago when her district director hired me in the District Office back home. I am familiar enough with Madame Senator’s legendary temper tantrums.

“That’s MY goddamned name on the door. The people voted for me! Fuck you!” I had heard Madame Senator scream once when I was on the phone with her office. I had heard her chief of staff fire back.

“Sit your simple-ass down somewhere and let me handle this! Your ass is too hard-headed! That’s what’s wrong with you!”

Sitting at my desk in the District Office, I pulled the phone away from my ear. Where I came from, that language was unprofessional at best.

“Aw fuck you!” Madame Senator yelled back.

“No! Fuck you!”

They went around and around a few minutes.

“That’s Madame Senator?” I asked the receptionist.

“Yep.”

“I hope we don’t have company,” I laughed.

“A reporter just left,” she said. “Who would you like to speak to?”

I explained that we were waiting for approval of a few “thank you” letters from Madame Senator. I wrote letters to or for our constituents daily, then submitted them to Madame Senator’s district director. I hardly spoke with the Senator directly.  Even when I had to call the Hill office, I would speak with her legislative director or her chief of staff instead of her.

“Would you like to speak with the Senator?” the receptionist asked.

Not if I could help it, I thought.

“Just slip a note on her desk reminding her that the District Office is waiting for her to sign off on those letters. Thanks.”

Despite Senator Jackson’s temper tantrums, I have a lot of respect for her. I had loved working in her District Office answering voters’ questions and helping them access federal agencies to solve a problem with veterans’ services, a Social Security check, or a family member in a federal prison. We might get twenty to thirty desperate calls for assistance a day. I had enjoyed working on community events, such as her annual “Congressional Essay Competition” for high school students. Students could win cash prizes and showcase their work in Madame Senator’s newsletter and our hometown newspaper. I had especially enjoyed working on Madame Senator’s annual Christmas party where we dressed as elves and served more than three hundred poor children pizza. We handed each child a toy, a coat, and a book, purchased by donations from corporations. I remembered how much it meant to me to have one thing for Christmas in my youth since my parents could not afford gifts for us.  So it had been an especially rewarding part of the job to spread holiday cheer to other poor children.

I had worked on Madame Senator’s annual “procurement fair,” where we helped local small business owners meet federal agents to later secure federal contracts.  Madame Senator would hold a press conference, assuring voters that she was working to create opportunities for them. She was brilliant and persuasive. It was no wonder she had been reelected to Congress ten times, then elected as our state’s first African-American senator. She became only the second African American woman to serve in the exclusive club of old white men. I worked for her not only because I needed a job at the time.  I also believed I could learn a lot working with her.  That’s what I believed at twenty-six.  Ten years later, I need a job again, but this time, I believe I can give her the edge she needs. She’s getting old now and needs new energy, new ideas.  So, I accepted the offer even knowing what I knew.

I e-mailed my best friend, Victoria, “I accepted the job! We’re about to make history!”

  • List three of the most challenging people you have encountered in your life.
  • What did you despise most about them?
  • How could they possibly be a reflection of you – your fears/beliefs that keep you from behaving like them, your secret admiration of their strengths?
  • Why do you think they have focused their attention on you? What is it about you they admire and are pushing you to overcome or develop?

#WorkLifeBalance

Posted on by sonsyrea

 

Of course, I’m going to miss having an office to myself.  My desk here is one of six tiny cubicles. I got comfortable in the high-backed black, executive chair, as Octavia showed me what was what and what was where where on the computer.

“The first thing you’re going to do in the mornings is go to the Morning Whip’s schedule to see what’s on the floor.  Anytime Madame Senator has a bill in committee, even if it’s a subcommittee, she’ll want you to do a press release,” Octavia said.  “Even if they’re only marking up her bill, and even if it’s the same bill she’s been introducing, and re-introducing every year since she’s been here, she’ll want you to do a press release. ” The LD probably will tell you a day or two in advance, but sometimes things get so hectic, they might miss it, and you don’t want to be caught unaware.”

“L.D.?” I asked, as she stood over me, pointing at the computer screen, motioning me to scroll down to the “Daily Whip,” a schedule of the bills Senators will debate.

“Legislative Director,” she said. “Billy is the L.D. He’s here, but he went downstairs to get breakfast. Billy’s usually here by eight, but the office doesn’t open officially until nine. You’ll like Billy. You’ll like everybody here, pretty much,” she said. Without digressing, she continued showing me what else I needed to know.

“Once you see what’s on the Floor Agenda for the day, go to Madame Senator’s web site and see what she has already said about that issue and print those previous press releases out for her. Pull up her web site, so I can show you where the major pieces are because they don’t always come up in a keyword search,” she said.

I typed in the web site address as she continued to instruct, rapid-fire, jumping from the list she held to reminders that occurred to her as she spoke.

“I better write this stuff down,” I said, opening desk drawers in search of a notepad.

“Oh, while, we’re at it, let me show you where the supplies are.”

I got up and followed her to a tiny office space crammed with a desk, a printer, and shelves of disorganized old and new ink pens, folders, notepads, and boxes of paper clips.

I scribbled, “Check The Daily Whip,” on a note pad as we walked back to my desk. “The Daily Whip” is sent from the office of the “Whip,” the Congress member elected by his colleagues to “whip” folks into shape.

“A Black guy’s the Whip?” I said, proudly remembering much hoopla made about Congressman John Clyburn’s becoming the first Black Majority Whip. Octavia shook her head.

“That’s on the House side,” she said.  “Baby steps.  Two flies in the buttermilk are about all this side can handle. Now, the House side, that’s another story.  We finally got a little pull over there.”

I nodded, staring at the screen.  I told her I wrote an article about the CBC last year.  “Congressional Black Caucus members chairing four of the main committees,” I said. “About to have a Black president, too. I’m going to volunteer over at the DNC…”

She said I wouldn’t have time for that.

“This right here is not a job, it’s a way of life,” she said.

  • Describe a time (a year, or a period in your life) where you spent most of your time on your career. Did your relationships with family and friends suffer?
  • Were your professional accomplishments worth the sacrifices to your personal relationships? Explain your answer. (For instance, I lost my husband but I helped find a cure for cancer.)
  • Describe your work-life balance, or one you would be happy with. (For instance, your balance is grinding eight hours a day, five days a week, then spending evenings and weekends with your family; or it may be grinding round-the-clock nine months of the year, vacationing with your family for three month; or it may be an understanding you have that you will grind for 30 years in your career, then retire from full-time grinding and work projects at your leisure.)
  • What is your plan for a better work-life balance? (If you are happy with the balance you have, could you better communicate this to your family and friends who may need a better understanding?

 

#CrisisRecovery

Posted on by sonsyrea

 

January 2010

It crashed.  Just like that, it crashed.  Now I see why you never would ride the subway, why you never did trust “them new-fangled things,” as you put it.  But I am glad you were there to help me out of it, especially since there was no warning, no hint, not the slightest indication that we were in trouble.

As usual, there was a line at all the fare card machines.  As usual, we got bottlenecked at the gate.  The platform was crowded, as usual, but everyone was civil. I blended into the crowd of mostly government workers, dressed in coats, weighed down with briefcases or large purses with folders stuffed inside.  I got on, found a seat and, as usual, plugged in my iPod.  Come to think of it, there was static, unusual static, in my iPod. That seemed weird because iPod’s don’t get static.  G-Ma was that you tinkering with my iPod, making it skip between songs to keep me from dozing off as I usually do o the subway?

I’m glad you were there.  I’m glad you are here.

“Break the window Ruqiyah.” You were loud and clear through all the screams and desperate gasps for last breaths. I heard the screech and the metal crunching – and your voice.  “Break the window Ruqiyah. Kick the glass. Get out.” You always were calm even in the midst of madness.

I didn’t think I could break a window so thick and tight, but you convinced me.  “Kick through the window and go.”  It worked.  I shattered a window. Your voice was diamond hard, crystal clear.

“Save yourself Ruqiyah.”

But that was confusing coming from you.  When you were alive, it was never about just me.  It was never about one person.  Even when I was eight and you taught me how to play Chinese Checkers instead of regular Checkers, which we played at school, you would say, “Ruqiyah Charity Paige, as you go through this life, you’ve got to get ahead not just by yourself, and not just for yourself.” That was the first thing that came to mind when I saw all the other people trapped in the wreck today. It would have taken just a few minutes to help the woman trying to pull her baby through the window opening.  Maybe I couldn’t help the old man mangled in his wheelchair underneath so much rubble, but it would’ve taken just a minute to reach out and pull the young man who was already halfway through.  But your instruction was clear.

“Save yourself,” you said. I heard you. Not like a loud voice booming down from the clouds, not even a still small voice on the inside. It was a simple knowing, an awareness. Now what?  You seemed to be walking beside me as I made my way home.  I must’ve looked crazy – coat ripped and disheveled, hair a frazzled mess, clutching my purse as if my life depended on it. I thought about a lot of things you taught me.  I thought about some of our last conversations before you died.  I remembered you telling me you hoped I would learn one lesson, and learn it soon, in order to be better and do better. You said this one lesson would help me on my job and help me know exactly when it was time to leave.  All those self-help, pop-psychology books I’ve been reading the past fifteen years were useful and fun, but life really was simple, you said.

Was it just a coincidence that each traffic light turned green as I reached the curb?  You knew I was too dazed to stop for a red light, right? G-Ma, why didn’t you reach me before the wreck?  Couldn’t you foresee that the collision was going to happen? Why didn’t you just give me a sign, some warning to take a different train? I’m glad you knew to get my attention through the iPod. I didn’t know you knew about iPods, since that’s one of the things I never got around to teaching you to work. There was a lot we didn’t get to talk about. I wanted to talk to you about the major changes you saw in your 90 years to get a grip on the dizzying changes in my own life. Everything is changing, and changing in the blink of an eye. One minute we’re riding the train. Next thing you know, “Boom!” Smoke, fire, and people screaming for their life. G-Ma, that could’ve been my arms and legs scattered across the field.

I’m sitting in my living room in the dark now.  No TV.  No jazz from the cable station.  Nothing.  I don’t want to see or hear anything.  I need silence. I lit the cinnamon candles. I’ve got the bottle of pineapple rum and a can of Diet Coke on the coffee table. But my hands are still shaking.  I don’t want to get Coke all over the couch and carpet.  Maybe the flicker of the log in the fireplace will me settle down some.  I can usually watch those flames licking the air and forget about things, but I don’t know if I can forget seeing all those body parts at the wreck.

It was awful.  Just like that.  Sc-reeeeeeech, boom, boom, BAM! The stench of heated plastic and burning rubber everywhere.  I still can’t shake the images of the crumpled train cars and the smoke. Bodies blown across the field.  Injured people crawling out of the heap of wreckage. I can’t shake the pictures.  How can a train crash without warning?  I ride it everyday? Nobody could tell it was about to breakdown? I don’t know how many people died, but from the looks of it, a whole lot of families are going to be devastated.

G-Ma, I’m sorry I got too busy to visit you.  The job has been calling my cell since I left the office.  The chief of staff left a few messages saying Madame Senator is trying to reach me.  She probably is just trying to size up the situation. She needs to spin a message to the media to protect the train company since it’s one of her biggest campaign donors.

Victoria’s been calling and leaving messages, too. My sister Trish left a message, too. She heard the news all the way back in my hometown.

“Qi-Qi, I hope to hell you wasn’t on the train that crashed, but if you was, you bout to get pay-aid.  Hey, don’t leave the scene.  If you’re still there, get as close as you can to the crash and lay down on the ground like you cain’t move. Girl, you ‘bout to get paid!  Haaaaaaaay!” she said.  “Use your camera phone and get some pictures to prove you was there, and get somebody else to get some pictures of you stretched out. Lay your ass on the ground and play half dead till the police get there. Hell, even if you wasn’t on the train, you ride it everyday.  Just take your ass to the hospital and say you got injured on that train that crashed.  You deserve to get paid, girl. Girl this is your time.  Like Joel Osteen says.  This is our time. Get paid girl. Let me know you okay.   Call me.”

Chris is coming over even though I told him I’d rather be alone. I need time to think about what I want to do next.

God must’ve had a reason for sparing my life, right? G-Ma, I know I’m lucky to be alive. I’m going to take a few days to think about where I’ve been and how I want to go on from here. My hands are still trembling. I can hear you humming, “we’ll understand it all by and by.” I’ll figure this one out myself.

 

  • Who do you call in your moment of crisis?
  • Describe your last crisis and explain your first prayers/calls?
  • Would you repeat your actions in the next crisis? If you can respond better, tell how. If you’re satisfied with your armor and plan of action, explain why.

 

Choosing Hope Over Despair

Posted on by sonsyrea

Women Who Hope's avatarWomen Who Hope

white flower

By Dawn Onley

I’ll bet many of us can point to things that threatened our start in life. It may have been a learning disability. Or some type of health challenge. It may have been the divorce of your parents or the death of a loved one. Perhaps it was an authoritative figure who said something to make you feel discouraged or a bully who picked on you and made you scared to go to school.

It could have even been a tragedy of some sort.

No matter how terrible it was, no matter how searing the memory of it still is, we shouldn’t allow it to determine how we finish. We should not relinquish the hope of today for the painful memories of yesterday. We hold the power and we should choose instead to use it to honor whatever experiences we had to go through to get to where…

View original post 210 more words

Kissing Crusaders

Posted on by sonsyrea

IMG_2117

I’m not even ready to process the conversation I had with my beloved older brother last night. I called him this morning to add another something for him to think about, but he didn’t pick up. That’s probably a good thing because I was still feeling a little irritable and a lot tired.

 

I showed the photo of the kissing crusaders to my co-workers this morning and they marveled at the beauty of the moment. The facebook note I posted with the photo was simply: 74 years married. Still Standing. Prayers up everyone. One-hundred-fifty people had liked it overnight. When I showed my supervisor and a consultant sitting in the adjacent cubicle, they also ooooed and awed. When I volunteered the back story – that the kiss came after a long day of fighting, managing Grandma’s disease – they made the moment sweeter.

 

Michelle, supervisor said my grandparents reminded her of her aunt and uncle who were so close they took care of each other all their lives. When her uncle was put in a nursing home, her aunt took a bus to visit him every day. The day he died during her visit, she went home and died of a heart attack less than an hour later. The consultant, Tracy, said when her father was in the hospital, comatose, the doctors advised her and her siblings to tell him it was ok for him to leave. They each visited and after all eight of them told him they were fine and he could leave, he died within hours.

 

“That reminds me of when my brother was dying at 16,” I said. “We told him he didn’t have to stay in that body for us. He was in so much pain. The cancer had spread to his lungs. Maybe it’s time we have that conversation with my grandparents.”

 

I remembered giving them hints that I’m ok. Several times in the past year Grandma looked in my face and asked, “Why are you so sad?” She knows something’s not right in my marriage because she hasn’t seen my husband in almost four years. She’d told me to “turn it over to God…let God fight your battles.” But at one point Saturday she looked in my face and said, “Look at those big, pretty brown eyes.” I felt like she survived her life-threatening surgery to help me through the latest heartbreak since she’d nursed me back to whole almost twenty years ago.

 

I remembered telling Granddad that I’m ok yesterday when he asked about my job.

 

“How did the people act about you taking off early today,” he said, speaking over his shoulder as he stood at the sink washing greens.

 

“No problem. This job is waaaay less demanding than any job I’ve had before. I’m not in charge, so it’s not all on my shoulders. All I have to do is make sure my work gets done and I put in the hours,” I said.

 

“What about the people you’re working with? How are they?”

 

“My supervisor is great! She’s a praying woman. In fact, we pray together every week,” I said.

 

“That’s a change from that last one you had cursing you,” he said. We both laughed.

 

“Yep. My mother-in-law told me to not just pray for any job, but pray for my divine job,” I said. “I really feel like this is a divine job.”

 

With that, I realized I was telling him I am financially secure enough and although my husband has never visited their church for Sunday service with me, I’m not in a wilderness of some sort. My mother-in-law has been the moral support I’ve needed.

 

Maybe later today I will ask my mother what she thinks about us each having that conversation with both of our elders, assuring them that we’re ok and they are free to go. I think she will say they are seeing and sensing how well we are and they will leave when they feel like they’ve given us all they can and that we’ve received all we can.

Ready to Rumble

Posted on by sonsyrea

IMG_2027

 

I heard Grandma’s rants coming from the dining room. I stepped out of my shoes because if there was going to be a rumble, I was going to have sure footing. I’d seen Grandma out of her mind – just two days ago – and I knew she was getting worse. Two days ago was the first time she failed to recognize me and saw only a threat. I was watching her while Granddad was out for a much needed break Saturday when Grandma was coming up the steps, I was standing at the top and through the darkness and through my – uh – extended hair – she didn’t recognize me. Afraid, she told me that she’d called the police. I assured her it was me, “your Ray-Ray.” And when I got back in the light she settled down. Until two days ago I was the one she called out for. I had a calming effect on her just being present. But something had gotten worse, so I stepped out of my shoes in case I had to wrestle with “the worst.” Two days ago when Granddad had come home and I was taking them to the Farmer’s Market, I realized that Granddad’s stern voice and pushing was more effective than my patience and gentleness in certain moments. When Grandma was tired and irritable and her ire was up, Granddad knew how to manage the ire. Ire, fierce meanness was what I heard in Grandma’s tone as I entered the house. She was preaching what she knew to be the word of God, but meanness filled the air. The nurse sat in a chair off to the side helpless and apparently in shock.

 

“God is coming back! Jesus! I say unto you go and oh my God….”

 

Grandma yelled, pacing the floor, hands waving wildly. Granddad looked on from the doorway to the kitchen, straining to hold back his tears. Barefoot and ready for battle, I stood in front of Grandma and yelled at her pitch, “Hallelujah! Yes! Glor-Ray!”

 

She paced the floor and preached. I leaned over and asked the nurse how long she’d been at it. Since about five minutes before I came in. I turned and studied Grandma a few more seconds and realized we’d have to wait this one out, let her wind herself out. The nurse left, since she had been scheduled to leave an hour ago. Grandma raged on. If she attacked Granddad again, I was prepared to restrain her. I grabbed my cellie to capture a little of this unbelievable moment on video. In about fifteen more minutes she was all spun out. She announced that she was going upstairs and I followed her.

Quit Picking with Her!

Posted on by sonsyrea

IMG_2119

 

I hoped to get her still enough to read the Bible to her since that had calmed her down when she was in the hospital and they wanted to restrain her. That was almost five years ago and she’d fought the nurses and Granddad so bad they were putting straps on her as I arrived. I had insisted they allow me to calm her down my way. Instinctively I had figured that she would settled down out of respect for the Bible. I knew that ever since she was a little girl she’d been told to be quiet when the Bible is read. I had asked her for her favorite scripture and read it even though I hated the words as they came off my lips. First Corinthians! No wonder there’s so much damn domestic violence in the world. The Bible designs it! But I read it knowing its familiarity would be soothing.

 

When we got upstairs in their bedroom I expected to find her Bible on her night stand. She used to keep three or four Bibles on and in her nightstand, but today there were none. I found one on Granddad’s nightstand and opened it to one of the pages marked with a stack of index cards. I sat on the edge of the bed and began reading. Grandma calmed down more, but not as much as I was hoping.

 

“Grandma you can lay down for a nap and I’ll read to you,” I said.

 

She shook her head and busied herself making up the bed. I was reading from The Book of Ruth, which I remembered Grandma liked. Years ago, when they were only aging but not visibly ailing, I was interviewing them as often I could. One day I’d asked Grandma who were her favorite women in the Bible and she told me Ruth. I don’t remember why Ruth was her favorite, but I have those notes written down somewhere. I will gather all the notes together and organize for better use some day. But right now I’m still taking notes and organization is not my main priority.

 

Grandma got enough of my reading and returned back downstairs to the kitchen where Granddad was now washing and chopping fresh collards, which he’d bought at market Saturday. Grandma got busy in the kitchen piddling around in the cabinet next to Granddad. He started to fuss, to tell her to go sit down somewhere and I had to nip that in the bud.

 

“Granddad don’t antagonize her. I can’t pull her off you,” I said.

 

He looked at her again, looked at me, rolled his eyes, started to say something to her again but stopped himself.

 

Months later, with home aides now in place, I would get reports that she picks with him! They say she antagonizes him when he’s sitting at the table sorting his mail. “Clifford!  Clifford” nagging the hell out of him.  Or when he’s cooking, “Can I help? I’m going to…”

 

I hadn’t believed it when my uncle said sometimes Granddad can be sitting at the table, reading the newspaper,  and Grandma will just punch him in the face out the blue. I thought my uncle was exaggerating, and I chuckled thinking that Grandma was getting revenge for so many verbal blows she’s sustained over the years. I remember the first outburst I witnessed, probably pre-teens. I was helping them set up for one of their popular dinner parties, when Granddad, obviously anxious and rushed yelled at Grandma, “Baby why you got to be so stupid! I ain’t never seen nobody so stupid!” I’d laughed it off in my youth, but as I got older I found myself trying to justify that they had their own unique communication thing going. That lie has run its course. Sometimes now when Grandma is “out of her mind” she will talk about how embarrassed she was by his tirades.

 

“Baby, don’t let life do this to you,” she said to me one day after her crying spell.  “It’s best to just walk away. Just walk away.” She sobbed explaining that she used to tell her friends that her husband was just having a bad day, that he just had a bad temper. Her words from that night played on repeat in my head for weeks, “Don’t let life do this to you…just walk away.”

 

She’d told me not to be intimidated by anyone, not even a boss at work. Walk away. No matter how much money somebody’s got, don’t be intimidated. Walk away. I never considered that she may have felt intimidated. She always seemed regal and strong to me. I knew she was smarter than Granddad academically, and he knew it to.  Decades ago when she began confessing to me how she felt and I asked her why she stayed, it became clear that she’d stayed for the lifestyle. I vowed privately to never do that. Knowing all that rage she has inside, has carried for years, it’s all I can do to keep Granddad from unwittingly verbally striking a hornets nest.

 

When I hear Granddad fussing, “Baby go sit down somewhere!” I say, “Let her do her thing.  I’m keeping an eye on her.” He resists, “That’s not the point. She’s got no reason to be….” Again I say, “Granddad let her be. If you get her stirred up, I can’t pull her off of you.”

No Crying for Caregivers

Posted on by sonsyrea

 
SpecMoments

A Day in the Life…

No Crying for Caregivers

I called Granddad this morning to reassure him that I will be there shortly after the nurse leaves. He sounded weary and irritable when I called. All my effort, and energy from my mother this weekend wasn’t enough. He’s pissed that his son, his only son and only child by birth, hasn’t stepped up to the plate to do what needs to be done. In Granddad’s ornery opinion his son doesn’t do anything. “Work” to Granddad looks like labor – at the very least cooking, cleaning, being busy. I’ve suggested that my uncle “just being there” is helpful, but Granddad doesn’t buy it. So, when I get there in an hour or so I’m expecting to have to engage Granddad so he can vent even as I keep an ear open for Grandma so she doesn’t dart out the door and wander off – again.

 

If I had more time right now I could write about the incredibly interesting day we had together Saturday and write about my day yesterday cheering from the sidelines. Saturday came with the coincidence of me being in front of the TV just in time to happen upon a documentary about the Coca Cola company, where Granddad worked with his father right around the era of The Great Depression. Also on Saturday I took them to a Farmer’s Market and was delighted to find on sale Mascato grapes just like the ones they grew in their backyard the whole while I was growing up. We returned from the market just in time to happen upon a broadcast discussion about caregiving for people with Alzheimer’s disease.

 

“See Granddad, somebody else does understand what you’ve been going through,” I said, referring to what he’s been trying to explain for months. Being the primary caregiver for Grandma the past four years has taken a toll on him.

 

Geeze, I’m out of time for now. Gottat run to get there by 1 as promised. There will be more time to write in days to come.

 

I arrived about ten minutes earlier than promised but had to circle the block a few times looking for a parking space. Lots of ideas about correcting the parking situation for taxpaying residents and their visitors like me crossed my mind as I hunted for a space. While seeing some of the side streets with signs reserving parking for the residents of that block, I was reminded of learning – just recently – that Granddad had long ago requested speed bumps for his street. His effort failed because he couldn’t get the support of the school officials in the school for special needs children located on his corner. Finally, Granddad concluded that if it wasn’t important enough for the school authorities to protect their children then it simply wasn’t important enough. He gave up. I was delighted to hear that he had made such an effort for people outside of his family and church group. All my life I’d known Granddad to love, protect, and provide for his family. I knew that together he and Grandma served lunch to “the homeless people” in their church until the homeless people “abused the privilege” by bathing in the bathroom sinks, stealing the toiletries, and fighting over the food.

 

I rang the doorbell instead of using my key, and when Granddad opened the door he looked absolutely terrorized.

 

“She just finished beating me. The nurse had to pull her off me,” he said. He couldn’t cry at the moment so I knew I couldn’t either.

I’m OK You’re OK

Posted on by sonsyrea

I’m OK You’re OK

After three bouts of violence with Grandma that day, I saw Granddad plopped down on a chair in the dining room and cry. This caregiving is taking a lot out of him - but also adding a lot of character and spiritual strength to him. After his tears Grandma was calm again and he called her to him for a hug.

After three bouts of violence with Grandma that day, I saw Granddad plop down on a chair in the dining room and cry. This caregiving is taking a lot out of him – but also adding a lot of character and spiritual strength to him. After his tears Grandma was calm again and he called her to him for a hug. “Baby you know I love you,” he said. They kissed and I almost cried – but instead raced to get my cellie for a photo.

I showed the photo of the kissing crusaders – Grandma and Granddad – to my co-workers this morning and they marveled at the beauty of the moment. The facebook note I posted with the photo was simply: 74 years married. Still Standing. Prayers up everyone. One-hundred-fifty people had liked it overnight. When I showed my supervisor and another colleague, they also ooooed and awed. I volunteered the back story – that the kiss came after a long day of fighting and managing Grandma’s disease – and they made the moment sweeter.   My supervisor – who has also become a dear friend – Michelle – said my grandparents remind her of her aunt and uncle who were so close they took care of each other all their lives. When her uncle was put in a nursing home, her aunt took a bus to visit him every day. The day her uncle died during the visit, her aunt went home and died of a heart attack less than an hour later. The other colleague, Tracy, said when her father was in the hospital, comatose, the doctors advised her and her siblings to tell him it was ok for him to leave. They each visited and after all eight of them told him they were fine and he could leave, he died within hours.   “That reminds me of when my brother was dying at 16,” I said. “We told him he didn’t have to stay in that body for us. He was in so much pain. The cancer had spread to his lungs.” He died a few weeks after that conversation. “Maybe it’s time we have that conversation with my grandparents,” I wondered out loud.   I remembered giving my grandparents hints that I’m ok. Several times in the past year Grandma looked in my face and asked, “Why are you so sad?” She knows something’s not right in my marriage because she hasn’t seen my husband.  She’d told me to “turn it over to God…let God fight your battles.” But at one point Saturday she looked in my face and said, “Look at those big, pretty brown eyes,” nurturing and cheering me on and she has done all my life. I felt like she survived her life-threatening surgery four years ago just to be alive and help me through the latest heartbreak. My last big heartbreak was almost 20 years ago and she had nursed me back to whole then.   Yesterday when I visited – doing my Wednesday and Thursday evening caretaking stint – I told Granddad that I’m OK. When he asked how things are going on my job, I seized the opportunity to assure him that I’m doing well, standing on my own two feet, feeling secure, unafraid of getting fired or burned out again.   “How did the people act about you taking off early today,” Granddad said, speaking over his shoulder as he stood at the sink washing greens.   “No problem. This job is waaaay less demanding than any job I’ve had before. I’m not in charge, so it’s not all on my shoulders. All I have to do is make sure my work gets done and I put in the hours,” I said.   “What about the people you’re working with? How are they?”   “My supervisor is great! She’s a praying woman. In fact, we pray together every week,” I said.   “That’s a change from that last one you had cursing you,” he said. We both laughed.   “Yep. My mother-in-law told me to not just pray for any job, but pray for my divine job,” I said. “I really feel like this is a divine job.”   With that, I realized I was telling him I am financially secure enough. I’m OK. My mother-in-law has been the moral support I’ve needed, encouraging me, counseling and consoling me as if God put her in place at the door where Grandma will exit.   Maybe later today I will ask my mother what she thinks about us each having that conversation with our elders, assuring them that we’re ok and they are free to go. I think she will say they are seeing and sensing how well we are and they will leave when they feel like they’ve given us all they can and that we’ve received all we can.