Tag: losses

welcome to girlfriends with aging parents

lighting the lights of the soul

“Tis the season”, so they say. Here it is December & with it the arrival of what we now know as “the holidays”. Kwanzaa, Christmas and Chanukah come calling and with them the promiscuity of merchandising that marks our culture.

In the midst of all the seasonal hype it is easy to loose some of the symbolism of the season. Lights and light form a very powerful part of each of these festivals. No doubt these festivals, at the darkest part of the year, have their origin in some pre-historic pagan need to drive out the darkness. What I want to look at now is the power of light and what it means.

Light stands for many things in religious life: life, hope, faith & also memory. We who are, or have been care-givers, can relate to this in a powerful and personal way. Many of us now are watching the “light” of a loved one slowly fade. It is not easy. It demands great attention and it is filled with the reality of loss.

It is easy, especially at this time of year, to turn into ones self and allow the darkness of that loss or despair overwhelm us. Yet, that is where the lights of the season can speak to a higher reality. Let me suggest that the lights we light at this season are really a part of the light of our loved ones soul. We light these lights and the light they give off help to drive out the darkness of loss. We engage in the power and beauty of memory. It is a memory that may be tinged with some sadness, especially if the person we remember is no longer available to us. But the light of their life and their soul has been part of our own journey. Their light is now within us, and, as long as we remember, that light will remain.

That is also part of what we do as care-givers. We bring the light of our own soul to those to whom we minister. This is, in a very real sense, sacred work; which is why the command to “honor father and mother” is so central to all religious traditions. I hope this message of light finds some resonance to those who are caring for a loved one and may you find, in this season of family, life and memory, the power and strength to continue to bring the light of comfort to those in need.

Shalom,

Rabbi Richard F Address, D.MIn

www.jewishsacredaging.com

 

 

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50 years of friendship – still going strong

girlfriends matter

It was 1961 when we met in. We lived in a Baltimore suburb & attended 5th grade. I had moved to the city 2 years before. Val had recently lost her father in the line of duty (police) and found herself in a new community and a new school. Val was seated beside me, and a friendship was born.

We were in school for 5 years together, before we were sent to different high schools and then my family moved away. But, our bond was deep and would not be broken. We grew up in an era of strict parents, some fabulous music (the Beatles) and all sorts of world-changing events. Recall the show/movie, “Hairspray.” We lived that life! From the start, I always admired Val’s sense of calm and her loyalty to our friendship.

Letter writing and an annual visit back to Maryland kept us connected. We were maid of honor in each other’s wedding, and were there at every life event, although Val lived in Maryland, and I moved around the country. Holding her daughter in my arms at her baptism was an amazing experience. We became immersed in everyday life with 5 children between us. My father went into a coma; she visited me daily in the hospital and was at the funeral. Twenty years later, when I returned to Maryland to help my mother with a serious health/life crisis, she was right there with her usual calm and strength, providing me with resources and emotional support. This past year, she struggled in a life and death battle of her own with her daughter’s life-threatening Lupus. When a kidney transplant was the only answer, Val said of course, she would donate her kidney.

Now that our children are grown, we make the time to meet somewhere each year. In October, we will be celebrating our 50 years of friendship in Key West, a vacation that Val declares will be “the vacation of her life.” It will be a special time indeed, of reflecting back, enjoying the moment, and dreaming about the future!

If you feel inspired please share about your special friendship!

 

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promises to my dad

victorian teacupToday we debated whether to keep Dad’s appointment with the eye doctor. Normally he’s unsteady but today the caregiver could barely transfer him to a wheelchair for the ride. We weren’t sure we could get him into the exam chair. The doctor was an hour behind schedule, so we chatted in the waiting room—Dad, the caregiver and me.

I leaned over to tell the caregiver, “I finally sold their buffet on Craigslist!” It displayed  their china and crystal, a few tokens left of all the stuff accumulated over 67 years of marriage. It’s too big for their tiny apartment. A few weeks ago Mom fell into it, and hurt herself badly. It had to go.

The waiting room conversation went on to something else and my mind had moved on, when Dad said, “You didn’t sell my chest, did you?” “What chest?” I said, thinking of the cedar chest they’d given to a granddaughter. It took him a while to find the words—“the one with the glasses in it.” I said, yes, I had sold the buffet, but the buyer couldn’t pick it up for a couple of weeks. My dad looked at me, clearly anguished. “I think I’m going to cry.”

My heart sank. I wanted to hug him and tell him everything would be okay. That I would let him make as many decisions as possible for himself. That I would never, ever make him move to a nursing home. That I’d always talk to him with respect. That he really is still the same guy who could build anything, cook for a crowd, study on his own to get his engineering credentials. Just stuck in a body that doesn’t work so well and a mind that won’t process information on demand.

So many losses. So little control of anything in his life.

It wasn’t the buffet, of course. It was the contents. I promised I’d come up with a way to display his beloved Belgian crystal, bought when he was a GI in WWII.

It’s not the body either, is it? It’s the man living inside. It’s the accumulation of 91 years of living—of memories and accomplishments, of woundedness and strength of character and of love and relationships forged over a lifetime.

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