Louise complained on the Alzheimer's message boards yesterday that some Alzheimer care-givers are in denial. They don't always do what's practical. They're stubborn. And Louise said this has her puzzled.
And I told Louise I suspect we're all in denial over something or other. You, me, everybody. Because that's the way we choose to cope with life. Some may call it being stubborn. But hey, we're just creating our own realities. Our own perceptions of what's happening to us and around us. It's paramount that I be relatively happy. That's the only way I can live. I have to be pursuing happiness. But some other folks -- well, they just choose to be unhappy. Sort of a compulsion. On any given day, I can sit down and make two lists -- reasons to be happy, and reasons to be unhappy. Then it's my choice. Which list do I want to focus on today? Invariably, I concentrate on the reasons to be happy. Maybe some people will accuse me of being in denial. Because they think I should be unhappy. That if I lived in the "real" world I'd be discouraged and depressed. --Jim Broede
P.S. By the way, I don't mean to say or infer that Louise is unhappy. On the contrary, my impression is that she's a happy and positive being. She, like me, just thinks that care-givers should exude good vibes. Should reflect a happy face in the presence of their patients. I find that meritorious. Others, unfortunately, have taken me to task for being too happy, too Pollyannish.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
That's nice enough.
When somebody is good to me, I am grateful. The baseball gods have been good. In allowing the Cubs to get into the play-offs. That’s good enough for me. I’m not greedy. If the Cubs lose in the play-offs, I can accept that. Without regret. Without being depressed. Or annoyed. Or pissed. Oh, sure it’d be nice if the Cubs went all the way to the World Series, and won it all. But I’m not asking the baseball gods for that. Because the gods have already granted me one of my fervent wishes. Just getting the Cubs into the play-offs by winning the National League Central. I’m not asking for more. Of course, I’ll take more. Gladly. Happily. But if I don’t get more, I’ll be happy, too. Just because the Cubs went from worst to first in one season. That’s nice enough. --Jim Broede
...doing whatever little I can.
I like it when I read on the Alzheinmer's message boards complaints about our health care system, especially as it relates to the abysmal care for the mentally ill and dementia patients.
Just today, a woman called for all of us to make it an election issue. But hey, it won't happen. Our politicians would rather spend $2 billion a week on an obscene war in Iraq.
Just think about the sorts of improvements we could have if we spent even a fraction of that money on improved health care.
Meanwhile, I told the woman it'll take a revolution to fix the system in meaningful ways. Our mind-sets have to change, too. The best we can hope for in our lifetimes are small changes. Meanwhile, I just try to help needy people I know. Every day acquaintances. In my local community. I suppose if we all did that, it would add up to significant numbers. Sometimes, we think too big. Like me. About a revolution. When I know it won't happen in my lifetime. So I just go about doing whatever little I can. In ways that help an individual patient and care-giver here and there. --Jim Broede
Just today, a woman called for all of us to make it an election issue. But hey, it won't happen. Our politicians would rather spend $2 billion a week on an obscene war in Iraq.
Just think about the sorts of improvements we could have if we spent even a fraction of that money on improved health care.
Meanwhile, I told the woman it'll take a revolution to fix the system in meaningful ways. Our mind-sets have to change, too. The best we can hope for in our lifetimes are small changes. Meanwhile, I just try to help needy people I know. Every day acquaintances. In my local community. I suppose if we all did that, it would add up to significant numbers. Sometimes, we think too big. Like me. About a revolution. When I know it won't happen in my lifetime. So I just go about doing whatever little I can. In ways that help an individual patient and care-giver here and there. --Jim Broede
Friday, September 28, 2007
You have nothing to lose.
Lots of grieving folks come to the Alzheimer's message boards. Today it was the turn of someone called Kansas. I'm presuming it's a woman. Sounds like one.
"I lost my dad in April after 6 long years of Alzheimer's," she said. "I can't seem to get past the disease when I think of him. I still picture him in the nursing home and struggling with the final stages of the disease. How long does it take to get past that, and start remembering the good times? I can't seem to get past the sad part."
Anyway, I told Kansas I lost my dear Jeanne -- the love of my life -- last January. Well, I did. And I didn't. I still have Jeanne's spirit. And I commune with that spirit almost daily. And I feel blessed. That I had Jeanne physically present with me on a daily basis for almost 40 years. And now I stay active. Mentally. Physically. And I write every day. My thoughts. My reflections. I guess I'm still in love. With Jeanne's spirit. With life. I think life is wonderful. I'm 72. I've been mostly happy. Maybe 98 or 99 percent of the time. So, when I'm sad, I just tell myself, it ain't gonna last. Because I can't stand being sad and unhappy for any sustained period of time. I have to find my way to happiness. And often, all it takes is for me to commune with Jeanne's spirit. Maybe you can do that with your dad, Kansas. It's worth a try. You have nothing to lose. --Jim Broede
"I lost my dad in April after 6 long years of Alzheimer's," she said. "I can't seem to get past the disease when I think of him. I still picture him in the nursing home and struggling with the final stages of the disease. How long does it take to get past that, and start remembering the good times? I can't seem to get past the sad part."
Anyway, I told Kansas I lost my dear Jeanne -- the love of my life -- last January. Well, I did. And I didn't. I still have Jeanne's spirit. And I commune with that spirit almost daily. And I feel blessed. That I had Jeanne physically present with me on a daily basis for almost 40 years. And now I stay active. Mentally. Physically. And I write every day. My thoughts. My reflections. I guess I'm still in love. With Jeanne's spirit. With life. I think life is wonderful. I'm 72. I've been mostly happy. Maybe 98 or 99 percent of the time. So, when I'm sad, I just tell myself, it ain't gonna last. Because I can't stand being sad and unhappy for any sustained period of time. I have to find my way to happiness. And often, all it takes is for me to commune with Jeanne's spirit. Maybe you can do that with your dad, Kansas. It's worth a try. You have nothing to lose. --Jim Broede
...that pain will soon turn to pleasant memories.
A woman named Kathy is grieving because her beloved grandfather died.
“My grandmother tried to care for him at home as long as she could,” Kathy wrote on the Alzheimer’s message boards, “and I would always help whenever they needed me. At the end my grandfather only remembered me. I did everything I could to make sure that he was comfortable and had his dignity.”
Kathy reflected that it’s been almost two months and that she’s struggling to come to peace over grand dad’s passing and that it’s negatively affecting her daily life.
“What can I do when I feel like nobody understands the pain I’m going through?” Kathy asked. “I still have to put on a strong front for my grandmother and mother.”
I told Kathy you don’t have to put on a strong front for anyone. Just be yourself. Grieve. Cry. Scream. Let it out. When you hurt, when you feel pain and anguish and sorrow – well, tell the people around you. Your mom. Your friends. And then try to think of your grand dad. The fact that you knew him. Dearly. Intimately. And celebrate that fact. He was a blessing. Be thankful for that. Life is full of losses. Setbacks. But wonderful things, too. So many, many dear people. Your friends. And relatives. Acquaintances. They’ll come and go in your life. Some will move away. Others will die. But life goes on. In wonderful ways. And you’ll fall in love. And some of your loves may well die before you. You’ll grieve those losses, I am sure. But you’ll be better for having known all these folks that played a big part in your life. And you’re lucky. To have been able to come to know your grandparents. Some of our grandparents even die before we are born. I never knew my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. And I can barely remember my grandparents on my father’s side of the family. I was still a youngster when they died. Anyway, I understand your pain, Kathy. But that pain will soon turn to pleasant memories – that bring smiles rather than tears and pain –Jim Broede.
“My grandmother tried to care for him at home as long as she could,” Kathy wrote on the Alzheimer’s message boards, “and I would always help whenever they needed me. At the end my grandfather only remembered me. I did everything I could to make sure that he was comfortable and had his dignity.”
Kathy reflected that it’s been almost two months and that she’s struggling to come to peace over grand dad’s passing and that it’s negatively affecting her daily life.
“What can I do when I feel like nobody understands the pain I’m going through?” Kathy asked. “I still have to put on a strong front for my grandmother and mother.”
I told Kathy you don’t have to put on a strong front for anyone. Just be yourself. Grieve. Cry. Scream. Let it out. When you hurt, when you feel pain and anguish and sorrow – well, tell the people around you. Your mom. Your friends. And then try to think of your grand dad. The fact that you knew him. Dearly. Intimately. And celebrate that fact. He was a blessing. Be thankful for that. Life is full of losses. Setbacks. But wonderful things, too. So many, many dear people. Your friends. And relatives. Acquaintances. They’ll come and go in your life. Some will move away. Others will die. But life goes on. In wonderful ways. And you’ll fall in love. And some of your loves may well die before you. You’ll grieve those losses, I am sure. But you’ll be better for having known all these folks that played a big part in your life. And you’re lucky. To have been able to come to know your grandparents. Some of our grandparents even die before we are born. I never knew my grandparents on my mother’s side of the family. And I can barely remember my grandparents on my father’s side of the family. I was still a youngster when they died. Anyway, I understand your pain, Kathy. But that pain will soon turn to pleasant memories – that bring smiles rather than tears and pain –Jim Broede.
Makes me feel good & happy & romantic...in the Broede sense.
I keep defining myself as a liberal, a free-thinker and a romantic. But more than anything, I love being a romantic. Maybe it’s like saying I’m a dreamer. I see my life filled by romantic interludes. Dreams. Dreams that have come true. Of course, the nicest dream of all was Jeanne. An idyllic life, as I reflect on it. Oh, there were rough moments. But an overwhelming amount of happiness. I felt at ease. Relaxed. Yes, in love. Like a romantic. Even today, despite the loss of Jeanne to Alzheimer’s, it’s been a good life. Good moments daily. Romantic moments, as I define romantic. Deep love. Spiritual love. The love evolved. Took time. That’s a key ingredient. Time. And shared experience.
And oh, I could cite so many instances of romantic interludes. The decision to explore my roots. In Germany. That was a romantic venture, too. I felt something extraordinary would come from it. Right from the start. It was like my ancestors’ spirit was talking to me. Wanting me to some day walk the same ground they walked. To return to Germany. A mission of the spirit. Like their genes were in me. A part of me. They were talking to me. From inside my soul. My being. My heart. My gut. And everything unfolded, as if in a dream. Another dream come true. Oh, so many times a chill went up and down my spine. A feeling of romance.
Even as a writer. As a youngster. I felt a romantic mission. To write. For newspapers, of all things. No other writers in the family. But it seemed like a romantic notion. A romantic career. For an idealist. I asked for a typewriter for Christmas when I was in the 6th grade. Because I wanted to write. To put out a little neighborhood newspaper. The River Lawn Gazette. And I wrote of neighborhood events. Often in a satirical manner. Before I even knew the definition of satire. It just came naturally. I’d write stories in my English class in the 7th grade. Parodies. In which I made characters of classmates. Funny stuff. And the teacher would have me read the pieces out loud, and I’d have my classmates rolling in the aisles. With laughter.
I don’t see myself as an exceptionally good writer. But writing has always been a romantic outlet. Helps me to understand myself. And others. An opportunity to reflect. In a romantic way. Since I retired, I’ve written daily. In a journal. Called Broede’s Broodings, just like this blog. And in a weekly newspaper, I had a personal column called Broede’s Broodings. It was really a column of romantic notions. One could laugh. Or cry. Over the same column. Just depended on how one chose to take it. I talked of love. My sort of romantic or dream love.
When I wrote for newspapers, I focused mostly on ideas. And ideals. Often romantic ideas. I went south in the 1960s, and wrote for papers in Lakeland and Vero Beach. And I got sidetracked. Into the civil rights movement. I was on the executive board of the NAACP chapter in Vero Beach. And I was a militant. And I got into trouble with the political big-wigs. And more or less got run out of town. It got to be a dangerous time. But I saw the whole ordeal/experience as romantic. As spiritually fulfilling.
In my younger days, I moved around a lot. From job to job. I was editor of the college newspaper. At a small liberal arts college. And then I went into the Army. And I went to the Army Information School at Fort Slocum on Long Island, just off New Rochelle, and I got into New York City on weekends. How romantic.
And then I was sent to Europe. Stationed in Frankfurt for 2 years. And guess what? My primary job in the army was sports editor of the 3rd Armored Division’s weekly newspaper, The Spearhead. And I got to travel covering sports events. And on my leaves, got to places like Vienna and Prague. But mostly, I spent lots of time in London. My favorite place. Again, I felt a sense of the romantic. I loved it.
Well, I came to Minnesota by a circuitous route. Went to work for the daily newspaper, the St. Paul Pioneer Press. writing government news, breaking stories, and feature stories. Often on controversial topics. With a sense that I was leading a romantic life. And I met Jeanne.
And the romantic odyssey continues today. Meeting strangers. Like you. And thinking -- isn’t it romantic becoming acquainted with strangers? People I’ve never met face to face. Potential friends.
And as I sit here writing this, I tell myself I’m enjoying the moment. Savoring life. And offering opportunities to strangers. For dialogues. With me. Feels romantic. Makes me feel good and happy and romantic…in the Broede sense. –Jim Broede
And oh, I could cite so many instances of romantic interludes. The decision to explore my roots. In Germany. That was a romantic venture, too. I felt something extraordinary would come from it. Right from the start. It was like my ancestors’ spirit was talking to me. Wanting me to some day walk the same ground they walked. To return to Germany. A mission of the spirit. Like their genes were in me. A part of me. They were talking to me. From inside my soul. My being. My heart. My gut. And everything unfolded, as if in a dream. Another dream come true. Oh, so many times a chill went up and down my spine. A feeling of romance.
Even as a writer. As a youngster. I felt a romantic mission. To write. For newspapers, of all things. No other writers in the family. But it seemed like a romantic notion. A romantic career. For an idealist. I asked for a typewriter for Christmas when I was in the 6th grade. Because I wanted to write. To put out a little neighborhood newspaper. The River Lawn Gazette. And I wrote of neighborhood events. Often in a satirical manner. Before I even knew the definition of satire. It just came naturally. I’d write stories in my English class in the 7th grade. Parodies. In which I made characters of classmates. Funny stuff. And the teacher would have me read the pieces out loud, and I’d have my classmates rolling in the aisles. With laughter.
I don’t see myself as an exceptionally good writer. But writing has always been a romantic outlet. Helps me to understand myself. And others. An opportunity to reflect. In a romantic way. Since I retired, I’ve written daily. In a journal. Called Broede’s Broodings, just like this blog. And in a weekly newspaper, I had a personal column called Broede’s Broodings. It was really a column of romantic notions. One could laugh. Or cry. Over the same column. Just depended on how one chose to take it. I talked of love. My sort of romantic or dream love.
When I wrote for newspapers, I focused mostly on ideas. And ideals. Often romantic ideas. I went south in the 1960s, and wrote for papers in Lakeland and Vero Beach. And I got sidetracked. Into the civil rights movement. I was on the executive board of the NAACP chapter in Vero Beach. And I was a militant. And I got into trouble with the political big-wigs. And more or less got run out of town. It got to be a dangerous time. But I saw the whole ordeal/experience as romantic. As spiritually fulfilling.
In my younger days, I moved around a lot. From job to job. I was editor of the college newspaper. At a small liberal arts college. And then I went into the Army. And I went to the Army Information School at Fort Slocum on Long Island, just off New Rochelle, and I got into New York City on weekends. How romantic.
And then I was sent to Europe. Stationed in Frankfurt for 2 years. And guess what? My primary job in the army was sports editor of the 3rd Armored Division’s weekly newspaper, The Spearhead. And I got to travel covering sports events. And on my leaves, got to places like Vienna and Prague. But mostly, I spent lots of time in London. My favorite place. Again, I felt a sense of the romantic. I loved it.
Well, I came to Minnesota by a circuitous route. Went to work for the daily newspaper, the St. Paul Pioneer Press. writing government news, breaking stories, and feature stories. Often on controversial topics. With a sense that I was leading a romantic life. And I met Jeanne.
And the romantic odyssey continues today. Meeting strangers. Like you. And thinking -- isn’t it romantic becoming acquainted with strangers? People I’ve never met face to face. Potential friends.
And as I sit here writing this, I tell myself I’m enjoying the moment. Savoring life. And offering opportunities to strangers. For dialogues. With me. Feels romantic. Makes me feel good and happy and romantic…in the Broede sense. –Jim Broede
Thursday, September 27, 2007
I'm blessed...if I don't get pissed.
Unbelievable. Cubs get swept by the last place Marlins. If Milwaukee wins tonight, the Cubs lead in the National League Central is cut to 1 game. With three games left in the regular season. Neither the Cubs or Milwaukee deserve to be in the play-offs. I'm almost ready to quit being a Cubs fan. But I'm hooked. I'll take them win or lose. That's the way it is. Just like a friend. No matter how much a friend disappoints you, he/she is still a friend. The Cubs are putting me to the ultimate test. I always want to see a true friend succeed. But hey, if a friend fails all the time, I'll still stick by the friend. And tell 'em, keep trying. Oh, well, the baseball gods will do what they want. I have no say in the matter. I have to accept their decision. Gracefully. Even when I'm pissed. Maybe the baseball gods are trying to teach me how not to be pissed. I don't know if I can master that art. When it gets down to it, I'm really not pissed at the baseball gods or at the Cubs. I'm pissed at myself for being pissed. That's what I haven't mastered yet. I have to quit being pissed at myself. I have to learn to laugh it off. To put life in proper perspective. I get pissed at meaningless things. Meaningless events. It should make absolutely no difference whether the Cubs win or lose. It should make no difference whether it's a sunny day or a cloudy day. I'm blessed. Either way. That is, if I don't get pissed. --Jim Broede
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