Listening

There is a reason for everything.

God is in control.

Sometimes the bet thing you can do is just listen.

I didn't want to take a speech class that required me to stand in front of the class to speak, so I took "Listening." That's correct. Listening. We, as a society, don't listen well, and we don't read well, either. We see what we want to see, not always what is. How many times have you said something in an e-mail post and when the reply came into your inbox you knew the person read only part of what you wrote? You can tell by their answer they skimmed through what you said. They didn't read the whole thing.

The listening class taught me to listen; to look a little deeper than just the surface, to pay attention, to momentarily put aside what you are doing, look at the person you are talking with and listen with your full attention. Really listen.

Is this one of the lessons I'm supposed to be learning? Applying to my life? I have the book learning. Have I put it to practical use?

My husband doesn't usually go with me to my parents' home. I don't know why. I appreciate it when he does go, though, so he can sit with Mom and talk--or listen to the same stories over and over again, while I listen to Dad as he vents his frustrations. Everyone needs someone to just listen and encourage them. I try to do that for Dad. It's harder to do, though, when I go to see them by myself.

The latest question: If Mom talks about her parents and brothers every day, the same stories every day, should she continue to go to the elderly nutrition site? Dad is enjoying going there every day. He gets to talk to Frank and others that he knows. I'm thinking that they know about Alzheimer's so it's not really a big deal. But I told Dad to let me know when he's ready to have the meals delivered to the house instead.

He told me, last night, that he's thinking he wants to go back to church. He sits on the sofa on Sunday mornings to watch for me to go to church. He notices what other people wear to church, too.

"I can't believe how people dress to go to church," he said. "They aren't showing respect for the Lord!" When he was a child his mother insisted he wear a suit, dress shirt and tie, even if he was serving as altar boy, entering or exiting through the back door where nobody was going to see him. It was showing respect for the Lord. "You aren't going to church looking like a bum," his mom would tell him.

Dad isn't sure where he wants to go, Catholic Church or the church I attend. At one time I would have said an adamant, resounding NO! to Catholicism, but I have to say that Father Bob has shown more interest in my family than our minister of seven years who has preached several times, "We are not in the helping the needy business. We're in the saving souls business." I disagree with him. If the daily needs of the needy are not addressed--secure roof over their heads, food in their children's bellies, no utility shut-off notices--things that keep them on the rollercoaster of just rolling with the punches because there isn't time to plan ahead--those people aren't going to have time to think about where their souls are going to spend eternity. And all people living in poverty aren't there because they are too lazy to work. Anyone take a good look at the job market in the U.S. these days?

Listening, really listening, to Dad created a little extra something in our relationship. Dad and I have never really talked about religion. We never really talked about anything much. So this chance conversation--I only stopped in to pick up onions he'd pulled from the garden--was of value.

Listening. Sometimes it's the best thing you can do.

Tension

As I'm learning more about Alzheimer's through my mother's progression through it, I am learning more about writing fiction. I can write about our experiences with a passion. How can I not when this emotional rollercoaster continues to peak higher and lower all the time. And how would I hurt inside if I didn't have gift enough to put the words down somewhere so I can release them, release the anger that overtakes me when my mother chooses a time to jump all over me about something. And a few minutes later she has no idea what I'm talking about when I say, "I don't want to fight with you any more, Mom."

I stopped blogging here. Notice the date of my last post, a year ago this month. It seemed wrong for me to spell out the privacy of my mother's life in such a public display. My intentions were to reach out to other caregivers, other family members, even those with AD who are in the earlier stages and CAN remember.

No one can know the full sorrow of AD until they have experienced it. I have grieved. And told myself that my grieving is done so I can do what needs to be done. The friends at the AD support group online say my mother is gone. But I can see that she still plays peek-a-boo with me. Some days she remembers things. Some days she has trouble. She still knows our names, though.

I ask, "Where do we go from here?" but I think I don't really want to know. I think I prefer to take one day at a time. That's best, one day at a time.