Joy and Delight

Refocusing intention

A Sort of Sunrise

For the first time since beginning this life as caregiver to my mother, when people say to me, ‘Your mom looks good’ or, ‘ She seems well’ I can actually look at them, smile and say, ‘She does, doesn’t she?’ Or, ‘I think so, too’.

For so long when people would say these things I would look at them, study them, to see if they were joking or if they meant it. They often meant it and I was flummoxed by this. Could they not see what I saw? Could they not see that she looked awful and was behaving horribly? That she was not the person we remembered? How could they say they had a great conversation with her when I could barely make sense of her mutterings?

On many occasions my husband and I would say to each other, just before a guest arrived, how we would be interested to hear their take on how my mother seemed to them, someone they’ve known for many years and sees only every once in awhile. When every one of these guests, bar none, said they thought she seemed well my husband and I would unpack that and wonder how? How could no one else see what we were seeing, living, witnessing? I think, perhaps, I expected too much from my mother at 88 and they expected far less. I remembered her how she was; they remembered her how she had become in those years during the pandemic and before I moved back. We were looking at her from different playing fields, wearing completely different glasses.

Also I put it down to the phenomenon of rallying. She was able to be more present for the short amount of time someone was visiting. What they wouldn’t see was how much that wiped her out; how she would sleep for most of the next day following a lengthy visit; how out of sorts she could become from spending time having to be ‘good’ or ‘on’.

Now, though, in this new version of my mother, she does seem well and easier in herself. It feels like she has let go some of the control she was holding onto oh, so, tightly, the need or belief she had to remain independent and in full awareness of every little thing. It comes at a price, though, this letting go of the reins. She seems to be floating in the betwixt and between. The anger rooted her to a place, set her hard on edge in this world. Now it wouldn’t surprise me if one morning in the near future I go to check on her, bring her breakfast, and find she’s not there; she has taken flight and is onto a next adventure or realm. It seems like her connection to life here on earth is becoming more and more tenuous at the same time as she seems to be enjoying it more.

For me, writing is easier from a place of angst. It is a meditation and therapy and helps me sort and process the day to day. With my mother in a seemingly less combative space, I find myself at a loss of sorts. Whereas writing before was a necessity, it is right now more of a practise. I’ve been thinking back to my intention when starting this stack. It was to find joy and delight amidst this role of caregiver. I needed to focus on these aspects, as well as gratitude, so I wouldn’t drown. I needed the daily reminders of all that lit me up, spoke to my heart, to help get me through the difficulities which surrounded me in the first two years of this gig. My morning walks have, for so many years now, been a source of connection and inspiration and grounding. I love photographing the start to the day and the differences I witness in a space I inhabit and travel through. Thanks to Victoria at Care Mentor for sending me a link to 365grateful.com which got me thinking about how much of what I photograph brings me joy and how I want to get back to my original intention to find joy and delight, and chronicle it, in the every day. This caregiver’s life is still stressful and hard and an emotional rollercoaster. There is a breath of grace and ease at the moment, though, and I want to see what is in this space and how it can expand. I’ll keep you posted.

Sunrise | Sunset Light | Sunset - all on the same day