Disney

How Donald Duck’s Birthday Triggered My Reflection On Grief

Happy Birthday, Donald Duck!

Donald Duck’s birthday prompted me to revisit the post I wrote on this momentous occasion last year. At the time, with summer vacation right around the corner, I was propelled into the heartbreaking memories of debating with Ben how his caregiving would be done when school let out, and having those arguments negated because the summer of 2015 was spent at the hospital, where Ben ultimately succumbed to ALS. Those difficult memories have cropped up again as summer approaches. Since I read last year’s post, I have been reflecting on how my grief has shifted over these three years.

In 2016, as the first summer without Ben approached, I felt overwhelmed by the devastation of reliving every moment of time leading up to and including Ben’s time spent in the hospital, in which the end of summer coinciding with the end of his life. Of course, firsts are always difficult. I was consumed with worry about how I would feel during my first summer in many years without any caregiving responsibilities and without school as a distraction. Caregiving was pretty much the only thing on my mind, so I compiled my journal of Disney quotes and started writing this blog, which was actually very helpful as I sorted through the experience. It gave me a sense of purpose to think that maybe my words and experiences would help other caregivers. This, in itself, was an enlightenment. Although I wished that Ben had never had ALS and needed me as a caregiver, I found that I am a caregiver at heart and I am most content caring for and helping others. Unfortunately, sometimes this has proven to be a convenient way to avoid taking care of myself, but that’s a whole other blog! Since going to the theater is my favorite activity, I got tickets for all of the Broadway shows I had been wanting to see. I was excited at the prospect of seeing the shows, but, once there, I found that I could not truly enjoy myself. I missed Ben. I felt guilty about doing things that I couldn’t do when I was taking care of him. I had a lot of guilt about living my life when he was no longer here and we couldn’t not enjoy our life together. Although I had the freedom to do things, I did not feel the zest of “reclaiming” of my life that people told me I should feel. I wanted Ben to be here. I socialized more, but Ben was really the only thing I wanted to talk about. After outings, I often returned home in tears because home was so lonely without Ben. I went through motions, trying to convince myself that I was doing fine, but fighting myself often led to feeling worse. The fact was that embracing my life felt daunting, wrong, and somewhat impossible.

I spent that first summer dreading and planning how to spend the first anniversary of the day Ben left this world. I decided to make a video tribute to Ben for the blog and I pored over our photographs and videos. It kept me very busy and made me feel good to do this for him, for us. I bought a couple of computer programs to help me with the task, taking pride in the knowledge that Ben would have appreciated my mastery of the software. The anniversary day came with many tears and my keeping a low profile, except for sharing the video with friends, family and some of the special people who took care of Ben. I remember that the day after that anniversary was almost worse than the actual day. I spent so much time bracing myself for that anniversary, anticipating the sadness, making a plan to honor Ben. The next day, I was lost and I was miserable. I was unsure of how to act. Would people not want to hear about Ben and my grief anymore because that one-year marker had passed? What was appropriate in terms of talking about him? What was “healthy?” I knew enough to ignore the people who told me what I “should” or “had to” do, but I didn’t have any answers of my own. I’m a person who wears my heart on my sleeve, and I just had to let my life unfold, understanding that there would be good and bad days ahead.

The second year passed- I became more immersed in supporting other caregivers, particularly those caring for people with ALS, through my blog and various online support groups. I embarked on a certificate program to become a caregiving consultant. I did a lot of reflection and realized that I am most comfortable defining myself as a caregiver, so losing my dad and Ben also signified the loss of much of my identity. In many ways, the second year of grief was harder than the first, because the first year becomes such a fog and the loss is new and raw. In the second year, it seemed like I felt the sadness more intensely. Since I had formed some new routines, when a wave of grief hit me and threw me off course, I had a very hard time getting back on track. There was a constant loneliness, even though I was surrounded by people whom I love and who love me. I assessed everything I did, trying to prove to myself that I was respecting Ben, grieving appropriately, and coping well with life. The truth was that although I was active, going to the theater, seeing friends, writing, volunteering, and I even created a profile for online dating, I was also floundering. I was tiptoeing in the world of the living without really delving into it.

It was during that second year, last June, when I wrote Donald’s birthday post, and I could not shake all of the memories of the summer of 2015, when Ben went into the emergency room and everything changed. I found myself wondering if I was grieving too much, crying too much, dwelling on Ben too much. Still, I was determined to have a productive and positive summer and take grief with me. I made plans to travel to spend time with good friends, something I had not been able to do for several years. I was excited about it, and I did have a wonderful time, but Ben still had a huge presence. I talked about him frequently and kept him close, which sometimes made me miss him even more. I even bought things simply because he would have liked them, bringing them home only to face the obvious truth that he was not really here to enjoy them and then dealing with another setback. But, I have only come to understand in retrospect that I could not venture forth without him.

On the second anniversary of his “leaving,” as he called it, I reposted the video I made the year before. I decided to stay home and keep a low profile. Sadly, as it turned out, I had to attend the funeral of my best friend’s mother, who was often like a surrogate mom to me. It was a day of loss and tears but also of thinking of good times.

This year, heading towards the third anniversary of Ben’s passing, I am facing the summer with less dread. I still think of this time of year in terms of the markers of Ben’s battle with ALS, and I drift back to those memories and give into the bouts of sadness, but as Dory taught me, I just keep swimming. I accept that this time of year will probably always have a tinge of melancholy. However, with more enthusiasm and confidence, I once again made plans that I am looking forward to. I do not feel the same level of guilt about enjoying my life, although I still grapple with the knowledge that adventures would be better if Ben was still here. Some of my plans include things that Ben and I wanted to do together, like a penguin encounter at the Georgia Aquarium. I’m a little wary about it because it stands to be emotional, but I also want to honor our relationship and the things that were special to us. I guess the positive thing is that I am not letting grief or guilt hold me back from living. I am not yet comfortable being on my own, and still often refer to Ben and our life, but I am out in the world having new experiences. Maybe on some level keeping him so close keeps me in our relationship, but I fully believe in my heart that Ben is always watching over me, which gives me comfort. But, I am also creating new wonderful memories. I am not worrying- at least not yet- about how I will spend the third anniversary of Ben’s leaving. I have come to realize that I cannot plan my emotions. The day may be easier or harder than I anticipate. I will let my heart guide me and not fight myself. There will be no right or wrong about what I choose to do or not to do. As I reflect on the past three years, I see that I have learned to coexist with grief as I respectfully give grief its time.

As I reflect on the past three years, I see that I have learned to coexist with grief as I respectfully give grief its time. Click To Tweet

I would not have predicted that Donald Duck’s birthday would provide an opportunity for reflection and insight into my grief, but reading my post from last year and once again poring over our photographs, with a combination of smiles and tears, let’s me know that I am doing ok. I still cry, I still feel sadness, I still miss Ben, and I am okay with that because those feelings speak to the wonderful times that we have over sixteen years.

Donald Duck hangs out in the Mexican pavilion at Epcot but I don’t know how much Spanish he spoke!

The Disney magic must never be underestimated. When we were at Walt Disney World, Ben and I stepped into a carefree fantasy that helped us to, at least momentarily, transcend the challenges of ALS. Our photos, some of which I share here, were so important to Ben as his ALS progressed. He loved to relive the healthy days, but he also examined his physical changes as a result of ALS. The photos were essential to me in the early stages of grief, particularly when I wanted to keep him as close to actually being with me as possible. They remain a treasured and positive part of my dealing with the rough times of missing him. I never lose sight of how lucky we were to have a special love and to share this love of Disney that always shed much needed pixie dust on our lives.  Donald is part of those special memories that comfort me.

So, with gratitude and joy, I say Happy Birthday, Donald Duck.

Happy Birthday, Goofy!

When I think of Goofy, I can’t help but remember all of the fun times that Ben and I had with him. Of course, he’s always a lot of fun. But, we learned that there is a whole lot more to his Disney magic than silliness. Goofy was a big dose of comfort to Ben during our last visit to Walt Disney World.

Meeting our Disney buddies was always fun, especially for me, but after Ben’s ALS diagnosis, seeing them, especially Mickey Mouse, became very emotional. Although Ben traveled around the parks in a scooter and then an electric wheelchair, while he still had strength in his legs, he stood up for photos with Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, Goofy and Buzz Lightyear. As his legs weakened, he still tried to stand for Mickey and Minnie.  A couple of times, Mickey even helped me to help  Ben out of the chair and he escorted Ben to the photo spot. During our last trip, in 2014, when Ben would not stand at all, I knew he had truly weakened. Living with him, you might think that it was obvious that he had deteriorated, and of course you would be correct. However, Ben admitting that he could not stand to meet Mickey was symbolic of his surrendering to ALS and that our life was never going to be the same. It was an overwhelmingly sad and emotional meet and greet, with Ben and me in tears. Mickey had hugs for both of us and I asked him for some magic. With a diagnosis like ALS, you just want to believe in that magic.

It was actually Goofy who picked up our emotional pieces. He saw me trying to comfort Ben and he knelt down next to Ben, being his Goofy self, and soon enough, Ben was laughing. He hugged Ben, he danced around, and Ben was back in the magic. Goofy knew just what to do and there was nothing Goofy about that!

Thank you and Happy Birthday, Goofy! You are 86 years young, and a forever friend.

On ALS and The Little Mermaid- When Ariel Lost Her Voice and Herself

“The Little Mermaid” © Walt Disney Pictures 1989

May is ALS Awareness month and despite the popularity of the Ice Bucket Challenge, it still is not a well-known or understood disease. In this post, in my Disney way, I want to do a little more to describe the progression of ALS as Ben expressed his experience and as I witnessed it.

ALS/Lou Gehrig’s disease, is defined as a disease which causes the death of neurons that control voluntary muscles. My friends and family became aware of the physical effects of the disease primarily through Ben’s experience. Ben’s first symptoms were a lack of balance and falling. His legs also became tired very quickly. As the disease progressed, he lost the ability to use his legs at all, and then his arms and hands, then chewing and swallowing became difficult, and his speech became increasingly impaired as he experienced those muscle losses. His cognitive skills were not affected, so he was completely aware of what was happening to his body.  The progression of ALS varies from person to person, so, for example, some people may never lose their ability to walk, others lose their ability to speak first, while Ben lost it last. Eventually, the ability to breathe is lost, and that is often the cause of death from the disease.

This scene from Disney’s The Little Mermaid was poignant to me within the context of ALS. Ariel wanted so much to be a human and to be with Prince Eric that she was willing to relinquish her voice to the sea witch, Ursula. Ariel knew that her voice was integral to who she was, but she was in love, and you know how that goes, especially in a Disney film. Once she gives her voice to Ursula, she quickly realizes that she has lost the ability to express herself, and her ability to sing, which was so important to her. She also did not realize that without her voice, she was no longer recognizable to Prince Eric. Of course, she made a choice. Someone with ALS does not get a choice, and I would venture to guess that they would advise her to keep her precious voice.

ALS,Walt Disney World,Little Mermaid,Ariel

The Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World- 2001. Pre-ALS days

The loss of easy communication was very frustrating to Ben. First, phone use became difficult because handling the phone was hard and it was difficult to understand him. We then began frequent texting. Ben used a virtual/on-screen keyboard and an app that connected his phone to the computer screen. However, if his hand slid off the mouse, communication was cut off and that led to some very tense moments.

Living with Ben, I was more likely to understand what he said and I could facilitate conversations with others. There were times, however, that I could not understand him. He would shake his head and tell me to “forget it,” which upset both of us. When communication was an obstacle and he was homebound, Ben did notice and lament that he had less contact with people. Friends and relatives with whom he thought he was close stopped reaching out, or, they made promises to visit that they did not keep. At the same time, he did not really want people to see him as he looked. He did not want them to see him looking gaunt and struggling to talk, eat and move. It did leave him feeling isolated and hurt.

When strangers did not understand Ben, they sometimes assumed that he was mentally challenged and spoke to him like a child or addressed only me. Often, Ben laughed about it, but on some occasions he felt invisible and very misunderstood. So, I involved Ben in the discussions to show people that Ben was fully capable of understanding and had lots of opinions and many people did follow my lead. As caregivers and loved ones, I see it as our responsibility to educate people through example, because some people are willing but not quite sure how to engage with people with a variety of disabilities. Unfortunately, not being able to say what he wanted and be truly seen and heard sometimes caused Ben to withdraw. I cannot begin to imagine how Ben felt to be seen for the ALS symptoms rather than for himself.

I cannot begin to imagine how Ben felt to be seen for the ALS symptoms rather than for himself. Click To Tweet

After a respiratory crisis landed Ben in the hospital, he had a Bipap mask before he had the tracheostomy. This was the first time that Ben really had absolutely no voice. He could not call me, or call for help, or just have a conversation. On an emotional note, he could not kiss me or tell me he loved me. When I recently re-watched The Little Mermaid and I saw Ariel panic the first time she tried to speak and remembered that she could no longer do so, I remembered Ben’s panic at the thought that he could not easily get someone’s attention with is voice, but he also could not use a hospital call button. Ben was afraid to be alone in the hospital room and I was afraid when he was alone. The mask obscured his mouth, so reading his lips was also very difficult. We spelled out words by my reciting the alphabet and his nodding when I reached the correct letter. However, the length and tediousness of that process frustrated him, and he began to weigh what he really needed to say. There were many incidents when hospital staff ignored Ben and asked me questions that he could answer. I immediately addressed those questions to him so that he could participate in the discussion. Yes, it took longer, and it was not easy, but he mattered, and staff had to accept that. Most really were wonderful, and they got a glimpse of who Ben really was beneath the ALS. But, just as Ariel felt devastated that Prince Eric did not recognize her, Ben, too, felt that he was becoming unrecognizable, even to himself. It also made him look at how he saw himself moving forward, which was something he had tried to avoid since his diagnosis nearly six years earlier.

Ursula tells Ariel that even without her voice, she has her looks, and to “never underestimate the importance of body language.” Unfortunately, with ALS, Ben could not rely on body language. He certainly did not underestimate its importance. ALS slowly strips away a person’s ability to move their limbs and even make facial expressions. Although Ben’s experience with ALS never progressed to the point where he was completely immobilized, some people are left only with the ability to blink, if that. Without a voice or facial and body expressions, a person would understandably feel isolated and even irrelevant. Although visits from loved ones are appreciated, they are not easy, so, unfortunately, as in Ben’s case, visits become less frequent.

Walt Disney World, 2001

Ben could certainly have related to Ariel’s wish to have legs like a human. As he lost his ability to walk, he often told me that in his dreams he always saw himself walking and running. As Ben lost his abilities to walk and move his arms and hands, he saw himself as weak and self-conscious. He missed going outside and playing handball. He did enjoy using his scooter, but daily life skills were becoming impossible and that carries an emotional toll. He walked until he accepted that his legs could not handle a single step without his sinking to the ground. That took away his freedom to move around the apartment. It chipped away at his dignity to have to be transferred to and from the bed, his chair and the commode, and to have to be fed his meals. He often denied that he needed as much assistance as he did, which was stressful for me as his caregiver, but that was what he needed to tell himself to deny that ALS was progressing.

Ben was also aggravated that he could no longer do things that he loved to do, like play music on his keyboard and fix computers. He could still talk me through what needed to be done with the computer hardware, but it was not the same. He also continued to research and discover adaptive electronic and computer devices, though they rarely worked for long, as new symptoms of ALS constantly appeared that rendered them ineffective. Music always remained an essential part of Ben’s life and our relationship, and although he couldn’t play his instruments, and we could no longer dance, he never stopped listening to music and making little videos with music clips for me to celebrate different occasions. I also brought his iPad to the hospital, so he could always listen to his favorite tunes.

Body language encompasses body image. ALS seriously impacted on Ben’s body image. He said that he did not like to look at himself in mirrors. As eating became more challenging, Ben lost a lot of weight. His feet got terribly swollen and even the widest shoes did not fit, so he wore adjustable slippers. He could no longer shave himself and although he said I did a pretty good job, I did not do as perfect a job as he did. We could make it fun and funny, but the underlying issue- the deterioration of his muscles- was frightening and tragic. At one point, his aide shaved his beard and left only his mustache. He was a bit insulted that it took me a while to notice exactly what was different.  I think that I somewhat tuned out the physical because there were simply so many changes, and they were too sad to dwell upon. Ben, on the other hand, regularly studied the photos from our visits to Walt Disney World and compared his physical changes from visit to visit. In fact, when I showed pictures of those visits to friends, they always commented on how thin Ben had become, shocked by his physical transformation. When I looked at the photos, I saw only the joy on his face. I guess that’s the Pollyanna in me.

Fortunately for Ariel, she was surrounded by people (well, mer-people and some very adorable sea friends) who loved and looked out for her. Sebastian was an astute and compassionate, if high-strung, caregiver. Nutty but devoted Scuttle revealed Ursula’s evil magical trick to get Eric and Ariel’s voice was restored, she was able to keep her legs and marry the Prince. There was the Disney happy ending.

ALS is not a fictional magical trick, rather, it is a cruel disease to which Ben ultimately succumbed. Still, despite the obvious devastation of his struggle and of losing him, I have to look at the end of Ben’s ALS story with some positive thoughts. Ben’s personality shone as he left this world, according to the very wishes that he expressed, even without his voice, embraced by people he loved and requested to be present, and with music that filled his heart. He was heard and he knew that he mattered and was loved, as his hero Buzz Lightyear said, “to infinity and beyond.”

Now, I use my voice to spread awareness and support caregivers and people with ALS. And, in my Disney way, I will keep wishing on stars for a cure that will ensure a genuinely happy ending for those with ALS.

In my Disney way, I will keep wishing on stars for a cure that will ensure a genuinely happy ending for those with ALS. Click To Tweet

Walt Disney World
July 2014

On Slaying the Jabberwocky in Caregiving, Grief and Life

I can’t go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.

“I can’t go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”- Alice Click To Tweet
I saw this quote with an image from the Walt Disney Productions animated film, as I’ve done here. In fact, it is from the book by Lewis Carroll. Still, it’s a great quote that I could relate to, particularly after my caregiving experiences. Intrigued by the quote, I re-watched the original 1951 version of Alice in Wonderland and the 2010 live action remake. Although I have to admit that they are not among my favorite Disney films, there is a lot of wisdom and insight, as well as some welcome sarcasm, that helped me reflect on the impact of caregiving on my relationship with myself and with others. It continues to resonate as I reshape my life and realize that all of those experiences have in some ways changed me.

“From the moment I fell down that rabbit hole I’ve been told where I must go and who I must be. I’ve been shrunk, stretched, scratched and stuff in to a teapot. I’ve been accused of being Alice and not of being Alice but this is my dream. I’ll decide where it goes from here.” - Alice
“I’ve been accused of being Alice and not of being Alice but this is my dream. I’ll decide where it goes from here.- Alice Click To Tweet
My dad’s cancer diagnosis and then Ben’s diagnosis of ALS plunged me down a rabbit hole, alone, devastated and confused. I wanted to be the little girl who was taken care of, but suddenly I had to deal with very adult realities and take care of my loved ones. The teams treating my dad and Ben gave me instructions and details that sometimes tugged at my own beliefs and my emotions. Especially difficult was taking on the role of parent with my own parent. Instead of being the child protected by my dad, I found myself fighting his negative attitude and working with doctors and nurses to make important decisions for his treatment plan while convincing him to comply with orders because he could have a good quality of life. While ordinarily soft-spoken and shy, I learned that I could be a fierce and resourceful advocate. I was insistent and relentless when it came to getting the most appropriate services for my dad and for Ben. There was a lot of information and I was given a lot of advice, and I frequently felt out of control. There were so many people- professionals and people close to me- telling me what I “had” to do and how I had to deal with things and, when I was spiraling downward, I very easily took direction. But, there were also times that I felt like I could take the reins and make my own decisions. At those times, I did what I felt was necessary, regardless of judgments and disagreements, second guessing myself all the way. That was not always easy for the people I had relied on who were used to directing me, especially those people who naturally like to take control and give direction (I do wish I was a little bit more like that!).

As difficult as it was for some people to see me making more of my own decisions and taking a stand, it was hard for me to change my own self-perception. It was also hard for me to say no to people, or to express my disagreement. I listened politely, even if I did not heed the advice, because I did not even have the inner strength to disagree. I guess I generally fall into the category of “people pleaser.” To be fair, I believe that people had our best interests at heart and I appreciated that. But, as I saw myself successfully handling more caregiving responsibilities, and my dad and Ben became more and more reliant upon me as I gained better understanding of their feelings, I felt my confidence growing, and with that came a growing resistance, accompanied by some discomfort, to automatically complying with what I was told I “had to” or “should” do.

“I’m afraid I can’t explain myself, sir, because I’m not myself.”- Alice

Tapping new sides of myself- stronger, more vocal, more responsible- definitely has come with growing pains. The “Abby” I was most familiar with was compassionate and caring, but also emotional, indecisive and insecure. Suddenly, I was able to see myself as braver and more assertive. Who was this person? I was always someone who second-guessed myself and relied on the opinions of my friends and family. I valued and depended on them and still value their thoughts. But, I also learned that I have to go with my gut sometimes and I can stand my ground. Learning to trust myself has not been an easy process for me, and it has not been easy for some of the people who became used to nudging me forward.

I still struggle with who “Abby” is, although starting at a new school last September gave me an opportunity to completely reinvent myself. Some of my struggle has been that I am no longer the person I most related to- a caregiver, and I did not want to introduce and define myself as being in grief, though it was what I felt most strongly within me.

 

“That’s the trouble with me: I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”- Alice
“That’s the trouble with me: I give myself very good advice, but I very seldom follow it.”- Alice Click To Tweet
As Ben’s ALS progressed, and things became much more difficult than Ben was willing to admit, I was frustrated and overwhelmed, and also resentful. I was struggling with those feelings because Ben was dying and I felt that if he wanted to live in denial, then I had to live there with him. I gave myself all sorts of advice, having internal dialogues about insisting on more paid help, requiring Ben to prepare legal documents to make other important arrangements, and making scheduling changes that might have made daily life more tolerable. I had a lot of good ideas! But, I rarely followed my own advice. At times, I got angry at myself and felt helpless and defeated. I’m sure that it frustrated people who cared about me to see me drowning as I had a good sense of what needed to be done but lacked the emotional ability, or, to be honest, the actual capacity, to make it happen. I have thought about that a lot, and, to this day, although I know that a lot was not right about the situation, I know that Ben felt cared for, protected, and loved. Sadly, I achieved that by often ignoring my own good advice.

“It would be so nice if something would make sense for a change.” - Alice

I cannot begin to count the number of times I wished that something in my life would make sense. Juggling caregiving for my dad and Ben would have been comical if it was not so serious. There were middle of the night calls from my dad when he was deciding if he should go to the emergency room. If he went, I would ensure that Ben would be okay and arrange back-up if he needed help, and then I would meet my dad at the hospital. From the hospital, there was an endless string of calls and texts to report on my dad and to check on Ben. There were the ridiculous restrictions of what insurance would cover, when clearly ALS is a terminal disease that renders a person needing much care. The insurance issues were there with my dad, too, as I tried to navigate his entitlements without a lot of consistent assistance from the medical teams. There were my klutzy attempts to address the needs of Ben and my dad, which they denied were increasing, while trying not to upset or discourage them. There were the routines we painstakingly created that had to be immediately scrapped because Ben exhibited a new symptom of ALS that rendered the plan useless. We just wanted something to make sense. That never really happened, but we embraced it as our new normal, with a sense of humor when possible.

“Sometimes I believe in as many as six impossible things before breakfast.”- Alice

I do love the whimsy and fantasy of Disney. But, if you follow this blog, you see that there is a lot of inspiration and insight in the films, and it helps me. Although I find comfort in thinking about wishing wells and fairies with pixie dust, my life and decisions are quite grounded in a reality that was, for several years, anything but rainbows and magic. As a caregiver, and then in grief, it has been so important for me to surround myself with the things that gave me comfort and let me at least mentally escape. I could get lost in fantasies in the same way that Alice dreamed about creating a world of her own. For Ben and me, Walt Disney World was that special world of our own. Disney films, toys and memories still give me that much needed opportunity to fantasize, but also help me to sort through ugly experiences that come with caregiving and loss. It is so important for caregivers to identify and retreat into the things that provide comfort, insight and perspective, even if it is a momentary escape from the comfort of your sofa. I continue to find inspiration and insights as I look for a new happy ending and search for a new prince.

“I do love the whimsy and fantasy of Disney… although I find comfort in …wishing wells and fairies with pixie dust, my life and decisions are quite grounded in a reality that was… anything but rainbows and magic. Click To Tweet

Here are two great phrases uttered by the March Hare that I wish I had said often, and I pass along to other caregivers, with the hope that it will help you to avoid unnecessary and sometimes downright outrageous conversations with well-intentioned people who are not involved or informed but have a lot of bad advice that they are eager to spout.

“I have an excellent idea, let’s change the subject”- March Hare

If you don't think, you shouldn't talk, March Hare

OK, you might want to say that more tactfully, but think it just like this and at least you’ll have a chuckle in your head!

As I emerge from grief, I don’t always recognize myself or know exactly who I am or who I want to be. I feel like I’ve changed. But, I can finally say with some pride that, despite my tears, I faced and handled some very difficult situations with and on behalf of Ben and my dad as they took their journeys from this world. I also challenged myself and learned that I can be strong and brave, I just do it with a lot of tears! There were times of conflict with family and friends, but I honored the wishes of my dad and Ben, and I did what I believed was best and was most consistent with their wishes.

I know that my loved ones have always wanted the best for me and that means the world to me. But I also realize that as much as I have gratefully relied on others to guide me when I run in circles, I have to move forward at my own pace, shaping and fulfilling my own dreams on my own terms. I have to determine where I want my life to go. And, I am fortunate that I am surrounded by people who are cheering me on. I do have some inner struggles, and, in a few cases, relationships that I do care about have been strained and tested, and that has not been easy. But, as the White Queen said to Alice, “You cannot live your life to please others. The choice must be yours, because when you step out to face that creature, you will step out alone.” This was also true for Ben and my dad as they faced death, and it is true for all of us.

In the live action Alice in Wonderland, Alice must slay the Jabberwocky to defeat the evil Red Queen. As caregivers, we have our own Jabberwocky to defeat, as we tackle trying circumstances and help our carees battle the demoralizing and painful effects of illness. Though we cannot defeat death, we are fierce in our battle to slay many obstacles and provide as good a quality of life as possible for the carees whom we love. Then, grief becomes our Jabberwocky, and we slay it as we learn to co-exist with it and not let it defeat us as we emerge and continue to live in ways that honor the loves we had and lost, and that do justice to ourselves.

 

Hakuna Matata- Not Always

The Lion King
Copyright ©1994 Walt Disney Pictures

If you read this blog regularly, you know that I like to put things in a positive perspective, even while recognizing the challenging and not so pretty aspects of caregiving and the obvious sadness of grief. After all, the bad feelings are normal and I think that embracing them is healthier than suppressing them. That said, seeking  professional help or a support group as a way of dealing with them is something that I have done and that I encourage when you’re beginning to wonder if what you’re experiencing is not “normal” (or at least “normal” for you) and is affecting your ability to function.

I take so much comfort and find enlightenment and inspiration from Disney quotes, and they have guided me through caregiving and grief.  But, there are always times that “Hakuna matata” has eluded me, and I’m feeling that right now. I know, it is a kind of coping skills anthem, but when I am at the height of anxiety, hearing “Hakuna matata” antagonizes me. It makes me want to summon my inner Scar (click here for that post).

Last week, I was under the weather with a cold, and maybe that has put me in a funk of sadness and anxiety. Walt Disney said “Why worry? If you’ve done the very best you can, worrying won’t make it any better.” While I can’t argue with Walt, I lack his confidence, and I’ve always worried that my best was and is good enough, especially when I was a caregiver. The truth is, I’m a worrier. I have a good sense of humor about it, acknowledging my need to worry as part of my process for sorting through issues and situations.

Of course, when Ben was struggling with ALS, the worries were real, upsetting, and frightening, without any easy solutions. In addition to the harrowing medical and emotional issues, we had to consider financial concerns, such as how we could hire private aides, where he would live and how to arrange his medical insurance and set up his finances to enable him to live with the help and equipment he needed. An added complication with ALS is that its progression is unpredictable. While studies show that most people diagnosed with ALS live two to five years, there are many people who live much longer, and although we wanted him to be here for as long as possible, we wanted that to be with a good quality of life and with financial security and medical coverage. I worried about Ben’s quality of life, particularly in a facility, which would have been inevitable once he was on life support. I did not like to discuss these worries with Ben because I did not want him to worry. I know he did, and sometimes we discussed it in roundabout ways, but we also procrastinated and ignored the elephant in the room. While it did not help to worry, sometimes it was all I could do. I guess it was a form of anticipation, because when the crises arose, I had often already envisioned them! There was no such thing as “Hakuna matata.”

It has been a while since I’ve felt this down and caught up in worries for days at a time. Feeling ill at least gave me a good excuse to sleep all day. Maybe being home with a cold gave me the time to dwell on things that are unsettling to me. I remembered the many times that Ben would show up at my door with chicken soup and comfort foods when I was ill at home. We always did things like that for each other. What began as a wonder is now a worry if I will ever have that again.

I need to remind myself that overall, I have felt like I am making great strides here in the world of the living, coexisting with my memories and the presence of Ben in my life. I am happy at my new school, I see my friends more often, I am frequently at the theater and I even travel. Even though I had some struggles with loneliness during my recent excursion to Washington DC, I am glad that I let myself live that dream of seeing the cherry blossoms in bloom and I continue to marvel at the beauty in the photos that I took, which definitely is something that Ben and I would have done, too. These are new good memories, but they are overshadowed by being memories of myself alone. I feel haunted by reminders that I am alone and I worry that I will always be alone. That set me thinking about how disheartening online dating has been. Will I ever meet someone new, who understood me the way that Ben did? Will I have a future filled with that kind of love? Ben used to love to see elderly couples holding hands and he would say that one day that would be us. As his ALS progressed, we both got emotional when we saw these couples because we knew that it would never be us. I guess I was reminded of that watching coverage of Barbara Bush’s funeral, along with the footage and stories of Barbara Bush and President Bush and their long and beautiful love story. I’m still grateful for the time that Ben and I had and that despite the tragedy, we shared a most special and devoted love in his last weeks in the hospital. Still, we were cheated.

Recently, talking about health care proxies and wills got me thinking about how I don’t have children to take care of these things. I have great friends, and I am so fortunate for that, but I do not have obvious answers to these concerns. When should I retire? Where will I live? How will I live? I’m not naïve. I realize that everyone has to make these difficult decisions and think about these issues, whether they are single or a couple or family. I guess my worry sets in when I wonder if I will be making all of these decisions alone. Mary Poppins is right that, “Worrying won’t help anyone.” Still, I worry. I guess I have not yet adjusted to being on my own and yet, I do, intellectually, know that I will be fine.

I’m always pleased to share that I have been working through grief and still processing the entire caregiving experience with positive and insightful reflections that are not simply Disney whimsy.  But, for caregivers who might feel alone in their setbacks and difficult times, I want you to know that these times happen for me, too. It’s not all “Hakuna matata.” I’m okay with that, as much as I wish I didn’t have the struggles. I think that I understand about myself that worrying has always been part of my way of dealing with things, and sadness is bound to happen. The important thing I try to remember is that I’m living, trying, doing and hopefully, creating or revealing a future that will bring me contentment. I never underestimate the little joys in life, and when I’m ready to get out of the funk, a phone call, email, conversation, and the arrival of spring flowers are distractions from worry that are helping to lift my spirits. And, there’s always pixie dust.

Ben at the Animal Kingdom with the Tree of Life in the background. 2006- pre-ALS, carefree and doing his best Ricky Ricardo “Babaloo” impression.