Toward a Balanced Caregiver

Sometimes I'm slow to pick up on what's happening in my own life. Something may have been rising to the surface without me noticing until -- wham! -- it's here. This isn't always bad...or good. More often than not, though, it comes as a subtle surprise.

I realized last week that something has been bubbling to the surface for weeks, perhaps several months. It's my feminine side, long repressed by the need for me to take care of Romeo. I'm letting go of the male action-oriented, take-charge attitude and way of being that necessity amplified for four years.

Romeo couldn't drive; I did all the driving. Romeo couldn't do any home repairs; I did all the home repairs. Romeo couldn't climb up on a ladder and change the batteries in the smoke alarms; I climbed up on a ladder and changed the batteries in the smoke alarms. Romeo couldn't balance his checkbook, plan a trip, create a file in his email program, turn on the TV or adjust the volume on the sound system, troubleshoot a burned out light bulb; I took care of all of that, and so much more. My masculine side was in overdrive. Constantly. It meant pushing myself, always under stress. It was me who had to seek clarity and a certainty of direction, always. Always me. Only me, always.

I still have to take care of most of that, but now that Romeo lives in a nursing home, my feminine side has been rising to the surface, naturally, organically, on its own, in its own way, on its own terms. The masculine doesn't have to work as much. It's receding. It shows most obviously in areas where previously I automatically took control, in areas where it makes sense: in a carpool, I now let others drive; I let others plan an outing; I let others research, organize, and get back to me with answers.

The feminine in me wants to be really, really girlie, and it's seeking to bring forth my forgotten and lost radiance. I'm loving details I've never been into before: lace and frills and flowers. Pink nail polish and silk lingerie, bubble bath and perfume, diamond earrings and sapphire bracelets. And it's enjoying all of it with exuberance and abandon. It wants to marinate in itself, to love itself. It's ever-changing, ever-moving, and always will be. True feminine energy cannot be contained in one of anything. Ever. I seem to be harvesting all I can.

This feminine in me is overacting perhaps, working harder because it's been suppressed, swept under my skin, for several years. At some point, balance will be struck. Just the right amount of masculine and feminine will come forward as each is called for. At times, I may need to call up more of the masculine qualities than feminine, sometimes more feminine than masculine. But neither side will tip the scales, and there will be integration. Some day.

Some day (perhaps that day is now?) I will remember to stay open to receive and trust and embrace that feminine essence that pushes toward the surface, as well as the masculine essence that is now retreating in me. There will be, there is, a balance, an energetic dance occurring in the ethers. I intend to capture it. Balance, beautiful balance, blessed balance.

Behavior Changes and Dementia

Romeo is upset with me. I know it's his dementia speaking. He would never have said the things he did, would never have acted like this, before dementia. He is upset that I'm not with him all day, every day. I can't be. Life pulls me in a number of directions, like it does with most of us. He doesn't get it, doesn't understand.

Right now, Romeo won't let me touch him, won't let me hold his hand. I tell him that the main purpose in our marriage, the reason we are together, the main reason we've been together all along, is because of our mutual commitment to the cultivation of our hearts, to spiritual awakening. He agrees. He is warming up to me.

I take his hand, and this time he doesn't pull it away. I tell him that I'll be with him always, that I am completely dedicated to him, that I am steady and unwavering in my commitment to him. Romeo needs this kind of reassurance from me regularly, and I give it often and freely, sincerely, urgently. He understands better when I stress the urgency of it. It seems to wake him up, to bring his attention back to the room, to make him think. He knows. He understands now.

I also know that he'll probably forget we ever had this conversation. He'll bring it up again -- his complaints about me not being there enough -- and we'll act the entire scene over again using much the same words. Again I'll tell him how much I love him, how important he is to me, how nothing will drive me away when he is expressing intense emotions. I tell him how I will stay with him -- in his face, breathing and present, giving him love in whatever way works to reach his heart.

He nods, he knows. His life is what it is right now. It can be nothing else. My life is different than his. It, too, can be nothing else. He nods, he knows.

It's late. He's tucked into bed, nice and comfy. I move my chair closer to his bed and in a soft, low voice, I sing to him:

Altering the Caregiver's Roses

Still putting fresh flowers in Romeo's room at the nursing home. His are fresh yet from nearly a week ago.

Still putting fresh flowers in my bedroom. Today, roses. The symbol of love, the soul, the heart. The offerings of a pure love. This time I chose white roses. White = even more purity of love. White is for the moon, the feminine, daylight, the Cosmic Egg, milk, images of the future, the promise of awakening. White is for promise and potential. This is what my tired caregiving soul needs right now. White to soothe the spirit. A shower of white roses.

Still, the artist in me wants to do something creative with those white roses, to do something with them to make them mine, make them different. Attach them to a canvas splattered with neon paint or to some three-dimensional object that suggests something new, something never before created. The artist in me wants to somehow alter the white roses so they aren't so darn . . . white.

The Tea Closet: Before and After Dementia

Before I met Romeo, I never had more than four or five boxes of different types of tea in the house. Then Romeo moved in, bringing with him more tea than I'd ever seen in one household. He could have opened a tea shop.

He had every brand I had ever heard of and many I hadn't. He had bags of tea, boxes of tea, loose teas, herbal teas, black teas, green teas, white, red -- everything. And he drank it all, five or six cups a day.

Romeo can drink only herbal tea now. I prefer nothing but. As a result, my pantry overfloweth with tea that we won't drink. I count no less than 30 boxes all together, most of them already opened. So what to do with the tea we can't drink? Can't donate opened boxes. Too much tea to keep on hand for guests. And neither am I able to create enough art pieces to use up all the tea -- yes, I've sprinkled loose tea on a few canvases. Spices, too, as well as dirt and flour and yeast.

In any case, I'm sure I'll figure out what to do with all the tea. For now, perhaps I should be thankful that Romeo doesn't have a taste for something more exotic -- like eye of newt or monkey brains.

A Caregiver's Spa-ahhh Break: Part Deux

It's late afternoon and I'm headed to get a massage. Ahhhh, mahhhsage. When I arrive, there's a little surprise for me. A foot bath! Large copper bowl, plenty of room for feet, bath salts, flowers, warm water. Add two feet...mine. Ahhh.

While soaking, pick a card from an offered deck: Goddess Guidance Oracle Cards. Cards face down, no looking. As fate would have it, I chose Diana. On the card is written: "Focused Intention. Keep your unwavering thoughts, feelings, and actions focused on your target, and you will make your mark." Good. What is my target, again?

One of the meanings of this card: "Know what your priorities are and take action on them. Take control of your schedule." Yes, that's what I have to do, what I haven't done. Time to do that. First there's time with Romeo at the nursing home, and now there must be more time for my other passions. Walking, writing, reading, qi gong, doing my art, playing my djembe. It all helps to energize me, to heal me, and it's so much FUN. Need fun, need more fun. What happened to the fun? Where did it go? Yep, gotta put all of it back in the schedule.

Next, one blissful hour of deep tissue massage, essential oils, hot towels substituting for hot stones, better than hot stones. My physical body silently crying out in pleasure while my metaphysical body expresses it in the loudest voice it's ever used. Almost as good as sex. Don't know if I'm lying on a table or floating on a cloud. I am alive, right? Doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Good lord, I needed this.

Almost abruptly, too soon, the hour is over. I have to get up? Get dressed? Leave? Go out there -- into the world? Walk? Drive? In this altered state of consciousness? Really?

I take my time. Drink the entire glass of water handed me. Find a mirror so I can put my necklace back on -- tricky clasp. Brush my hair -- it falls where it wants, parts of it dampened with essential oils. Wash my hands with lemon verbena soap, splash a little water on my face. I'm coming back, slowly.

At the front desk, I chat with one of the spa's employees and tell her a brief version of my life taking care of Romeo. For several years, she took care of her father, who also had dementia. So good to come across people who really understand what it's all about. We, two strangers united by the caregiver experience, embrace. And now I am grounded enough to leave.