Roasted Veggies for a Caregiver

How many times have I heard that caregivers need to take care of themselves first? Indeed we do. It's just like the flight attendants instruct us before our flight takes off: when the oxygen mask drops in front of you, put yours on first, then help others.

Same with caregivers. If you don't take care of yourself, you could wind up sick at the bad end of the scale, or in a lousy mood at the best. Neither condition allows you to take care of your care recipient well. And even worse, you could pass your germs or lousy mood onto the one you're taking care of. What a mess you'd have on your hands then! A caregiver's job has the potential to be difficult at each day's starting gate; make it as easy on yourself as possible. You are needed!

One of my favorite ways to take care of myself is to cook a special dish now and then -- something that smells good while it's cooking, something healthy and nutritious, something that is easy to make and tastes as if Emeril Lagasse himself made it -- flavors that meld and play off of each other when you take a bite.

I'm not a great chef -- not because I can't (I probably could if I only knew how!), but because I choose to spend my time in other ways (like writing this blog). But there are times when I want to simply feel like I am a maestro in the kitchen. It is a treat to eat yummy food, and perhaps just as satisfying to have made it yourself.

And it gives me a sense of pleasure to spend some cozy time in the kitchen to prepare that yummy food. This week I made Herb-Roasted Winter Veggies. I have experimented with using various types of veggies. In the dish pictured above, I used carrots, zucchini, yellow squash, onions, mushrooms, red garnet yams, and beets. It's what I happened to have in the house at the time. I've also made this recipe using only beets. Mmmmm...

So go ahead, have fun making this recipe and sharing it.

Planning a New Year in Dementiaville

New Year's resolutions? Nope. Never, in fact. Goals and objectives? Yes, of course.

Throughout the years, it's made more sense for me to establish personal goals and define what will get me there rather than make resolutions that are destined to fail. (See Blame It on the Brain for a discussion about the science behind failed resolutions.)

For decades now, I've been recording and tracking my goals on a simple form that I found tucked in the back of a generic sort of day planner. This goal sheet contains seven areas, each addressing a piece of the pie that represents a balanced life:

• Intellectual (books, education, self-improvement)
• Physical (exercise, nutrition, health)
• Spiritual (psychological growth, fulfillment)
• Family (activities, outings, priorities)
• Financial (income, budget, security)
• Career (position, level, expertise)
• Social (entertainment, friends, fun)

Living in balance has, of course, become even more important since I've been a caregiver...and much more difficult. It now takes more focus, more time, more patience to complete a goal. As a result, I have fewer of them -- many fewer. For example, a couple of years ago, my only goal in the "Career" area was to create an art studio in my home. Before I was a caregiver, that task would have taken me a weekend to complete. As a caregiver, however, it took about six weeks. Time is simply not as available to me as it was previously, and I've had to make peace with that. Life has been much easier since letting go of being the super achiever I once was. And although life has not slowed down, I have learned to be easier on myself...and on others as well.

What I didn't expect from an art studio was the benefits to my well-being. I could enter the studio, my private place, whenever I wished! I could do all of the things that disturbed Romeo when I did them in the common areas of our home. In my studio, I created art to enter into local shows, I played music, I danced (on some occasions, this is all I did in there), I laughed. I also used the space to write, read, meditate. In short, I found myself again. Sometimes in my studio, I cried tears of joy for simply having a space of my own.

Throughout the time I've spent being Romeo's caregiver, I've learned that not having as much time available for myself is truly okay. It is, after all, a temporary situation. For now, my objective is to remain as balanced as possible while taking care of Romeo. My main role as caregiver allows time to take the small steps toward what I want to do. So what if it takes much more time for me to get there? I don't know what's more important than taking care of Romeo, besides taking care of me.

Soul Mates in Dementiaville

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah, too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave.

-- Elizabeth Gilbert, in
Eat, Pray, Love

Romeo and I knew at first meeting that we were soul mates. We were thrilled to find each other, and we had no idea whatsoever what the Universe had in store for us. If we had known, we both would have probably run away as fast as possible, holding our hands to our face like the alien-looking person in Edvard Munch's painting The Scream.

As it happened, though, the Universe was subtle. It hooked us into each other under the veils of love, which, as everyone knows, render the lovers goo-goo ga-ga. (Here I am rolling my eyes up to the heavens.) We were blind. And not in a bad way. But when Romeo was diagnosed with dementia a short nine months after we were married, I had a tiff with the Universe. Well, it was more like a gigantic row, complete with wailing, crying, fit-throwing, and name-calling. I'm not proud of this. Well, maybe I am. It felt good to let out that emotion, and the Universe, in its infinite wisdom, can handle it. And it let me do it. It listened to me lovingly and patiently for nearly a year and a half.

"You two are soul mates!" the Universe screamed. "You and Romeo have been together many times before. In fact, we've tried to get you both to choose different partners this time around, but neither of you would listen. You wanted only each other. How in the blinking universe (present company excepted) are you supposed to evolve, how are you to help me evolve if you continue to choose the same partner?"

I never bought this line of logic. Of course not. I wanted to be with Romeo. And apparently, he wanted to be with me. That's all there is to it. We want what we want, and that's all that we want. So here we are. Me and Romeo, together. But our duo of togetherness soon became a trio of togetherness. Dementia is our uninvited partner.

Did the Universe say, "I'll show you! This will teach you to not do my bidding!"? "Here's your punishment for disobeying me." Ummmm, probably not. Nope, don't think the Universe works that way. In fact, I'm pretty sure that it wasn't the Universe at all that threw us this bitter-tasting bone. I'm fairly positive that it was Romeo and I, ourselves, the two of us and no one else, who engineered and willing, excitedly, boarded this dementia ride.

What were we thinking?

Our story isn't anywhere near being done yet, but I can tell you for certain that so far:

1. It's been a rough ride, tougher than anything I've done before. Anything.

2. The love Romeo and I have for each other, the connection, the bond, has held tight throughout our entire relationship.

3. Although I can't speak for any changes Romeo has experienced during our time together (and neither can he because of his dementia), I know without a doubt in my mind, without a doubt whatsoever, that I am not the same person I was before we met.

I have been pulled through the time Romeo and I have been together. I have not been pushed. I have been pulled through. Some unseen force stood in front of me, took my hand, and gently turned my gaze to the future. It let me see Romeo. It allowed me to help Romeo in whatever way I saw fit. It also kept me moving forward. It said, "Don't get stuck here. It would be easy to do, but your life is moving in another direction. Go with it. You can still help Romeo. And I'll help you. I'll take you to the future. And I'll allow you whatever time you need to be with Romeo, in whatever way you want. Romeo's life takes him elsewhere, and you cannot go with him, Juliet. He must go on his own. And you must go forward into your future on your own. I am there for Romeo. And I am there for you. Romeo travels down his path at his own pace. I am there with him, gently, slowly, pulling him through. You, too, Juliet, must travel forward at your own pace. Gently, slowly, I am pulling you through. Come with me."

And you know how the Universe always ultimately gets its way...

Before Christmas, Before Dementia

Our first Christmas Eve together, 2005, 8:00 p.m., nine months before Romeo was diagnosed with dementia.

Outside, it's quiet, dark, cold. Inside, Romeo and I sit in bed, me reading aloud, as was our custom by now. We had been married for six days, the afterglow of that day still shimmering inside of our hearts, as well as in the snow that blanketed the ground outside.

Suddenly, I am inspired to read something completely different than our usual fare of spiritual books. I wanted to share a childlike moment with Romeo, and he was up for it. I spring from the bed, run out to the bookshelves in the living room, select an oversized copy of Clement Clarke Moore's The Night Before Christmas, or A Visit of St. Nicholas. This particular book is an antique reproduction of an 1888 McLoughlin Brothers publication. The illustrations are by William Roger Snow and conjure up embedded memories, longings, perhaps, for simpler days, sweet memories, and the magic and wonder of unconditional love.

I read the poem to Romeo, and when we are done, we sit in silence for some time, with the words echoing off the walls, the ceiling. I turn out the light, we hunker down under the covers, and fall asleep in each other's arms, content, innocent of what was in store for us less than a year in our future.

Singing in Dementiaville

Lately I've been singing to Romeo to calm him down and soothe him. His dementia is getting worse. He's more confused than usual, and he's also agitated. There's an aura of agitation around him, especially concentrated around his upper body and head.

From the moment Romeo and I met, I sensed the love that simply poured out of him. That love is a continuous flow, a river, that comes from within him and rushes gently over anyone near him. It penetrates their pores, entering the body and circulating inside then engulfing their aura before beginning the cycle again.

That love is missing now. It does not flow through Romeo's new confusion. In hope, I sing to him this mantra: