Every Day in Every Way

August 2, 2013 at 6:18 pm 3 comments

walker III was all set to sit down and indulge in another clichéd mini-rant about Minnesota, The Land of 10,000 Extremes. A self-indulgent ramble about how, one Wednesday, most of the state is suffering through a 105 degree heat index, and the next Wednesday, record-breaking lows have us all flipping our thermostat switches from “Cool” to “Heat” at night. The Ides of July, I was going to title it.

When I realized how much effort was required to make that topic interesting, again, even as a segue into the more stimulating subject of Minnesota’s weird political climate, I abandoned the idea. My critic’s eye has noted too many published articles that read as if the author were motivated to crank out something, anything, just to get some quick cash coming in for the month. There is no passion or depth to them. Don’t particularly want to join that club, even if there isn’t a paycheck involved.

What then seeped into my mind were thoughts on a very personal undertaking I’ve tackled this week: Operation Saving Mom. Sounds a bit grandiose, I suppose, but I am only ashamed that I didn’t catch on sooner that the lady who lives downstairs, and happens to be my mother-in-law, wasn’t just being her usual “the glass is half-empty,” headstrong little German self about things, she was sinking into depression.

I’ve skidded down that muddy slope in the past myself; it’s the reason I’m so committed to vigorous physical activity to keep my personal supply of endorphins pumped up throughout the day. As soon as Mom K quit watching the news or doing her laundry, I should have recognized the symptoms. But I was too busy being angry with her for rejecting the helpful advice of the savvy, caring geriatrician we finally hooked her up with. For always being back in bed when I went down with the mail or a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies; for not showing any interest in using a prescribed walker to get back on her feet; for nibbling on sweets rather than devouring the juicy turkey meatloaf patty, made just to her tastes.

So she sank, deeper and deeper, into that sickness of spirit that leaves a person not wanting to move and wondering why God is taking so long to call you home. I still can’t believe that I was so blind to the emerging clues. But as I said, I was too busy analyzing the situation, and how I felt about it.

Still, I did invest a lot of prayer in her plight. And as usual, the answer I got was not the one I expected. After a particularly trying day, which had my husband and me racked with frustration over Mom’s surrender to negative thinking, I woke up the next morning to a “duh” moment: She had missed meals and was acting confused. She was probably so weak that she had nothing left to draw on. She needed an intervention, and I had my nose up so close to the window of her life that I couldn’t see it.

You have to have a reason to get out of bed in the morning. I remember that irrational state of mind very well. It doesn’t matter what you tell yourself, if there’s nothing pulling you into the day ahead, why greet morning? Why eat breakfast? Why get dressed? And the less you move around and the more malnourished you are, the faster the downward spiral.

Starting this week, I go down right about when breakfast should take place, and then again to set up lunch, and with the day’s mail, and with dinner. And her beloved son visits and checks her pill dispenser every evening, after he gets home from work.

She is getting out of bed now, because she knows I’ll be knocking on her door. And she is eating the protein-heavy meals I cook and put on a tray in front of her. Scrambled egg and a whole grain waffle square. Open-faced Tuna melt sandwich with grapes on the side. French toast and extra crisp bacon for brunch one lazy, sleep-in day. Pork loin with roasted potatoes and fresh green beans. And whole-grain fresh peach cobbler with salted caramel ice cream to satisfy that sweet tooth of hers. While I’m there, I read to her, humorous articles or excerpts from recollections written by her peers, and she relates and discusses them with some interest.

She’s feeling a little better after only a few days of this intensive “TLC therapy.” So am I.

Mom had tried a daily mantra of, “Every day in every way, I’m getting better and stronger.” It’s not, we had to tell her, a magical incantation. It doesn’t work of your heart and will aren’t behind it. A few weeks before the flash of enlightenment that got the belated intervention rolling, I had started regular deliveries of affirmations to replace her limp recitations of the old standby chant. She tells me these little blurbs mean a lot to her, and I think it’s the idea that someone takes the time, as much as it is the messages. But I’m also front-loading those affirmations with gentle nudgings to not shrink from the challenge of keeping life meaningful at 90, and beyond.

So, six days a week, a neon orange half-sheet of text goes down with the daily mail, with the heading, “Every day in every way, God has a purpose for my life,” followed by a few lines of encouragement:

“Each day, I bring glory to God through my example of living my faith.”
“I have children who love me and a church family that cares about me. They look to me for hope and inspiration for their own later years.”
“This world is not my home. But it is a temporary assignment that God wants me to take seriously right up to its very last day.”

The next phase of our Saving Mom project? It’s a quirk of human physiology that expending energy generates more energy. It may take a while for the fire to ignite, but a daily walk that first seems wearying eventually becomes the pilot light that keeps your burners firing throughout the day. The more you do, the more you feel like doing. A human body in motion truly wants to stay in motion. This is a hard sell for Mom, who has been sitting in a chair for months, waiting to feel “better” enough to start moving again. But resort to a cane for stability? Never.

Meanwhile, her muscles atrophy and her gate becomes more and more unsteady. My husband’s mission is to convince her that, with his help, she can get up and about – maybe even out of the house – and regain some mobility. So we snuck out and bought her a walker. Please pray for us!

As for my own attitude adjustment strategy, this is my new daily mantra:

Every day, in every way, God has a purpose for my life….
“And it’s not about me. Everything originated in Him and finds its purpose in Him.”

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Entry filed under: Advice For Life. Tags: , , , , , , , .

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3 Comments Add your own

  • 1. Craig  |  August 2, 2013 at 8:17 pm

    I hope I remember this as I get old. If you don’t move it or use it, that you lose it. Sending this off to a friend who is going thru the exact same thing.

    Reply
  • 2. Keith Wissman  |  August 2, 2013 at 8:39 pm

    Bravo my friend, you are a blessing to Mom K!

    Reply
  • 3. Deborah Ude  |  August 3, 2013 at 9:08 pm

    The question so often asked in our younger years, ‘Why me?’ changes with the elderly. I am not looking forward to informing my 93 year old retired pastor father that a much younger retired pastor was just taken home to heaven. My father is going to ask, ‘Why not me?’ It is one thing to wait your turn in an orderly line, or clutching a number that tells you ‘when’. It is quite another to wait, never knowing when you will be called. ‘Why not me?’ My father knows the answer, he simply needs to hear it repeatedly. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Blessings and prayers to you all while you wait on God’s will.

    Reply

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