Two things Noble asked me to leave on his bed this morning.
Hand Sanitizer. The Book of Common Prayer.
Clean Hands. Clean Heart. Excellent Day.
Noble Notes
April 10, 2012 By 14 Comments
Noble loves to send me notes.
Halloween. Valentine’s Day. Thanksgiving. Christmas.
Boxing Day always brings a card with a Boxer Dog on it. When my own boxer pups were still with me, I received mail addressed to Chloe and Samantha Atkins, often with a check for dog treats. On Mother’s Day, I typically receive a card from Noble, thanking me for being such a good mother to my animals.
I get notes in-between holidays, too.
Cartoons with annotations. Articles from his local newspaper almost always have some connection to dogs. Sometimes, he’ll write a good joke on a random scrap of paper and send it along with a $2 bill.
* * *
I tidied Noble’s room before I left tonight. On his table I found a new note with directions about how to find him. He’d written it after lunch and before I arrived for the day.
I chuckled as it is SO Noble like. Now that I’m telling the story, I’m a bit teary, too, because I can see so clearly.
These notes I’ve received, over the whole of my life, have all been love notes. Every one. Forging a connection between us the best way he knew.
Leading me to him.
Noble Care
April 9, 2012 By Leave a Comment
Tammy read the sign as she entered Noble’s room. She pushed her left then right hand slightly forward, then scrunched her eyes and relaxed them in a split second of comprehension.
She moved to Noble’s right side and squatted beside his wheelchair.
“Hello, Mr. Atkins.”
“This isn’t the same book you were reading yesterday. Tell me about this one.”
<pats his knee>
“Tell me about your pain.”
“I’m sorry we had trouble with your medication last night. I’ve got that taken care of now.”
I watched as Tammy engaged him in conversation as a means of discovery.
There was a question about how he enjoyed breakfast. Another about what was causing him to shift around in his wheelchair. Another about their visit the previous day.
When they’d finished talking, Tammy knew about Noble’s breathing, physical comfort, emotions, appetite, memory, and his intact keen intellect. She answered every question, made him smile, got him what he needed, and treated him with dignity.
Noble has a new favorite nurse.
Noble Living
April 8, 2012 By 21 Comments
Reading now. Feet over the end of the bed not quite long enough for his six foot frame.
Affable. Even with assorted tubes and necessary indignities.
Forgiving. Of aides who scrubbed him so hard, “I lost some skin off my tail. I guess they’re doing the best they can.”
Content. Even though his legs can’t hold him up for much time right now. Even though it’s Easter Sunday and the old preacher missed church.
* * *
About six months they tell us, then his heart valve will begin to fail again.
No open heart surgery.
But if he’s strong enough, and his lungs and kidneys keep doing their jobs, he could be a candidate for a newly approved FDA procedure. No guarantees, but there really never are anyway.
He understands he will die without any intervention. He understands he might die even if he does have an intervention.
Or.
His ailing heart could be healed by modern medicine.
He said, “Some difficult decisions to make, aren’t there…”
Yes, Papa.
But not today.
Not Treatable, Not Curable
January 24, 2012 By 18 Comments
It’s a blow, isn’t it. To hear those words after watching him fight. To know he won’t be around much longer.
You’ve never done this before, taken care of someone who is dying. Lots of feelings flying around. And fears. And love. All rolled together.
This time, these moments with him are what you’ve got. It’s O.K. to be scared. O.K to be mad or sad or whatever you are. There’s no need to fight the feelings. You can feel them all and still be present. This journey can be, if you allow it, one of the most meaningful experiences of your life. Here are a few things I know for sure:
(1) He will choose the time. It’s a soul thing, not a dad thing. When his soul is ready, he will go. No doctor, nurse, or anyone else in the world will be able to tell you with certainty when that is.
(2) There will be a time when he can’t get out of bed. Ask him – Dad, where would you like the bed to be when you can’t get up anymore? Home? In the family room? In your bedroom? Inpatient hospice? So often people will tuck their person away in the back of the house. Ask him and don’t be surprised if he doesn’t answer right away. When the time is right, he will.
(3) If you can, tell him he can go whenever he’s ready. There is a permission giving that can be really important. You won’t be hastening anything with permission but releasing him/ego from guilt/sadness of leaving the ones he loves.
(4) Don’t be scared of pain medicine and please encourage him not be. He won’t get addicted. I cannot emphasize that enough. The pain can be rather intense and there are ample medications in this day and time. If he’s hurting, they can do something about it. If he’s not on hospice, please consider it. I can sum up hospice with one word: Godsend.
(6) There will be spirits/people to meet him and help him cross. He may begin to talk with them/watch them before he goes. You will see his eyes focus on the ceiling or near windows. You may catch him laughing or smiling. He may talk about needing his shoes or a map – metaphors for releasing himself from his body. Just go with it. If he talks about needing his shoes, tell him they’re right there by the bed. If he talks about the map or a trip, go with it. Where are you going dad? What do you need?
(7) Hallucinations are scary – bugs on the wall, faces contorting, a truck driving through the house. Not everyone has them but many do. They can be frightening AND medicine can be given to quell them. Just ask. You’ll know.
(8) Visions are not scary. I believe everyone has visions, though not all speak of them. If your dad is having visions, he won’t be frighted by the experience. He may talk about people in the room only he can see, music only he can hear, angels, relatives that have been gone a long time. He may ask for a window to be opened or closed to let people in and out. You may see him reaching up toward something. He may complain about the noise of all the people standing around talking. In the early 1990s, a young boy was dying from AIDS in an inpatient hospice. One morning he complained to his nurse about the loud boys playing in the corner of the room. The nurse asked who was there. “John, Gabe, and Marcus.” Turns out John, Gabe, and Marcus had all died in the same hospice a few months prior to this boy’s arrival. There’s no way he could’ve known them. But he did. Please don’t discount the visions.
(9) There is often a period of distinct restlessness where your dad may be super agitated, can’t wear clothes, doesn’t want covers on him. This can last a a few days and may be uncomfortable to watch. It’s as though the person is working to free themselves from their body. Again, medication is good but the other thing to remember is this; you can’t know what he’s experiencing. That restlessness is the human side while at the same time, a whole spiritual thing is happening – i.e., part of him is out of his body trying to make sense of what’s happening and NOT hurting. If you talk to folks who’ve had near death experiences, they’ll tell you the same.
(10) There is usually distinct calm after the restlessness. This is where you may see the smiling, watching the ceiling, and deep peace. This is also when there will be mostly sleeping – like he’s trying out the other side to see if it’ll be OK. He will go and come back into his body over and over. You’ll start to see it.
(11) There may be a moment, few hours, maybe even a whole day where he seemingly has a miraculous awakening – clear thinking, chatty, or wants to eat after not eating for a long time. You’ve heard of people who open their eyes and say I love you and then go? That’s this phenomenon. It’s like they come back just for moment in time to connect before they leave this plane.
(12) Ask if he wants to talk about his funeral or any special requests. You may be surprised at the conversation!!! My mother made a declaration one morning that she was never, ever going to wear a bra again. We turned that into a reason for a party, complete with a harpist and root beer floats for 15 people. Equal parts funny, poignant, sad, and not to be missed.
(13) It’s not all doom, gloom, and sadness. Dark/death humor can make all of you laugh so hard you pee your pants. Mom instigated the writing of a message to her favorite bath giver. In marker. Across both butt cheeks. Still makes me laugh.
(14) You can do this. You can. There is no perfect way. There is only the way you and your dad and the rest of your family can manage. That will be perfect enough.
(15) Drink water…silly I know in the context of the rest of this but you, ‘o wonderful caregiver, can get dehydrated in this process of caring so deeply.
(16) Here’s a great book: Final Gifts by Callanan and Kelly (1992). These two authors are ninja goddess end-of-life nurses. Their stories are illuminating, insightful, and will give you more guidance.
(17) Do your best to let go of outcomes – how you think people should act, what you think they should do, or how they should be. Each person in your circle will have their own experience. You’re in charge of yours. Your dad is in charge of his.
This is a lot of information. I’m sharing so much now because I want you to be able to fully engage if you want to.
This isn’t a passive experience you and your Dad are having. It’s active. You can talk to him about this stuff. You can ask him to tell you if he see’s anyone. You can listen for metaphors. When the time comes, you can connect wordlessly by massaging his arms/hand/legs/feet with lotion if he can tolerate it. Tell him you’re scared. Tell him you’re going to miss him. Tell him you love him. If you can’t tell him and you want to, write him a letter and ask someone to read it to him. Even if he’s not coherent, some part of him can hear.
This journey, being with someone who is dying, someone you love very much, is one of the toughest things you’ll do. I promise you though, it can also be one of the most rewarding, awe inspiring, and meaningful gifts of your life.
Thinking of you today and sending love, light, and peace -
Openhearted and Brave
January 11, 2012 By 1 Comment
You, intrepid helper human being, have a light to shine in the world.
To do your work, to give like you do requires muchness. And love. And heart. And sometimes more fortitude than you think you can muster like when your mama has cancer, or your aged parents need you, or your teen tells you he’s gay, or your children are asking what it will be like when grandpa dies, or your spouse leaves, or you’ve had an awakening, or you’ve got a secret to share that in the telling will help you and more people than you’ll ever know.
When these life events happen, the ways in which you do your work, interact with your clients, the ways you move and breathe and dance all change.
You cannot not pay attention. And I promise, you want to pay attention because these are some of the richest opportunities for love and growth and meaningful living you can know.
I’ve been reclusive since 2005 – after doing death and dying work for 15 years, after the death of my mama. I was spent. Weary. The crispiest one can be without leaping over the cliff of burnout.
I’ve spent the last seven years resting, integrating, releasing the pain of those I carried with me that wasn’t my own. Awakening.
I’ve figured out a few things.
1. Not one ounce of time has been wasted.
2. I’ve done exactly what I’ve needed to do to take care of my heart and soul.
3. No one has stopped loving me because of my hidden-ness and even if they did that would be ok.
4. I needed to be quiet and still so I could hear/heal.
5. Just like Anne Lamott says, God is real but different then the one I learned about in church.
If you’re still reading, I’ll surmise you are a healer, a keeper of the light – that person others are drawn towards, the one who can hold onto hope for folks until they can find and hold it themselves. You’re that person.
Me, too.
I forgot how much I like being her, how much I’m filled, how magical and mystical the connections can be. I needed to rest and remember.
We are spiritual beings, you and I.
We are living in the world to learn, grow, and love. In the doing of our great work/calling, in the being of ourselves and only ourselves, we get to help each other.
Get to. I love that. You and I. We get to do that. We get to wake up in the morning and help people. Quite a gift, no?
We can do this work though, only when we care for ourselves. We have to acknowledge when we need to bailout for awhile or ramp up, release or embrace.
We can do this when we pay attention to what we need. When we pay attention to our bodies and souls and minds and thoughts.
If you’re struggling, aching for rest, running your business and caring for sick parents, running your business and grieving, I want you to know the crazy won’t last forever. The weariness in your bones, the tears that leak on your face in the middle of the day – it will all change and move around and you’ll figure it out. You will.
Lean into it all - even those moments you think are going to kill you. They won’t. Lean in with as much openheartedness as you can. You, the people you love, and the clients you serve in the world will be richer for it.
If you are a wounded healer in need of inspiration, tools, or a little hope, click on over to my new Facebook page, OpenHeartedandBrave and hit the ‘like’ button, will you? Then watch for the bright orange box on your newsfeed.
It’s still a little quiet over there. The community is building and soon there will be a congregation to support. I invite you to join the conversations with all of your openhearted and brave self.
Until next time, keep on keepin’ on all you shiny people. The world needs you.
PS: I’m facilitating a 4 week Pictures of Grief class starting in February. Class size is limited to 15 women who’ve experienced a death of a loved one in the last year. You can use a fancy camera or your phone. You’ll be capturing photos around different themes we’ll talk about in class, then writing as little or as much as you’d like. We’ll figure out how to put a book together of all the goodness created. Cost is $99. More information next week. If you’re interested, shoot me an email and get on the list! martha@marthaatkins.com
PSS: Photo Credit: Martha J. Atkins, Alaska
Heavenly Hosts
December 12, 2011 By 1 Comment
Heavenly Hosts.
I’ve heard them.
In prayerful meditation before my mom died, I heard them.
Imagine the Grand Canyon filled with hundreds of thousands of light filled people.
Impossible to count. Music unlike any other.
A hum that roared and whispered into every part of me at the same time.
Lois heard them. When her husband died.
“The music, I can’t really describe it to you, Martha, but I know it was music and I know they were singing for my husband. They were Angels. The Heavenly Hosts of Angels. I know it…”
12 year old Krysta is the hospital today. Medical care has been changed to comfort care. Her time on this earth is coming to an end.
Her mom and dad are there holding her hand, saying what needs to be said, loving her out of this world.
If you’re a praying kind of person, I’m asking you to do that today for Krysta, for her family and friends, and for all the people who are loving someone out of this world today.
As sure as there is breath in my body, I know the Heavenly Hosts are already singing for all of them.
The Bass has Rabies? Seven Ways to Survive the Holidays with Your Oldsters
November 22, 2011 By Leave a Comment
My father has a habit of repeating off the wall phrases when he can’t hear what was said.
Instead of saying, “Pardon me?”, he’ll comment with the inflection of a seasoned old preacher up talker, “Did you say the bass has rabies?”
For years this drove me UP A WALL. Finally, I got smart ass-y and said, ‘Yes, Dad. That’s exactly what I said.”
He wry smiled me…(that’s a verb I made up for when he lifts the left side of his mouth into a grin and squints his eyes)… and then you know what he did?
He passed the gravy.
My mother always said he was the king of selective hearing. Me thinks she was right.
Holidays with oldsters can be crazy making, freakin’ funny, or wonderful.
#1 – Your Choice.
You decide if the 432nd telling of Gus the three legged depressed turtle he saved in Vietnam is going to send you over the edge or make you laugh. If you don’t want to hear the story, leave. Next room. Yep. You have the power.
This moving to the next room for a break business also works if your oldster is on your last nerve. Rest a little, take some space, re-group, and back in… GO! You can do it!
#2 – You can’t control the circumstance. You can control your reactions.
The TV is really loud - again. At Noble’s retirement home, the collective volume on the television sets is s-t-a-g-g-e-r-i-n-g. The oldsters don’t wear their hearing aides or the hearing aides don’t work, and consequently, the rest of us I need ear plugs. So, when the going gets tough, I really do wear ear plugs. $6 for 20. I highly recommend them.
#3 – Ask for help
Not everyone in your family has the caregiving gene. I know, sometimes you wish the folks in your life could see the forest for the trees but alas, they cannot. They are not wired like you are.
That’s not a bad thing, it’s just a thing. You can gripe and moan or you can deal with it.
If you need help, ask. You can play the martyr but that’s not really serving anyone but you and my goodness it’s exhausting.
Save all that energy for the 93 times you’ll need to get up from wherever you are to fetch things your oldster needs during the visit.
#4 – You don’t have to be right even though you KNOW you are.
Really. You know Mother didn’t put the little marsh mellows in the green salad. You know. You were there. And yet, Dad swears it’s true.
But I’m right, you say. So what. SO WHAT. Step away from the marsh mellows and save the peace. You can be right in the quiet of your heart and let your oldster have a moment glory. Yes. Really.
#5 – Breath and get in the now.
If you are stressed and caring for an oldster, I will bet you the dollar in my pocket your mind is a-whiring —
Got to remember to get the Depends.
Can’t forget the straps to his leg bag.
Can’t forget to sign out his meds.
Do the O2 tanks have enough in them for the car ride?
Got to find his two pocket shirt because he will simply NOT be happy without it.
How in the hell am I going to park the car and get him into the airport with his walker and luggage that he cannot have out of his sight?
Sound familiar?
Take a breath. Get in the now. This moment. Right now.
Find that pure place in you, that can connect with that pure place in your oldster. I know—they can’t remember like they used to remember. You have to help them walk, get off the commode, change their socks, change their poopy pants.
It’s tough. I know but let all of that go for just this moment and be here. Now. All the effort is about connecting…so connect. In the airport. While you’re packing. While you’re putting on his socks. Connect.
#6 – Grieve what you need to grieve and do the best you can. That’s all you can do.
This whole caring for the people you love when they can’t be who they were… this takes time to get used to, no?
And a lot of it, well, there just isn’t any getting used to anything. It’s a new normal and frankly, some of it sucks.
You’re not alone, though. Please remember that. There are a lot of us plugging along, doing the best we can.
#7 – Let it Be Ok for Them To Need You
If they’re able to say thank you, take it. Accept it. Say you’re welcome. If they can’t say it, imagine a time when they could or did. Just imagine.
And if you can’t imagine and they can’t say it, let me.
Thank you.
Thank you for stepping in and taking care of him/her/them.
Thank you for recognizing this is a season of your life, of his life or her life, and the season will pass soon enough.
Thank you for doing what you can while your oldster is here.
Thank you for using your words and actions and gentle touches to spread more love in the world – even if the person you’re caring for doesn’t have a clue who in the world you are…
Thank you for showing up, whatever that looks like for you.
Thank you.
Happy Thanksgiving to oldsters, youngsters, and everyone in the middle…
Now. Will someone please pass the rabies?
Can You Say You’re Sorry?
November 15, 2011 By 12 Comments
Last Summer
“Martha, this is That Guy”. I’d like to talk to you. Please return my call.”
I played the voicemail for my beloved. “Wait. Wait. W—A—I—T… Is that who I think it is? Play it again.”
“Martha, this is That Guy…”
My beloved stared into me, waiting for the reaction that took two days to surface. Even then, my emotions were squished and flat as I processed this new experience.
I can’t imagine that many people who’ve been subjected to adult sexual whimsy as children have gotten an apology.
Thirty years later, I did.
Saving Ourselves
The Penn State news dredged up quite a litany of feelings for me, my family, my clients. Castration has been a hot topic.
My beloved reminded me yesterday of my in the moment almost non-response to that guy, “I’m fine…”
Some part of me wanted him to know I’d risen above his bullshit. Another part, my sweet little precious five year old self, was still acquiescing and too reserved to rage at him through the phone line. It’s all so confounding even at 42 – or 5, 27, 55, 83 – and nearly impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t experienced such an astonishing power differential between adult and child. Just damn confusing.
We humans are resilient creatures, though. Brilliantly so.
We dance the dance to save ourselves in all kinds of ways. Drugs. Religion. Helping others. Being the perfect something. Being a doormat. Spending money. Eating. Hiding. Standing out. Hiding and standing out at the same time. We do-si-do in circles until we can make sense of the thing we need to dig into, feel, and release the most.
I did my work on this piece of my life years ago. The chapter was closed. A decade flew by and out of the blue, that guy called.
“I’m sorry.” “I can’t imagine what this did to your life.”
I don’t know what his intentions were; if he was making AA amends or trying clear his conscience. I neither asked for it his apology, nor did I expect one. It came anyway.
How did I feel? Motionless, in motion, sad, pissed, anxious, sleepy, sleepless, forgetful, funky and, get this: free. Why? Because the one other person on the planet who could speak to the veracity of my experiences, did.
A Dare
So here’s a question. Have you apologized to the people in your life for whom you have caused pain? If you haven’t, I invite you to consider doing just that.
If you’ve wronged another somehow either intentionally or unintentionally – abused your power, lied to save your own ass, threw someone under the bus – I dare you to do something extraordinary.
Own your mistake without excuses and apologize.
Don’t expect the person to love you, forgive you, or trust you again. Don’t expect anything. Understand instead, this is about doing the right thing when you’ve done wrong. I don’t know if you’ll feel better or not but I know the person you hurt will have an opportunity to free themselves in a way that didn’t exist before.
But wait, some of you will say… If these kinds of apologies are thrown out all willy nilly, old wounds get opened. Isn’t it better to leave well enough alone?
Complicated. It’s true. Not everyone has the capacity to apologize. Not everyone has the capacity to forgive. But some do. And I know this for sure: when light shines upon dark places, when secrets aren’t secret anymore, healing happens.
For You
If you have suffered at the hands of another in the past or now, I’m so sorry. I send you love. With all of me, I send you love.
If the news of late has caused your stomach to turn, eyes to water, temper to flare, if feelings of melancholy have taken root in your veins, I invite you to rest – rest in the knowledge that the very essence of you is Divine and Loved and Pure. No one, not one single person can take that away.
Lean into the feelings and treat yourself with kindness and care.
And one more thing, dear one.
You’re ok. And you always have been.
Finding Your Way
October 6, 2011 By 2 Comments
Sometimes figuring out what to do next spins us right into overwhelm.
This ain’t no wussy overwhelm either. This is the chock full of tears, teeth nashing, crap between your teeth from all the stuff you’ve eaten to fill the void you dare not examine overwhelm. This is the overwhelm that makes you want to stay in bed. Forever.
Lean into it.
What the hell…really? Lean into chaos? Lean into more fritos and sour cream? Lean into the squishy feeling in the pit of my stomach? Mmmm…No. Thank you. No.
Allow. Make a container for the overwhelm and sit with it.
Like that’s gonna happen. I’ll implode. I’ll explode. I’ll … I’ll… start crying and never ever stop. Allow it. What. F*****. Ever.
Get in your body. Feel your feet on the floor. Feel your back against the chair. Feel. Let yourself feel.
You’re killing me here. How’s that supposed to help.
Just try.
For a moment, give yourself space to breathe, to allow something, anything to bubble up. Don’t shove it back down. Let it come up to the light.
Breathing in. Breathing out. Lacing up my shoes for a walk. Maybe I’ll try this thing today. Maybe I’ll see what can happen.
My body zigged on the walking trail when usually I zagged. Not the paved trail. Not the usual way. Some other part of me that had taken over. I let her because, I reasoned, I could use a little help.
I walked and imagined another place and time. I imagined myself sitting within a boundary of color with enough space to move around, like my own little colored cave of safety.
I imagined magic parchment paper in front of me. Every thought I had that kept me in chaos, every fear that fueled my procrastination, every perfectionistic tendency that quelled my creativity was given space to move out of my being onto the parchment paper.
The movement was meditation. The movement allowed me to go deep and imagine without judgement.
I imagined myself writing. I shook my body as I walked and imagined the shaking released atoms and microbes and bad chi that the parchment paper pulled to itself like a magnet.
I filled the first parchment paper and moved to the second.
I filled the second and moved on to the third.
I filled the third and caught myself crying. When did that start?
I filled the fourth, kept walking, and in my mind rolled up the papers and tied them closed. I threw them out of my circle, through the colored boundary keeping me safe, and watched as the sun burned it all up.
I was startled by a deer ten feet away. I don’t know how long I’d walked. I was back in my body. Calmer. Still-er than I had been in a long, long time. Unmoving, the deer watched me. I said hello. She said hello. I laughed. I was tired. What in the world had just happened…
Space created. Healing happened. Breath flowing where it had not in forever.
I read about this exercise in The Language of Emotion, a fabulous book by Karla McLaren. Dunno if it will work for you but I do know this:
To find your way you must create space to move, to breathe, to flow.
You can do it. Yes. You. Can.
I’m creating a new life for myself, finding, intuiting a new way to be in the world.
I’ll be writing much more about navigating the space between here and there.
What does that look like for you right now?
Death? Divorce? Job change? Spiritual Awakening?
What are you walking away from…and more importantly, what are you walking towards?
That’s what I’ll be writing about for the next little while and I invite you to join me on the journey. If you signed up for this blog/newsletter long ago and this isn’t for you, the unsubscribe button is right down there at the bottom. Go find something that feeds you exactly in the place you need to be fed.
I’ll see the rest of you soon.
New teleseminar 10/20. Want more information? Have a look here…Death and the Divine
