Day #546 How to Treat Adult Children

I shared with you a month or two ago the anguish of having my niece going through a life-threatening situation when a blood vessel broke in her brain.

I’m happy to report that Erica is home from the hospital, and is doing well.

I spoke with my sister yesterday, though, and found that she was going through some sort of withdrawal. I asked her to write about the experience so I could share it with you.

How to Treat Adult Children

Diana Alishouse--April 2012

An adult daughter recently spent 32 days in a brain trauma unit in a hospital recovering from an aneurism. I spent hours and days with her—holding her hand, smoothing her hair, talking to her even (especially) when she was unconscious, grateful for her whispered word “Mommie.”  I listened to the conferences among the neurologists, surgeons, pulmonologists, acute care nurses, respiratory therapists, pharmacists, physical therapists, and case managers, learning and asking questions which they tried to answer in lay terms. Love and fear were constant.  Adrenaline poured through my body. 

After she was released I took her to her home and stayed there with her for a week while she recovered strength enough to walk and made arrangements for home-health care nurse visits and appointments with her regular doctor. I did the laundry, grocery shopping, and cooking. I fed the cats and cleaned their littler boxes and her house. I goaded her to do her exercises. Her tracheostomy wound was healing nicely and she got stronger and better each day. Friends came to visit and volunteered to take her to further doctor appointments until she could drive. I began to relax.

I was no longer needed, so I went home—hoping she wouldn’t fall, hoping she would remember to take her medicines, hoping her friends wouldn’t let her down. My intensive mothering job was done.

Then the adrenaline stopped and so did I. I slept. Now three weeks later I am still sleeping a lot and crying often as I slowly release the fear from my brain and my body.

There are millions of stories like this. Millions of mothers who instantly snap back to the mothering mode we enjoyed when our children were young. It takes its toll on us, but we are willing to do it. At some level, conscious or not, we enjoy babying our child again. But we must be willing to let go of it when the time is right.

I have realized that my sleeping and weeping is only partly because of the adrenaline let down. The other part is in letting go of the mothering of my “baby,” that adult child of mine. And this realization reminds me of the mothering I received as the adult daughter of my mother and my mother-in-law—two very different people with very different styles. 

My mother, Tommie, never understood that her role had changed when I became an adult. To her I was the ever wayward child whose independence was a source of sorrow to her. Her attempts at control of my choices and beliefs only pushed me away. She never understood that. She felt rejected despite my many attempts to reassure her that I loved her still, although I disagreed with her.  I could never love her enough. 

My mother-in-law, Lennie, saw all of us, sons, daughters and in-laws, as adults. Quietly, she disagreed with many of our ideas, beliefs, and actions. She never pressed an issue or argued—only shook her head and kept on loving us. She was greatly loved.

If you choose to share Diana’s words with a friend who could benefit from them, please be sure to give Diana full credit.

BEEattitude for Day #546:

       Blessed are those who care for others, the way we bees take care of our young, for they shall see them flourish, and thrive, and fly.

_______________________________ 

The teeny details:

my books:  http://www.franstewart.com Please buy them from an independent bookstore or directly from my website.

my eBooks for Kindle:  http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Ddigital-text&field-keywords=Fran+Stewart 

Day #414 Farm Wife Story

Yesterday, as I’m sure you recall, I promised to give my sister’s side of the story about the fire on my Grandma’s farm. I’ve talked about my sister before in this blog (on 11/20/10 and 9/25/11). She’s an incredible fabric artist, who created a series of quilts and art pieces that show what depression feels like. Then she wrote a book about it Depression Visible: the Ragged Edge.

Now she’s writing another book (Farm Wife Story) about what life is like on a wheat farm in eastern Colorado, from the point of view of the woman on that farm. She agreed to let me give you a taste of that book by quoting this little vignette of the same story I told, but from her point of view. This excerpt is from the introduction to Farm Wife Story. I'll let you know when the book is available.

All the grownups were outside trying to put out the fire in the field across the road. We heard them shouting. They sounded scared. Was Mama okay?  She said not to move, that she would come back for us. The windows were turning red now. I wondered if she would get burned up. No, she said she would be back.

I wrapped my arms around Fran and we sat there waiting and rocking until Fran said to quit because her tummy hurt.

We knew what they were doing because we had seen them before, slapping with the backs of shovels and wet gunny sacks at small fires they had set to burn weeds. My job was to take the sacks to the pump and rewet them as quick as I could and carry them dripping back to the grownups. But that was in the yard and during the daytime.

I wondered how they could keep the gunnysacks wet clear across the road. I could be out there helping them because I was the Big Sister. But Fran was still little. I had to stay in the chair with her. The red glow slowly turned dark, but Mama didn’t come for a long time. We stayed in the chair, not getting out even to turn on the lights.

Finally she came. “What took so long?” I asked as she hugged us. “I had to stay,” she answered, “to help put out all the little spots that were still burning. I’m glad you stayed here safe in the chair.”

It’s funny that Diana writes, “We knew what they were doing.” This half of that we hadn’t a clue—or at least not one that I remember all these years later.

Do you have an older sister (or brother) who might have protected you at some time or other? Do you even remember it?
I’d encourage you to ask, today. After all, there’s no telling what sort of great story you’ll hear.

Thank you, Diana!

BEEattitude for Day # 414:

       Blessed are the sisters, for they shall all work together to keep the hive healthy.

_______________________________ 

The teeny details:
BOOK SIGNINGS

     Dec.   3       1-3 p.m.         Books for Less, Buford GA

     Dec.   4       1-3 p.m.         Humpus Bumpus Bookstore, Cumming GA

     Dec. 10       2-4 p.m.         Peerless Bookstore, Alpharetta GA       

my books:  http://www.franstewart.com Please buy them from an independent bookstore or directly from my website.

my eBooks for Kindle:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006AA0I4M 

Day #413 Rain, Rain, Rain and Wildfires

It’s raining in Georgia. And that reminds me of a story. Today I'm going to tell you my version of it. Tomorrow I'll give you my sister's version.

My sister is quite a writer. She told me I could use an excerpt from an upcoming book of hers, Farm Wife Stories, which won't be published until some time next year. I'll be sure to let you know when it's available.

But, for now, here's what I remember.

Sixty some-odd years ago, Mississippi could have used some rain. I know, because that was the summer I spent at my grandparents’ farm with my mother and my father and my older sister. One day, one of the fields caught fire, and every available adult ran out to help save the crop and keep the fire from spreading to the house.

Our mother sat my sister and me in a big old chair, pointed a finger in our faces, and bent her stern face close to ours. “You sit there,” she said, “and don’t you move—not for any reason at all!” 

We sat. I don’t remember knowing exactly why we had to sit there, but I was with the big sister I idolized. I’m sure my big sister was bored silly, and maybe even frightened, because I’m sure she knew there was a fire going on, while I was blissfully ignorant of the implications of a wildfire. Our mother, meanwhile, was busy pounding at the flames with wet feed sacks.

So, when honey bees are faced with the smell of smoke (as they are each time a beekeeper smokes a hive before opening it), do they:

1.       sit blissfully unaware of what’s happening around them, as I did? No.

2.      stay in one place and worry like my sister? No.

3.      do their best to fight the fire, the way Mama did? Not exactly.

You see, bees don’t fight fire. They run from it. But first, they load up on honey so they can carry their food supply with them when they leave.

So today I sit here looking out at the rain which, as I write this, has been going on for more than 12 hours, thankful that I don’t have to worry about fire. And thankful, too, that no enormous white-jacketed monster is coming around to lift the roof off my hive … I mean my house.

Whew!

Just think of this -- fish in the ocean never have to worry about wildfires.

Whew!

Now, remember to check this blog tomorrow for my sister's side of the story.

BEEattitude for Day # 413:

       Blessed are the rainmakers, for they shall save lives.

_______________________________ 
The teeny details:
BOOK SIGNINGS
     Dec.   3       1-3 p.m.         Books for Less, Buford GA
     Dec.   4       1-3 p.m.         Humpus Bumpus Bookstore, Cumming GA
     Dec. 10       2-4 p.m.         Peerless Bookstore, Alpharetta GA 

my books:  http://www.franstewart.com Please buy them from an independent bookstore or directly from my website.

my eBooks for Kindle:  http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006AA0I4M

Day #348 Happy Birthday, Mama

In yesterday’s p.s. I mentioned that I’d watched Tuesdays with Morrie. The movie seemed particularly apt, simply because today would have been my mother’s 99^th birthday if she had lived a few years longer. One of the things Morrie said was that he’d never really had compassion for his father, never saw his pain, never knew what his father was up against.

He could have been talking about me and my relationship with my mom.

I spent a lot of years in anger, resentment, frustration, stuffing all those negative emotions inside – because in my house, it didn’t feel safe to express what we really thought.

Now, all these years later, I can connect with what Morrie said. I know now that a great deal of my anger could have been transmuted with a large dose of compassion. Thank goodness I healed my anger before she died.

Someone emailed me the other day saying, “You must be so angry that you’re allergic to bees.” That’s nothing to get angry about. I feel some sadness—well, okay, a lot of sadness—about having to give my bee hives away, but can’t see any sense in being angry about my body’s reaction to bee stings, something over which I have no control.

I had no control over my mother’s depression, either. After all these years, I’m truly sorry she had so much pain in her life. She was doing the best she could. I can feel compassion for her.

I’m also going to treat myself with a bit more compassion. Sure, I held in that anger for way too long. But I, too, was doing the best I could.

My sister, Diana Alishouse, created a series of fabric art pieces that show what depression feels like. Her book, Depression Visible: the ragged edge shows what someone who is bipolar experiences. I never understood either my sister or our mother until I read Diana's book.

Morrie said, “Forgive everybody everything.”

Where was Morrie forty years ago when we needed him?

BEEattitude for Day # 348:

       Blessed are those who let go of the dross, for they shall fly unencumbered.

_______________________________

Only 5 more days to get your dog in my next book!

From now through the last day of September, anyone who donates $10 to WAG, also known as the Walton Animal Guild, will be automatically entered in a drawing.

If you win, your dog will be in my next Biscuit McKee mystery!

http://www.wagwalton.com/News.php

Every $10 donation is automatically entered in the drawing

See Blog #324 for the details.

__________________________

Green as a Garden Hose, the 3^rd Biscuit McKee Mystery,

is now available in mass market paperback

from World Wide Mystery, a division of Harlequin.

Harlequin.com

Day #122 Bee Whiskers

Eight or ten years ago, I attended an elaborate Sewing Expo. Why I did it remains a mystery, since I’ve never been particularly interested in sewing, unlike my sister who is an amazing fabric artist. You can check out her website at www.depressionvisible.com to see pictures of her art pieces that show what depression feels like. She REALLY knows how to sew.

While I was at the Expo, though, bewildered by all the sewing machines and patterns, I spotted a vendor with a long table filled with implements—more kinds of scissors than I could imagine. And tweezers.

I waited for two customers to step away before I motioned to the vendor to come help me. “I’m looking for a really good pair of tweezers,” I whispered across the display case. “I have this ...” I looked around to be sure I wouldn’t be overheard, “... this whisker on my chin.”

“You have a whisker?” he boomed out in a strident voice that carried far past the aisle I stood on. “I have some perfect tweezers for that!” He showed me a small plastic tube containing those perfect tweezers, then handed duplicates to the dozen or so women who had descended on us within seconds, drawn there by his exceedingly loud question.

“We all have them, honey,” the woman standing next to me said, as she shelled out the rather stiff purchase price to this brilliant salesman. I got in line behind six other customers.

So I was intrigued when I got to reading about the body hairs on bees. It seems that a sick bee will frequently lose all her fuzz. That’s when the other bees know it's time to toss her out of the hive. See? Whiskers on females serve a purpose.

Still – hand me those tweezers. I am not a bee.

BEEattitude for Day # 122:

       Blessed are the fuzzy, for they are soft and we like them.

One thing Fran is grateful for right now:

       Skype, so I can see my friends when I talk to them.    

http://www.franstewart.com

Day #40 Whew! I'm home

I keep hearing all this flap about not letting people on the internet know when you're not going to be home. Well, I took that seriously, so for the past week, I've been blogging from my sister's place in Colorado. We had a fun time together. We talked, talked, talked, laughed, laughed, laughed, and ate, ate, ate.

(Beth Stallings Photo)

Bees in a hive are all sisters (except for the drones, who get thrown out of the hive once winter comes). If I had a brother, I wouldn't do that to him. I'd want to be as good a friend to my brother as my son and daughter are to each other. But, back to my sister. Diana is an artist who has created a series of fabric art pieces (quilts/wall hangings/and such) that SHOW what depression feels like. The series she created is called "The Ragged Edge," and those twelve pieces hung at the Walter Reed Institute the summer of 1991 as a part of their DART (Depression Awareness/Research/Treatment) Program. She's currently looking for a museum or a corporation to display them in a permanent collection. Her talent continually astonishes me. She was diagnosed when she was in  her forties, and has had twenty or so good years since then.

If you know anyone who is depressed (or who you think might be), please check out my sister's website http://www.depressionvisible.com/ and get her book Depression Visible: the Ragged Edge. I don't know whether bees ever get depressed. I would imagine they don't, but then again, how is one to know?

At any rate, Diana is a joy to be with now. While I was in Colorado, I took her to a meeting of the Pikes Peak Branch of the NLAPW (National League of American Pen Women). What a dynamic group of people! I belong to the Atlanta Branch -- an equally powerful bunch of professional women in the arts. It's a delight to be able to talk with creative, artistic women, all of whom understand what we're going through as we strive to create our art, whether it's through words, music, paint, or clay. Rather the way all the sister bees in a hive cooperate with each other and appreciate each other's skills. I was buzzing with energy after the luncheon on Thursday.

After the long flight home, though, I feel sort of like a foraging bee must feel when she's flapped her little wings hard enough to carry her several miles from her hive and back home again. Do bees ever hang their tongues out and pant? For that matter, do bees ever sweat? Who knows?

My flight landed in Atlanta at 10:00 pm, and my dear friend Millie met me at the airport and drove me home. Bless her! I greeted my cats, wrote my gratitude list, wrote this blog, and then pretty much collapsed. What is it about sitting on an airplane that's so ennervating? The lack of oxygen? The enforced inactivity? The proximity of so many overwrought people worrying about their schedules and fiddling with their electronic gadgets?

(public domain photo)

Why can't we people be more like bees and simply do our jobs without the constant worrying? Worry wears our wings out.

BEEattitude for Day # :

       Blessed are those who look while they fly, for they shall see the world from a higher perspective.

One thing I’m grateful for right now:

       My sister, Diana Alishouse 

Reminder: Check out her website to take a look at her art pieces that SHOW what depression feels like. While you're there, think about buying her book, Depression Visible, for a friend who is depressed or who lives with someone who is bipolar. I never really understood what my sister was up against until I read her book.