Sue’s Golden Nuggets
Getting through the trials and tribulations of caring for my mother through more than a decade of Alzheimer’s Disease, and the death of my darling husband in the interim, took a lot. A lot of work. A lot of pain.A lot of sifting through survival mechanisms. I had the help of a caregiver support group—and a therapist. I wish everyone could have a therapist. Issued at birth, with a trade-in clause if ever the fit isn’t right.
I credit my mother for my perfect fit. In the throes of a disease that sometimes wildly distorted her thinking, Mom decided our family was crazy and “needed to see a shrink.” We accommodated her, finding a professional with expertise in old folks—and Alzheimers: Sue.
In one session, Sue got Mom to remember that she did, in fact, trust her daughter and her son-in-law. And this remembrance took hold. I know it doesn’t always work this way—one visit cures the ailment—but I was impressed.
So when I needed a therapist for my own brain, I employed Sue. (After all, I was old, too.) She helped me limp along through Mom’s decline and saved me from drowning when my husband kicked the pail without telling me first.
Being both widowed and orphaned in the span of eighteen months, I needed some easily accessible tools to keep me upright and moving forward. Sue provided these. And I have distilled their essence here:
It doesn’t have to be perfect—just good enough. I used to think perfection was a good goal. But, in fact, that mindset is impractical and sometimes self-sabotaging. There’s no perfect way to raise a child, care for an aging parent, or address any of life’s complicated tasks. We do the best we can with what we’ve got at the time. Now, when I find myself repeatedly tearing out the same seam while sewing, endangering my bones by mowing weeds on a steep incline, or unable to send my column to the editor because I’m worried it’s not yet right, I remind myself—it doesn’t have to be perfect. Just good enough.
If you really don’t want to do something, that’s fine. But if you’re choosing not to do a thing because you’re scared—do it anyway. It will make you stronger. For 35 years, my husband was my partner in all things. We even worked together. Attached at the hip, some would say. So his death was, in fact, an amputation that left me unable to drive or play the banjo or even buy groceries. I had to learn to function on my own. Now, every time I’m reluctant to take on a task, I ask myself if I am merely afraid. This tactic led me to drive to Michigan and back, fly to Oregon and drive a rental car along unfamiliar crooked and steep roads, and accompany myself while singing solo at music gatherings. I wish I had internalized this nugget of wisdom prior to my darling’s death, but—
Regrets are unhealthy. So I give the past a hearty respect for the lessons it teaches—then leave it behind. I no longer wallow in remorse, stunting my ability to forgive myself and carry on. When I reflexively begin a sentence with “I should have…” or “If only I’d… ” I make a quick mental adjustment. Regrets won’t change the past, but they might mar the present.
I carry these golden nuggets everywhere. They don’t take up much room, and they frequently save the day.