CAREGIVER DIARIES : ON THE OTHER SIDE

I was in bed reading tweets from @zionsays and was motivated by one that read: "Get up and make your way to church". 

I said "Okay" out loud as if the tweeter could hear me.

I had been listening to Youtube messages on Zion's channel for most of the previous evening, and early this morning. (Youtube and streaming worship services--not just for the sick or afflicted anymore.) 

I miss going to church--to an actual brick and mortar location. I do. It used to be a no-brainer. It was just what you did. Didn't everybody?

I was raised to go to church on Sundays. It was mandatory. 

It was a good habit. 

There was a time when there was no thought as to where I would be on any given Sunday morning, Wednesday evening, or whatever day choir rehearsal would be. I knew. 

Going to church and participating in some ministry was like breathing. 

It was normal. 

It was what I was supposed to do. 

It was what I loved to do. 

Sunday was built for church. It was God's day. 

You didn't do anything else. No matter what happened the rest of the week, or on Saturday night, I knew where I would be on Sunday morning. 

Being tired, or not feeling like it weren't options. 

You had to be deathbed sick, or kidnapped, bound, and gagged in some underground bunker to miss church. 

I marvel sometimes at how drastically that has all changed, and ponder when the change happened.

There's a lot about church life that I don't miss, and have no desire to ever experience again, but I do miss regularly being among others who love God, and have a singular desire to worship Him--period. 

No ego-driven show, 

no drama, 

no bullies, 

no committees, 

no ridiculous, manipulative, time-wasting, people-centered, God-starved obligations, activities, practices, or impositions.

Just worship. 

So, I decided this morning, as convenient as online streaming and giving is, I was going to go. I watched as the praise team sang, and as wonderfully as it was transmitting through my ailing computer, I wanted to be in the building. I reminded myself how possible that was now. "You know, you really can go. There's nothing stopping you."

While I was caring for Dad, Sunday became a true sabbath. The Thompsons or Hainsboroughs faithfully picked him up every Sunday morning, and those hours he would be away gave me a chance to regroup. 

Some Sundays, I would just sit at the kitchen table and enjoy the quiet. I needed the rest. I find that I still do, sometimes. 

In a lot of ways, I feel as if, in mind and body, I'm still recuperating from that experience. Sometimes, I give myself permission to do nothing. That, I realize can be debilitating. 

I've never been lazy. I've always had a purpose. I've always been a homebody, too. If I don't have to go, I don't. I don't mind being at home. "Home", however, is about to take on new meaning. 

Taking care of someone is, too. Now, that person is me. 

You'd think that should be easy. Why is it easier to take care of someone else? But I digress...

I got up. I gave myself enough time. I know me. I hate rushing and being rushed--always have. I know I have a tendency to dawdle, or maybe it's normal to just take time to be awake; to walk about a bit; check the house; drink a glass of water; stretch; sit; say hey to God; look out of the window; turn off the night lights; find out what happened in the world while I slept; stretch some more.

I know I can get sidetracked by something I think needs to be done before I go out. I don't know. Maybe it's my upbringing. In my Mother's house, there was no closing doors to hide stuff, or throwing things in closets, and it stuck. Mommy said, "Never leave looking better than the place you left", and "You never know how you're going to have to come back home". 

Yeah. Before I go out, I make sure my bed is ready to crawl back into it. It may not have military corners and folds, but I at least shake out the sheets and comforter and fluff the pillows. No. I don't leave dirty dishes. I make sure there's no trash to take out; no wilted leaves on plants; no unopened mail. It's not a full-out Spring cleaning, but environment matters. I just like being in, and coming back to an orderly place, so I build in time for that kind of stuff.

Yesterday, I decided to gather all of my canvases and put them in the trunk of my car. Today, I noticed there were three I'd missed. I took them upstairs and put them near the kitchen door, washed the bowl and pot I'd left soaking in the sink last night, and put a load of dark clothes in the washing machine. 

I was on a roll. I'd already emptied my dresser drawers, and hung up every article of clothing I owned. I knew there was something ready to throw on. All I had to do was shower, get dressed, and go. 

Then, for some reason, I looked at the remaining artwork I had propped against the hearth of the fireplace. I started rifling through it. There was a print I've always liked, that I'd placed in a pink, 18"x 24" metal frame about two years ago. I remembered there was a nail still in a wall of my bedroom. I don't know what possessed me to take the print to my room and hang it, but seconds after I did, it came crashing straight down to the floor--a carpeted floor--nevertheless, the glass shattered. 

I just stood there, silently staring at the mess for what seemed like a good 5 minutes. "You can't leave that there", I thought. 
I shook my head. 
I'd made work for myself.

The carpet is a bit like camouflage. It's one of those woven designs that looks splotchy; like mange; mildew-y; like a satellite image of a forest. It's good at hiding stuff. I've never liked the carpet, other than its thickness. When the rest of the basement was newly carpeted, the "good" remnant of the mange-y looking carpet was placed in the room simply to cover the cold, tiled floor. The carpet is beige, brown, greenish grey and taupe--in other words, the shattered glass just disappeared into it. 

Only the light above revealed the path of the destruction. 

I knew not to walk barefoot towards the twinkling pieces of glass. 

I also knew the cleanup was a job for the Shop Vac. 

I went upstairs to get it from the laundry room, and grabbed the bucket, too. I put on a pair of thick-soled flip flops. I picked up all of the large pieces of glass and put them into the bucket. Then, I picked up all of the smaller pieces I could see. There were tiny pieces of glass still stuck to the frame, so I plucked those out, and removed the print. 

Underneath the print, there was an old watercolor of my grandmother I'd given to Mommy as a gift. I'd painted my grandmother standing in her yard in front of her house--waiting for her ride to church. 

I shook my head at the irony. 

I knew I shouldn't stop to wax nostalgic, or figure out what I could do to brighten the colors, or grab my cell phone to snap a picture of it and edit it, or call my cousin to see if she wanted it. 

All of those things came to mind, but I put the print, the painting, and the frame aside, then turned on the Shop Vac. 

I went back and forth, up and down, side to side, crisscross, and vertically with that hose until I could no longer hear pieces of glass being sucked into the canister. I vacuumed under and beside the dresser, under the bed, near the closet--all in places where there was no glass, but I wanted to cover all bases. 

When I turned off the Shop Vac, I was sure I'd covered every inch of that carpet, but something told me to get the old Kirby upright vacuum. It's heavy, but I figured I needed to run the "good" vacuum cleaner. 

I lowered the brush so there would be greater suction. It was hard pushing the vacuum with it so close to the floor, but I wanted to make sure there was no more glass embedded in the carpet. I stood back and could see tiny reflections of light, so I ran the vacuum again. 

I found a bag, broke up the large pieces of glass, then placed the bag inside another one. Then I emptied the Shop Vac, and cleaned the bucket to make sure there were no more pieces of glass inside either.
The whole enterprise took a little over an hour--an hour I could have been getting ready to go to church. 

There I was, sweating, tired, and hungry, and no longer motivated to go anywhere. "The devil" I thought. 

"No, ma'am", said the Voice of Reason and Truth. "Nobody told you to hang that picture. You didn't have that to do. What did you do that for? Just couldn't stand seeing those empty walls, huh?"

I went to the bathroom, washed my face and hands, then remembered the eggs I'd boiled yesterday.
"This was not how you were supposed to spend today", I thought as I was making tuna salad. 

I went back downstairs and looked at the thumbtack that also fell when the picture frame fell. It had been strong enough to hold the lightweight canvas that had been on the wall, but not the framed, glass-covered print. Something told me it wasn't going to hold it. It didn't want to. It was as if the wall and the thumbtack yelled "No!" and rebelled and rejected having anything else placed upon them--at least by me anyway. 

That print had been hanging on the wall behind the sofa for a time, and then over the mantle for as long as I've been here, and it had never fallen. It had never been hung professionally, but its weight had never been an issue. 

Today, as soon as I stepped back to admire it, and see if it was crooked, it hit the floor.  

As clear as I bell I heard, "Stop doing home-making type things. Just stop! Yes, you're still here until everything is finalized, so there are things you can, and should do every day just because you're here--and you should care about your surroundings--but you're leaving, remember? Stop hanging stuff as if you're staying. Stop looking for places where you think something will look nice. Stop beautifying. Take down. Take out. Resume packing. It's time to go. If you're gonna make work for yourself, work toward moving out of here."

The picture falling and the glass breaking--even the sound of it breaking, and the silence afterward-- wasn't just Physics for me, it was a sign. There have been other signs. 

In my dream a few nights ago, Mommy was still alive, but she was sick in bed. Several adults invited a group of children to visit, and the children were screaming and running all over the place. I was crying and asking the adults whether they cared if Mommy was sick and needed rest, but they were enjoying a feast at the kitchen table; completely ignoring my pleas and the children's behavior. 

I realized that my purpose for being here has ended. The things I cared about don't matter any more here. 

The people I cared about--my parents--are gone. 

These walls, this house, will soon belong to someone else. 

Someone else will be attending to, maintaining, and decorating them. 

Change can be daunting, but it's time for me to start over, start new, start fresh. The hope of finding and enjoying somewhere else, the community, contentment, comfort, peace, safety, strength, voice, and security that I'd finally found here, is at the forefront of my thoughts, but I remembered what I heard in one of the Youtube messages: "Do it scared".

I didn't like the work I made for myself, or not getting to Zion, but I tried to find some good in it: The service was streaming, the tuna was delicious (even though I didn't have any celery), the carpet is clean, and there's a 3, 5, and 9 PM service I can get to if I want to go--and if I don't dawdle...or try to hang something else. 

#herestolife
#startingover 
#selfcare

FRIDAY WISDOM

“Love does not insist/force itself. 

It simply exists and requires nothing of you.

Ego needs to be seen--

even if it must assume/consume someone else’s light to do so.” 

~Anita Baker

CAREGIVER DIARIES: ON THE OTHER SIDE

In the summer of 2004, courtesy of Roger Holmes, 

I had the honor of meeting Nashville music legend, LaVerne Tripp and his talented son, Terry. 

The apple didn’t fall far from the tree!

The recording session was so pleasant, and it was fun being coached by Terry. 

I hadn't thought about that day in years. 

Last night, I had a sudden burst of energy, so I decided to tackle the sorting of my Dad's remaining albums, CD's, DVD's, cassettes and even 8-track tapes. 

I smiled when I saw the Sister Rosetta Tharpe album. For a long time, when I was a kid, it was one of two albums we were allowed to play on Sundays. The other was Mahalia Jackson’s “Bless This House”.

In an unmarked jewel case, I came across a TDK CD labeled "Vanessa's Song". 

I put the CD into my computer drive, and was so surprised to hear the song I'd recorded 14 years ago. I hadn't heard it since the day it was played back in the Tripp's studio. 

For some reason, it hadn’t been included in the final project.

When I was recording, I'd always come home and share the demos I'd made with my parents. I'm glad Dad kept it. 

Listening to myself sing has always been a bit creepy…lol.

Another song I like, however, was right in its messaging last night: "Sometimes you have to encourage yourself". 

A memory, in song, of a happy day, was encouraging.

The past several months since Dad died have been challenging, as well as healing. There have been victories and setbacks, but all in all, I really can't, and won't complain. 

It's good to know, and remind yourself that you're not alone, and "life is worth living". 
It always has been.

Click on the title below if you’d like to take a listen.

Thank you, Tripp family..: )
 
You Came My Way 

SUNDAY THOUGHTS: TIME TO GO?

So...I admit I was feeling a bit stalled last week.

 
Before, and since my Dad passed away, I suppose I've been a bit of a custodian. 

A friend called me "Cinderella". 

I laughed, because it was funny. 

I know what he was implying, but if you know me, you know that cleaning and organizing aren't drudgery to me. I rather like order. 

I was raised by neat people. 

My parents were grateful people, too. 

They worked hard for what they had, and took pride in their possessions and surroundings--inside and out. 

 
Every two weeks, just like he always had, our family friend Mark comes to take care of the lawn--as if my Dad is still here. 

Dad liked looking out of the windows at a neat, litter-free lawn.  

In a way, he felt he was doing his part to "keep up the neighborhood". 

His corner of it wasn't going to be an eyesore. 

It represented him, and his respect for his neighbors.

Order, pride, and care has been a running theme in my life, I guess. 

My Auntee Lillian used to say, "If it's supposed to be white, make it white. If it's supposed to shine, make it shine." 

I admit, I ascribe to that. 

I can think clearly, and relax, create, and feel safe in an orderly environment. Deliberate disruption that only serves to annoy, inconvenience, hurt, and make extra work for others, has never made sense to me. You knew what your elders meant when they would shake their heads and lament, "Just can't have nothin' nice!" or "Why you wanna tear up where you live?"

 
What's wrong with trouble-free places, where it's clear that people actually care about what's theirs; aren't inconsiderate, selfish, or destructive; are mindful about what they do, and how it impacts others? 

What's wrong with endeavoring to create, and maintain tranquility, beauty, and harmony? 

It's not always a matter of economics all of the time, just sheer will. 

A few days ago, I was feeling nostalgic, misty and anxious. I know. The Bible says I'm not supposed to be anxious about anything, but that twirling going on in my gut let me know I needed to collect my rambling thoughts, breathe, and refocus on the search. 
I'll be moving soon, and peace and safety are at the top of my wish/prayer list.

I know the house won't be a hard sell, which means I can't impede my own progress. I always knew this living situation was temporary. 

I've always kept that thought in the back of my mind, but three years of maintaining my parent's home has been bittersweet. 

This place could use a family, though. 

It begs for happy children; people to occupy all of the rooms who will give it life, and make new memories. 

It has been a little unnerving seeing people drive by and slow down, or drive into the driveway, get out and walk around the yard freely as if they were already at home, but that's what a FOR SALE sign in the yard does--it attracts.

I had been moving at a pretty consistent pace, once I began organizing my stuff. Suddenly, I felt sluggish. 

It occurred to me that this year marks 40 years since my parents announced we were leaving S.E., Washington, DC and moving to Fort Washington, Maryland. 

I thought they had lost their parental minds. 

I was soon to be a freshman at Howard University when they made the announcement. I had already mapped out my bus route. 

The A8 would take me from Martin Luther King, Jr. Ave. to 10th and Pennsylvania Avenue. I would walk to 7th Street and transfer to the 70. 

How in the world was I going to get all the way from Fort Washington to school? 

As a child, traveling south on Indian Head Highway, to visit family friends who lived on Bryans' Road in Indian Head, Maryland, had always seemed like a field trip. The only light on the way, was courtesy of a drive-in movie theater.
Forty years later, I was sitting in the kitchen on one of the hard, Link-Taylor chairs, just staring into space, looking around, and thinking, "I'll be leaving here soon." 

I'd moved before. Suddenly, the thought of moving again exhausted me.

Naturally, I thought about Moses and the Children of Israel. 

Forty years is long enough to be anywhere, I suppose, and lately I had been in a wandering state. 

I told myself, "Get excited! It's time to start over; begin again; try something new; get back to life!" But where? 

That was the source of my anxiety. 

I hadn't considered everything involved with relocating, in such a long time. 

Even with the caregiving, I'd pack a few things, leave DC, come to my Dad's, and when he'd recovered, I'd go back home. 

This time, I had to move; change my address, and reoccupy the room I'd chosen when I was 17. 

Once again, in 2015, Dad was ill, couldn't live alone, but adamantly wanted to remain in his house. 

For the last three years, this was home again. Things were very difficult sometimes, but I never felt unsafe.
My daughter advised, "Get out of your head. Go and take a ride if that's what you think you want to do, and look at some places. Use the websites. Narrow down a few places." 

A broker I met recently said,

"You take one day at a time. Sometimes, you become a part of somebody else's caring so much that you completely forget about yourself. You're a person. Follow your instincts. When I just don't know which route to take, I leave it up to God. I say, I don't know. Just tell me. Tell me..."  

They were both reassuring, but I needed something else. Häagen-Dazs, a brand that was born the same year I was, brilliantly created Vanilla Swiss Almond, and a half-pint of it temporarily eased my stomach and mind.

Each day I was pondering where I would settle, scouring Zillow, saving searches, and thinking about what lead up to the move from DC so many years ago. 

There had been a peeping Tom. 

Dad had been fed up with the noise on our corner in SE DC. 

Loitering increased. 

The public school system's standards were changing. 

Kids had begun using the stop sign as a target for their basketballs, and the banging and reverberating were unbearable. 

Dear neighbors had moved away, or passed away. 

One neighbor seemed to suffer a mental breakdown that caused her to leave her home, stand in the middle of the street, and angrily rant and scream at passersby.

Another neighbor seemed to be turning his entire, once beautiful yard, into a poor tribute to "Sanford and Son". 

The last straw, was when a contractor who'd just finished doing some work at our house, was shot. 

He had been putting his equipment in his car. Bleeding and crying out, he managed to crawl across the sidewalk, through our gate, and onto the porch. My Dad helped him get into the house. 

We'd lived there since the mid 60's, but suddenly terror moved into the neighborhood. 

It wasn't safe anymore. 

I understood my parent's concern, and was sad for a while. 

Change was difficult, and I'd loved city living. 

I'd loved S.E. 
I'd walked, or rode my bike all over Congress Heights, Bellevue, and Washington Highlands. 

Our church was in Anacostia. 

The intersection of Upsal Street and Horner Place created perfect bases for kickball games. 

Everyone knew everyone else. 

We had beautiful red rose bushes in the yard. 

I loved sitting on the back porch with my sketch pads and pencils, and drawing until the sun set. 

I loved our house-- that I never considered little, until I saw the new one. 

It was the year I started college. 

I had no driver's license. 

Who needed one, when the A8 bus stop was a block away? That DC transit A bus took you where you could connect to what seemed like everywhere. 

I thought everything was fine, but Mommy and Dad joined the flight to the quiet, safe, formerly off-limits-to-Black-people suburbs.

 

Seriously. I thought they had lost their minds. Mommy was still somewhat close to work, but Dad often expressed how he hated his commute from SE to the State Department. Did adding miles to the trip make sense? 

Moving meant getting up at the crack of the crack of dawn, so that he could drop me off at 7th Street to catch the 70 bus to school, so I wouldn't be late for my 8:00 A.M. class. 

I remember the day he declared he wasn't taking me anywhere else, except the Department of Motor Vehicles. You needed a car in Fort Washington, then. It was the boonies. It was no-man's land. You couldn't just wander in, and I think the residents liked it that way.

My parents decided to move to no-streetlight-nor-public-transportation-having Fort Washington because they'd simply had enough of the city. 

 
Dad had driven to Fort Washington one Sunday afternoon to serve communion to an ailing church member. He brought Mommy back to look at the "good looking" house he'd seen on a corner lot. 

It had more than one bathroom, and a big back yard. Mommy could garden, have more room for her French Provincial furniture they'd purchased at Curtis Brothers (famous for the big chair), and she would be neighbors with some of her teacher friends. People could visit without having to worry about their cars being vandalized or stolen. 

The cookouts would be legendary. 

There was even a working fireplace, and wrought iron that reminded them of New Orleans. 

There was plenty room for the dog and the doghouse. Dad contemplated a swimming pool, and there was ample room to play a game of pool, without your stick hitting the walls. 

My parents were sold. 

The house was nicer and bigger, and I had a huge, walk-in closet in my bright orange-painted room, but it wasn't S.E. 

There was no High's Dairy Store, no Waxie Maxies; no corner stores like Fort Carroll or Cassandra and Felicia Markets; no Atlantic or Congress Theaters, Washington Highlands Library, nor Bob's Frozen Custard. 

I couldn't walk to the post office or dry cleaners. 

I couldn't ride or catch a bus to Eastover to shop at Woodies, G.C. Murphy or J.C. Penney, Holly Farms, or go to the bowling alley. 

Fort Washington was giving quiet, safe vibes, that is, until someone shot poor Mr. Branch, who'd owned lots of land, in what used to be the first house you'd see after turning off of dark Oxon Hill Road. 

As heinous as the crime was, there was no urgency to pack up and move somewhere else after that happened, just an understanding that bad people bent on doing bad things were everywhere.

It's still been quiet here. 

There's more traffic than there used to be, but it's quiet (or maybe it's just considerably less noisy than it was in DC), and it has been for a very long time. 

The older I get, the more I adore peace, comfort and safety. I still can't get over it though. It's been forty years since my parents decided to move, and the irony that presents itself today is that, in the same way that a shooting helped them decide, and a shooting is also motivating me. 

 

On the evening of July 14th, on the street to which my parents fled, with its neatly manicured lawns and hedges, the police were everywhere. 

After scouring social media to see if anyone was talking about the noise I'd heard, I read that four people had been shot. 

It hadn't been Independence Day revelers using up their surplus explosives after all. Someone was armed with a gun. 
I was suddenly, keenly aware of how my parents felt. Things are different when they seem to be knocking at your door. 

I've lived and worked in what have been deemed among the worst, most dangerous areas in DC, so I've always been careful, but never afraid. 

I certainly never felt uneasy here before.

I'd been watching TV when I heard about 8 extremely loud bangs. They were so close--too close--and they echoed. I could almost feel the sound, but of course it's still July in the DMV, so I flinched, but never thought to rush to a window, or pick up my phone to call 911. 

I'd done that so many times before, when I lived in S.E. and S.W. DC, only to hear a nonchalant dispatcher ask, "Ma'am, are you sure they're not fireworks?" 
*Sigh*
"Gunshots or Fireworks" is the unofficial, annual game we play in the DC area. 

Even though fireworks are illegal in Prince George's County, and fireworks that explode are illegal in DC, quite a few people ignore the ordinances, and fire off round after round with impunity. 

This year was the first time in a long time, that it's been relatively peaceful. However, ten days after the 4th of July, only WUSA-9 news, the police cruiser parked horizontally in the middle of the street to block traffic, yellow tape, vehicles making sudden u-turns as they neared the scene, and the red and blue lights that flashed from the roofs of numerous cruisers, testified that the noise last night wasn't fireworks. 

A death, and a last will and testament were the determining factors, and now, a shooting has contributed to the urgency for me to find a new home, but again, where? 

I've narrowed down a few places, and I know that there's no place that is completely crime free, but I just hate that it seems this street is going the way of so many others. 

I don't know. Maybe the incident was just random. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was simply irony. Maybe it was a reminder not to procrastinate, or be lulled into a nostalgic state. 

No matter where people flee to get away from trouble, it tends to find its way there, too. 

It's not the streets, avenues, boulevards, and communities. Brick, wood, mortar, grass, asphalt and trees never hurt anyone. It's the people who occupy or enter the neighborhoods. 

They have to care.

Sometimes, I wonder if it's systematic and deliberate; if there's some conspiracy afoot when people seem to be frightened out of, or forced to flee neighborhoods. Fear is a motivator, but I don't want it to be mine.

I'll keep looking...and praying for guidance-- and for the four people who were wounded. 

I hear they're all going to be okay.

It's time to move.

FRIDAY WISDOM

"You take one day at a time...Sometimes, you become a part of somebody else's caring that you completely forget about yourself. You're a person...Follow your instincts...When I just don't know which route to take, I leave it up to God. I say, I don't know. Just tell me. Tell me..."  
~Carola Trainor

THURSDAY THOUGHTS: POETRY PROMPT---REUNION

In a room full of people I used to know

I saw traces of youth I'd known long ago

I heard stories of woe, joy, and levity

And I wondered how they all remembered me

In a room full of people I used to know

I saw eyes dimmed by age

Yet they seemed to glow

I heard laughter ringing, just like it once had

And I wondered if I couldn't be more glad

We were changed in some ways

Yet, we're still alive

We complained of our aches

Yet we've all thrived

We embraced warmly; friendship could still be found

Each one thankful the others were still around

The anxiety I'd felt before I came

Faded fast as soon as I heard my name

They confirmed for me I still had my smile

It helped me decide to just stay a while

I was suddenly back in a happy space

Where I'd felt safe and loved more than in any place 

Surrounded each day by the work of their hands

Not yet visited, then, by all that life demands

In a room full of people I used to know

I was grateful for grace; as I turned to go

I was glad I had not been stopped or delayed

From the lovely gift that was new memories made 

vrw© 2018