A word about Buchanan...

A word about Buchanan:

The city of Buchanan has a rich history, and I have had the pleasure of getting a firsthand recounting of it from my much loved client, who has lived most of his ninety-three years here. This small town was once a bustling place, with several large industries, five major grocery stores and shopping opportunities that made it possible to never have to drive to Niles or South Bend.

That has changed; there are two small grocery stores and a hardware store, barber and beauty shops, a single chain drug store now that the last independent has been driven out by the rising cost of insurance and processing, a few nice eating establishments and a great coffee shop. Hardly the bustling city of past days, but still a nice place to be, and really, does anyone miss the several “houses of ill repute” that Bob told me used to thrive here?

We might not have big box shopping opportunities, but we do have a few treasures here. We have a great library, an amazing coffee house (The Union) which offers live music, Slocum’s (for that unique gift you won’t find at those box stores… which is a good thing) and of course the Buchanan Art Center. Yes, that’s right, an art center. Not only does it showcase regional artists (a very talented bunch!) but it offers classes for those wanting to develop a talent, and a great little gift shop featuring local artists.

I would be remiss if I didn’t put here a note about our police department. It’s possible my readers might assume from reading the Rainie Series that I don’t like the Buchanan cops. That simply isn’t true. Please remember, first of all, that these books are works of fiction, and the characters are figments of my imagination.

That being said, I have witnessed firsthand the part about small town cops being either the bullied or the bullies from school; I grew up in what was once a small town (although it seems to be sprawling and crowded now) and I knew several of the police officers from school. Yes, they were past bullies, or past bullied. This does not preclude them from being good officers, but it can make dealings with them difficult. Just ask the woman I knew from school who was hauled away in handcuffs after a domestic dispute with her halter top untied and falling to her waist. Yes, by her own admission she was being obnoxious: it was an emotionally charged scene. But did that give them the right to strip her of all dignity, to literally expose her?

As for the Buchanan police, unlike Rainie I have had few reasons to deal with them directly, but when I have, or when friends and family have (traffic stop, medical assistance) they have always been professional and competent. In fact, I did have to report a very scary incident that I feared would be laughed off; that was not the case. My concerns were taken very seriously, and the police department left me feeling protected and watched over in the days following. I won’t recount the details here, as the story will probably surface in a future Rainie book.

I would also like to point out that I have never heard of meth labs exploding in town or gunshots being fired in the business district. Again, remember that these books are works of fiction.

Just know, if you come to Buchanan, don’t expect the danger and excitement Rainie experiences to break out… but if it does, be assured our police department can handle it.

Want to know more? Go to www.cityofbuchanan.com

Come on over and see us some time!

                                                  

Who Are Those People?

Since I seem to be having difficulty concentrating on writing again today, I thought I’d write a little bit about writing.

Often, people ask me about where my characters “come from.” Sometimes it is a family member or friend who thinks they have recognized themselves or another person in one of my characters. Other times the question comes from aspiring writers looking for a few tips.

I don’t know if I can fully answer the question, but I will try.

Rainie is not me. Sure, we share some characteristics; that’s only natural when writing in first person. But she isn’t supposed to be me…

That being said, when I read back on books I wrote much earlier than Rainie, it is odd that the main characters also have many of my characteristics and quirks, and their thoughts seem to reflect a bit of what my life was like at the time. I read what Natalie and Katrin and even (in a book probably never to be published) Ilsa are thinking, and I can see my own evolution as an adult human being. The way I thought and felt and behaved thirty years ago (Ilsa) is a far cry from the person I am today (Rainie.)

I am not saying my novels should be read as autobiographies; quite the contrary. My main characters might share my opinions and fears, but they tend to behave much better than me in most cases. They are braver and stronger than me… and they certainly have far greater adventures. In many ways, they are what I wish to be, maybe even what I aspire to be.

Then we have all the peripheral characters. For instance, Rainie’s friends. The best way I ave found to explain where they came from: I took all of my friends and some acquaintances (past and present) and threw them into a big pot. I gave it a good stir and scooped some out a bit at a time, and each scoop was another character. So one of Rainie’s friends might look like one of my friends, but be married to a totally different acquaintance, and behave like two or three others.

I assume all writers do this, to one degree or another. After all, fiction, while “made up,” is really just a construct of our thoughts and memories, which in turn are constructs of our experiences and dreams. So whether I’m putting my characters in a fictional world like Shivan or the real (but still fiction-distorted) world of Buchanan Michigan, they are the product of what I know and feel.

Some things are easy to identify: for instance, Rainie’s pet iguana, George, is just my old pet, Iggy, who yes, was a very large iguana who lived in a very large cage, who loved his fresh veggies and would show his displeasure with a whip of that magnificent tail.

Thelma, Rainie’s outrageous elderly companion, is based on my own wonderful mother. My mom’s true nature, I believe, was often suppressed by circumstances and health issues, but that spark of mischief was there, and she was one of the bravest people I ever had the honor to know.

Rainie’s siblings might seem to be based on my own in some respects, but actually they are just other aspects of myself at different stages of my life, exaggerated for a bit of comedy and drama. If my actual siblings happen to also have some of those characteristics, well… genetics might play a part in that.

And the bad guys in my books? Well, they are all around me, and while I choose to exclude them from my actual life as much as possible, it is rather amusing to let Rainie get revenge on them. The funny thing is, those people will probably never recognize themselves if they chance to read the books, but that is just the nature of bad people, and a philosophical discussion I don’t plan to get into here.

I don’t know if this clears anything up for you, but it is the best I can do. Feel free to leave a comment on this blog… but also keep in mind that I often wear the sweatshirt my editor gave me which says “careful, or you’ll end up in my next novel.”

It's not the end of the world....

Well, well, well. Here we all are. So the Mayans had it wrong, and the world didn’t come to a crashing, spectacular halt.

I’m not really surprised, but I am a bit disturbed by how many people seemed to be looking forward to it. I mean, some people seemed to be looking forward to the world’s end with something like glee!

I’m not sure why this would be. Maybe they see the world through such cynical eyes they think everyone deserves to die? Or maybe they are just depressed and want to die, but can’t bring themselves to do themselves in?

Of course, I am sure there are some out there who believe that the “end of the world” just means that most people will die, but a chosen few will live, and they consider themselves part of that elite group. Some religions believe that; some survivalists do. Imagine if they are both right, and the world is suddenly plunged into a dark age of primitive living with nothing but religious nuts and rabid survivalists left to repopulate. What would future human beings evolve into? I’ll give you a minute to contemplate that…

Okay, now that I have caused you to shudder in horror, I would like to point out that our race probably already evolved from just such types.

Take the survivalists: they are really just practical (albeit often paranoid) folks who are prepared for just about any eventuality. Paranoia is not necessarily a bad thing, especially when the world is a scary, unpredictable place. (Wait, it always is, isn’t it…?) Besides, as someone once said, “Just because you’re paranoid, that doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” And in a post-apocalyptic world, that is probably even more accurate. Or, for that matter, back when human beings were first coming into their own, fighting for a place in a wild world, paranoia and preparation was surely the difference between who survived and who didn’t. Just ask Noah. (Now there was the “original survivalist.” Can you imagine the way his neighbors made fun of him?)

As for religious nuts, we’ve also had them from the beginning, when people were worshiping the sun and the moon, desperate to find meaning in what must have seemed to be a chaotic existence, where storms could blow away their fragile shelters, the moon would grow and recede, the sun would blaze down and burn their skin one day and hide behind cloud cover for weeks at a time…

Having faith that the proper behavior would keep those frightening phenomena from destroying you would be a great comfort. I think the same holds true today; we might have a better understanding of weather and the phases of the moon, but there are still plenty of forces in the world that seem bent on our destruction… many of them fellow human beings. Nice to think someone is watching out for you, and that in the end they will take you to a better place… in the meantime, the true believers will treat their fellow humans better, so that isn’t a bad thing.

I think what I have just described here is a basic division of human beings: those that believe helping their fellow man will keep them safe, and those that believe they have a right to anything that allows them to survive.

I think I had a point here, but now I have just depressed myself. So I leave you to consider this on your own…

And hope that the Mayans didn’t mean midnight tonight….

I Can See the Headline Now...

I haven’t blogged for awhile. Actually, I haven’t written anything for awhile. I’ve been doing something I don’t usually do a lot of: sleeping. I mean, actually going to my bed and slipping into the world of dreams for as many as eight hours at a stretch. In my whole life I have only done that when I was sick or pregnant.

At the moment, I am not ill, and I am certainly not expecting a child. I’ve passed the procreation torch on to my children, and trust me, they are doing a fine job at the task.

But I don’t really want to talk about babies or sleeping. Those were just random thoughts I needed to get out of the way so I could talk about my real subject: self perception, and how it is affected by those around you.

I don’t think everyone is affected by other’s opinions equally. In fact, from my observations, it seems there are some people in the world who are pretty much oblivious to other people’s opinions about them.

There are times I wish I was one of them. Especially times like this, when it is three o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep because other people’s words about me keep running through my head, making me doubt myself. I had thought I had reached an age where other’s opinions no longer bothered me much, but then today came along…

First there was a very harsh criticism of my book, “Rainie Daze.” Well, it wasn’t actually a criticism about the book; in fact, the lady in question said it was well written, the characters well developed, and that it was worth the read. But before she said all that, she made a personal attack on me.

Now, I can take personal criticism okay; I don’t like it anymore than the next person, but the truth is I spend plenty of time criticizing myself, so there isn’t much another person can say about me that I haven’t already pointed out. But this lady said something about me that simply wasn’t true: she called me a liar.

Okay, that hurts, because like Rainie Lovingston (yes, I know, there are many similarities between me and Rainie… it’s just coincidence, I’m sure) I am a lousy liar. For one thing, I don’t have the self-confidence to lie. The mere thought of getting caught telling a falsehood makes the heat rise in my face, so if I actually try it… well, you can imagine. People will either immediately know I’m lying or call an ambulance because they fear I am about to stroke out.

Also, there is the fact that I detest liars. Once a person lies to me, after that pretty much everything that comes out of their mouth is suspect; the trust factor is crushed, destroyed, maybe never to be regained. So this lady didn’t just call me a liar; she called me detestable and untrustworthy.

What did she say, you ask? Well, for one thing, she said I “really wanted to sell that book.” Anyone that has ever witnessed me trying to self-promote is probably chuckling to themselves over that statement. It is ridiculous in the extreme, and if it weren’t for my family and friends telling people I’m a writer, probably no one would know it even now.

Secondly, she said I misrepresented my book, that I deliberately told her it was not exactly what it is. Really? I did that and didn’t burst out laughing or faint? Sorry… didn’t happen.

So anyway, I know I am not a liar, and therefore I know that her criticism of me is unjust and… well, a lie. So it shouldn’t bother me, right?

The problem is, she said it in a public forum, where people who know nothing about me (just as she clearly doesn’t) will read it, and then other people will believe I’m a liar, and therefore detestable and… well, you see where I’m going, right?

So there I am, my shaky self-confidence now wobbling like a top running out of steam, and I have m next encounter.

I am not an accomplished public speaker, as you might guess. And I am bad at self-promotion, as you might also guess. But nonetheless, when I was approached with the idea of giving a talk about my writing, after some consideration I realized that yes, I could do that. Writing is one subject (caregiving being another) that I am passionate about, and I can absolute talk about it.

But then I spoke to the woman organizing the event, and she seemed somewhat determined to talk me out of it. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s because she has been made aware of my difficulty speaking in public. Perhaps she is concerned that I will be a spectacular failure at it and embarrass her, since she is the one presenting me. Or perhaps she is being kind, and doesn’t want me to humiliate myself. I’m not sure, but the thing is, the phone call started with me only expecting details about the presentation, and ended with me realizing that it was crazy for me to even consider giving a talk. Of course I will fail; of course I will make a fool of myself and her and everyone will laugh or be uncomfortable or I will forget what I wanted to say or simply pass out from the stress and they will have to call an ambulance and there will be a big write up in the local paper with the headline “LOCAL WRITER MAKES A FOOL OF HERSELF” and…

Whew! Give me a minute… I think I’m having a panic attack…

So, I handled the first lady with an email, telling her in my most diplomatic manner that I did not believe I had done those heinous things, but that if she was dissatisfied I would gladly refund her money. (Even though at the end of her attack she said she would probably go on to read the rest of the books…)

As for the second lady, I have about twelve hours yet before I have to give my final answer on whether or not I will give the presentation. I am leaning strongly toward taking her advice and chickening out. She is probably right, it will end in disaster.

Then again, there is that headline, and the possibility of a pic of me being stuffed into an ambulance… and really, there is no bad publicity, right?

Don't Make Me Hurt You

I am having difficulty writing the second book of Shadow, and I was trying to explain to someone why I had to set it aside.

George, the main character, is not a nice man, as all who have read “Shadow” already know. The problem is, in book two, he does something so heinous, that I am disgusted with him, and I simply cannot continue to write his story.

“Wait a minute,” this someone says to me, “What are you talking about? You invented George, you can have him do whatever you want him to do.”

Well, that’s only true up to a point.

Once a character is created in my head, they do take on a sort of life of their own. No, I am not Sybil, with multiple personalities struggling to come to the forefront. I promise you, I have never thought of myself as a six foot six inch male with a broadsword who goes around slicing up whoever gets in my way. The thought has never even occurred to me... well, there was that really bad bout of PMS I had back in July 1980, but that’s another story.

So anyway, I created George, and I set him down in a particular scenario that I also created. And then I pretty much turned him loose.

In order for my characters and scenarios to seem real, they must follow the paths set before them, but also have some “free will.” I throw myself into their world, and I “go with the flow.” I usually have a basic idea of where a scene is going, but once I really get into it, the characters often surprise me. Most of them, Like Rainie and Thelma and Nate, make me proud. They have good instincts and ethics, and they tend to do what I would do in a given situation.

But then there is George. Is he my hidden evil twin, like in Stephen King’s “The Dark Half?” I don’t think so. I think it is more that George is representative of the potential evil I see in the world. He represents those people (and we have all encountered at least one in our lives) who seem capable of almost anything so long as it benefits themselves. You know, the ones that you hear about on the news that make you just shake your head, wondering how in the world they could behave the way they do.

So, I put George in a situation and let him go, and he did something so awful that even I can’t believe he did it. I should have seen it coming, I suppose. I should have known he would be pushed to the edge by circumstances, but nonetheless, it really made me angry.

“Well, change it!” This person I was explaining things to said to me. “It’s your book.”

True, and George is a mere product of my imagination. However, if I just “change it,” it will be obvious that I did just that. If I force my characters to do something, the whole thing comes across as stiff and unnatural, like a Yuppie at a biker bar.

So I’ve set George aside for the moment. I have him sitting in a dark corner in my head, a “time out,” if you will, where he can think about his actions and maybe decide that he should handle the situation differently.

I hope he can do that, because right now I’m so angry with him that I could hurt him. And in truth, I do have the power to do that...

Just sayin’, George. Just sayin’.

It's all about the pie.

We all know that our lives are full of choices. There are so many metaphors in our culture that refer to choices: a fork in the road, a flip of a coin... but really, most choices involve much more than a simple yes or no.

Since Thanksgiving is just past, and many of us are still fondly remembering pie, consider this: three people are sitting at a counter in a diner, and a waitress is about to ask them if they want a piece of cherry pie for desert. Okay, you say, so it will end up that either all will have pie, or none will, or two will and one won't, or one will and two won't. Simple math. But is it?

The waitress asks the first customer, "Would you like a piece of cherry pie?"

"Yes, but I'd like it warm."

"Okay, would you like ice cream on it?"

"Yes, vanilla."

"Do you want whipped cream?"

"Yes, but only a little bit."

"Okay." The waitress turns to the next person.

"Would you like cherry pie?"

"Yes, but just a small piece, and not warmed up, and no ice cream, and a whole lot of whipped cream."

You see? Choices. Not simple yes or no, because there are degrees of yes and no. You might decide on cherry pie, but how you eat your cherry pie, and how much of it you choose to have, might not be the same as what your neighbor might choose.

Now the waitress turns to the third person.

"Would you like a piece of cherry pie?"

"No, but I would like that piece of apple pie I see in that case over there."

So there you have it. Sometimes your choices aren't limited to the ones offered to you. Sometimes there are better choices out there, if you are observant and see the apple pie tucked in the back of the case, maybe hidden away for the waitress's break. (But we'll discuss how our choices affect other people in another blog.)

Of course, all three people might be affected differently by their decision to have pie. One might get sick from it, or gain weight. Maybe another has been having a bad day but the pie cheers him so much he buys his teenager a new car on the way home. Maybe one of them is late to work, and eating the pie will get him fired.

Maybe the waitress, angered that she can't have her apple pie on her break, will be in a bad mood and won't make enough tips that afternoon to buy groceries. (Okay, I said we wouldn't talk about that, but I changed my mind. What can I say? I can be fickle that way, just ask Rainie!)

As for me, I have trouble choosing between apple and cherry, at least at Thanksgiving. So I often take a half slice of cherry and a half slice of apple, preferring to have less of each so I can have both. Sometimes I just have a cup of coffee and skip the pie.

I hope no one was hoping for any profound advice on making life choices, because I really don’t have any, except to say...

Relax. And eat your pie.

Like Pooh in Piglet's window....

Okay, so I have writer’s block. No big deal...

Except, of course, it is! I am currently working on three separate projects: book five of the Rainie series, Book four of The Red Wolves, and book two of Shadow. For any of you who have read all three, you know that these are three very different series, written from different perspectives, in different voices, in different moods. Surely I should be able to work on at least one of them.

Nope. Not happening.

So I dusted off a really old project, the first fantasy novel I ever attempted, tentatively called “Shattered World.” It is as different from the other three projects as they are different from each other. I was certain it would kick start whatever synapses aren’t firing in my usually prolific brain.

Still not working.

It’s time to pull out the big guns.

I’m going to cook.

Over the weekend I made potato soup and chili. This week I think homemade chicken and noodles, maybe some stir fry... maybe a bit of baking and fudge making is in order, as well.

Yes, we are getting to the crux of the matter. Writer’s block is fattening.

They don’t warn you about that in creative writing class, do they?

And yes, I have tried walking and Pilates, and a long drive, and a hot bath, and reading other people’s books to give my own characters time to rest. I have read the newspaper, texted friends, read a couple of dozen random words and definitions in my favorite dictionary. I took pen in hand and put it to paper, hoping that familiar old connection would help. All that got me was some bad poetry, and that isn’t what I need to be working on.

I’m stuck like a twig in a logjam. Like Pooh in Piglet’s window. Like the little boy in Timmy’s well. Like a standard bolt on a metric screw.

I’m blocked like a car at a police roadblock. Like a drain full of grease and hair. Like grandpa after eating a half pound of cheese.

Okay, you probably get the picture.

So, once again I must apologize to those of you waiting for the next book of... well, anything that I’m writing. I promise it will all be written eventually.

In the meantime, I will cook and cook and cook... and at least my family should be satisfied... if a bit heavier by the time I start to write again...

Why poets have to work for a living....

Just for fun, I thought I would share some of Rainie Lovingston's poetry with you. I offer no judgment on it's quality, except to say that perhaps Rainie shouldn't quit her day jobs...

Scintillating rain falls

Silver lines on the window

Dazzling widened eyes

Lightning flashes out

Slicing the darkening sky

Here and quickly gone

Thunder following

Deep rumbling roar warning

There is more to come

Hearts tremble with fear

More primal than love’s beat

Can this be the one

Wild winds blowing east

Take the breath from young and old

And leave us quiet

Contemplating life

And our light, tenuous hold

On all things thought dear

Until the storms pass

And we revel in sunshine

And laugh at our fear

Here are a couple of gems from her "published" works, mentioned in Rainie Daze:

I love you because

 You don’t see my blemishes

 You don’t see the ugliness in me

You see the person you believe me to be

  And through your eyes

  I am a better person

And another one:

I love you

  Because I do

And sometimes

  That is all that matters

How to Write a Book

People often tell me they would love to write a book, but they don’t know where to start. The best advice I can give is to sit down and start writing... and let the book start itself.

The thing is, some books don’t start at the beginning. They start at the end, or the middle, or just some random page in between. Sometimes they start with just a tiny seedling of an idea, like a scrap of thought almost too ephemeral to catch hold; other times they spring forth nearly fully grown, and it’s a race to see if you can get all the words written before they die of old age.

A good book is happening all around you, every day, every moment. It’s called life. Not just your own, although some people’s lives would qualify as a good story all on their own. A good book includes many characters and life events, and if you want to write a good story you have to pay attention to those.

A random encounter with a clerk at the grocery store, or maybe just with someone who holds a door for you on a blustery day; those are the characters that should populate your book. A passing comment overheard in the grocery store can often blossom into a juicy tale, or maybe you can just expound on something you wish would happen to you.

Ultimately, I think if you truly want to write a book, you will. In fact, you probably won’t be able to stop yourself from doing so, no matter what (job, housework, kids, noisy neighbors, floods and icebergs) gets in your way. If I had been on the Titanic and they told me to get on the lifeboat, I probably would have made them wait while I ran back for my notebook and pen.

It’s just what writers do: we write.

Just look at the eight linear feet of filled spiral bound notebooks on my office shelf, or the hard drive filled with my many Word documents, and you will see the proof.

So, if you want to write a book, go buy yourself a new notebook and a good pen. Then... go shopping, or bowling, or take a cruise to Alaska. It doesn’t matter much; just go out and live, and then... write it down.

Like a rock skipping across my stream of consciousness...

A sampling of this morning's thoughts...

The question is often asked, “If you could go back in time and change one thing about your life...” But all I can think of are the consequences that might come of that one change. My life is what it is because of ALL the events that have shaped it... and in the end, I wouldn’t risk losing the best parts of my life to eliminate the worst.

Why is it that the noise of my grandchildren screaming and running through the house is never as loud as when their parents did it?

My client told me the other day that all his aches and pains are worth it. They are the product of more than nine decades running, jumping & climbing while he worked and played, and he’s glad he did it all, and that he was able to do it all... I’m pretty sure there’s a life lesson to be learned there...

People ask me if the characters in my books are based on “real” people. I choose to not answer that, except to say “Truth is stranger than fiction.”

But that being said... many of the events in Rainie’s life are based on true stories.

How much wood would a wood chuck chuck if he had a wood stove?

And why would Sally sell seashells at the seashore when everyone could just pick them up for free? Or is it like the pet rock fad... it’s only cool if you pay too much for it?

A walk in the woods

Our paths in life are not laid out by engineers and civil architects with training in efficiency and logic. Rather, they are cut through the undergrowth as we go, twisting and twining across and adjacent to the paths of others, sometimes becoming one path.

If you have ever followed a wildlife trail, you will see that it often seems random, but really, it isn’t. Deer follow a path that offers the least resistance and offers the most sustenance, with detours to avoid dangers and pitfalls. So do we, although if we are fortunate, we also diverge enough to view a spectacular sight, and pause to take in the details.

Now and then, fear will cause us to rush headlong through the brush, stumbling and breaking our toes and accumulating scratches from the thorns we can’t avoid, and if we run too far we can easily get lost. But most of us eventually find a safe clearing, and after a brief rest we go on, maybe far from our original trail, but once again on the move through this long hike called life.

Along the way we meet fellow travelers, and we might have the opportunity to help them find their clear path, or they might be able to help us find ours.  Others might block your path, even deliberately putting obstacles in your way; climb over them, or go around. Don’t just sit in the dirt and lament that the way has gotten too hard.

Many travelers will keep you company, and make the road seem shorter. Or maybe you will just walk along for a time in companionable silence.

No matter, whatever geography our life path follows, ultimately we are all going to the same destination.  Make the journey count.

Of marching (and sleeping) to a different beat

Circadian rhythms: all biological organisms are subject to them, (at least terrestrial ones) and they follow the twenty-four hour cycle of our planet (perhaps, on other worlds, circadian rhythms follow an eight hour, or twenty four minute cycle, but that is a matter for the great sci-fi authors to address.)

I want to begin by saying that this is in no way to be construed as a scientific article, backed by hours of expensive research. This is based purely on my casual knowledge and some years of personal observation.

I’m sure everyone has heard (or perhaps said) “I’m a morning person.” Or the opposite; some people just don’t seem to function well before noon. The late sleeper is probably not a lazy person, but merely responding to their natural body rhythms.

I’m fairly certain that human beings, in general, are considered diurnal, meaning they are awake in the day and sleep at night, as opposed to nocturnal creatures, such as bats, which terrorize us by flying into our hair after dark (a myth, by the way) and raccoons, which terrorize our trash cans after the sun goes down.

I have known people who worked the overnight shift for years, and seemed to thrive on it, as if they were as nocturnal as a bat. Myself, I worked the third shift for a time, and never could seem to get in sync with it; I would stumble around my days, catnapping here and there, always feeling out of sorts and as if I was a step behind the clock. On the other hand, I can wake up at four a.m., grab a cup of coffee and be ready to take on anything the world has to throw at me.

Our lives can be greatly improved if we listen to our own body clocks and live accordingly. I controlled my migraines for years by simply figuring out when my optimum time for sleep was and sticking to it. If I deviated... well, it wasn’t pretty.

What does all this have to do with either writing or caregiving, you ask... since that is what this blog is supposed to be about.

Well, elders, of course, also have their own circadian rhythms, and if a caregiver wants to enhance their quality of life, it is best to recognize that individual’s timing and organize their days around it.

Again, I can best explain this using a facility vs. home environment. In a nursing facility, everyone is on the same schedule. They pretty much have to be, considering the number of residents each employee has to take care of in a day. So, between six and eight every morning the new shift comes on, gets all the residents out of bed and into wheelchairs on up on walkers and shuffle them off to the dining room for breakfast.

At least a portion of those residents will slump at the table, uninterested in food or conversation, quite possibly snoring away in their chairs. Then, after that lovely meal, they might be escorted to an activity, or physical therapy, where they will continue to slump and snore in spite of the staff’s best efforts to engage them.

I had one particular lady (I will call her “Helen”) who did this in a rehab facility, and they finally sent her home with twenty-four hour care in a wheelchair, saying she would likely never walk again.

At first, when we got her home, the overnight staff, thinking they were being conscientious, always got her up at seven o’clock in the morning, dressed and at the table before I came in at eight o’clock. There she would be, slumped in her wheelchair, ignoring breakfast, cranky and out of sorts until well after noon.

So I told the overnight shift to leave her alone in the mornings, and to let her sleep until she was ready to get up. The next morning she slept until ten o’clock, but when she awoke she was cheerful and cooperative and very hungry! She ate her breakfast and we went out for a walk in the sunshine (pushing her wheelchair) and all in all we had a pretty good day.

The night staff put her to bed at nine... and she had a miserable, restless night.

So, next step was telling the night shift to let her stay up until she announced she was ready for bed. Within a week, she had established a pattern: bed around midnight, up between nine and ten. Within a week after that, she was regularly doing her physical therapy. Within a month, she was back up using her walker.

This has been true of all of the clients I have cared for at home. Some prefer to rise before the sun and go to their beds at eight o’clock. Some just prefer to sleep a few hours at a time around the clock. Whatever; they function best when allowed to follow their own natural rhythms.

Sometimes we can discover a client’s rhythms by talking to them or their families, and asking them what their sleep cycle has been for the last eight or nine decades (although many of us go against those natural rhythms due to necessities of work schedules.) Other times, we just need to sit back and observe.

If you wonder about your own circadian rhythm, the best way to figure it out is to take a few days off your normal routine (at home; travelling tends to put us out of whack) and stop living by the clock. Go to bed when you are sleepy, get up when you wake. After a few days, your body will gratefully fall into its own groove... and I can pretty much guarantee you will feel more refreshed and rested than you have in years.

Try it. And if you have a loved one in your life that seems to be constantly tired, out of sorts and cranky... well, try giving them a few days off, too.

Achievements and the art of raising (or lowering) your expectations

Many of us rate our lives according to our achievements.

Some point with pride to their college degrees, whether it is a Masters in Psychology, or an Associates in Electronics. Is one more of an achievement than another?

That, my friend, depends not so much on the destination, as the journey.

If you are the child of a wealthy family, never required to work while you attend college, with the choice of nearly any school to attend, then perhaps that Associates degree you received is not much of an achievement. On the other hand, if you worked your way through two years worth of classes two credits at a time while slinging burgers at McDonald’s and supporting your child... yes, that is an achievement to point out with great pride!

If you travel across the U.S from New York to California by train, that could be somewhat of an achievement, if you have always wanted to go to California. But if you make that same journey on a bicycle... well, it is all a matter of degrees, isn’t it?

If a young man wins an Ironman competition, there is no doubt he has achieved something. But what about the ninety-four year old man recovering from a stroke who manages to stand and take three steps on his new walker?

Yes, you knew this would get around to care giving at some point, didn’t you?

My point is... well, I don’t really have a single point here. Except, perhaps, that we all need to set goals, preferably difficult to achieve goals, and strive to attain them. Otherwise, we will simply sink into a predictably structured life, drowning in practicality in a long, colorless procession of days until boredom finally sucks us into our graves. (Yes, this is a quote from Nolen, from “The Rise of the Red Wolves.)

People sometimes wonder why I push my clients so hard. What difference does it make when you are ninety-four?

Well, it’s simple, really. Just refer to the quote above; life shouldn’t be like that, whether you have two months or two decades of if left to live.

Focus, please!

FOCUS!

A simple word, used as a noun or a verb, but with several applications either way.

The Oxford American Dictionary defines it:

n. 1) the point or distance at which an object is most clearly seen through a lens or by the eye.  2) a center of activity or interest.

v. 1) to bring into focus 2) to concentrate or be concentrated or directed (on  center, etc.)

I don’t know about you, but I go through times when I seem to have a maddening lack of ability to focus! Sometimes, it’s just my eyes; I’m not as young as I used to be, and it seems that as the years go by I prefer larger items on which to fix my gaze. Fortunately, this is a problem corrected with new eyeglasses.

The other kind of focus, the whole “concentrate or direct on center...” well, that is another issue altogether.

Take the past few weeks, for example. I have been writing... a lot! But my efforts have definitely lacked focus. I am currently working on four different novels.  (Five if you consider the brand new one that is attempting to be born, banging around in the back of my skull with restless glee. I have a theory that my chronic migraines are caused by the labor pains of these potential new babies, but that is a subject for another day.)

There, see? Four short paragraphs into this blog and already I lost focus and went off on a tangent!

Yes, this is where Rainie gets her tendency to be thinking odd and usually inappropriate thoughts all the time, when she probably ought to be concentrating on the situation at hand. Too often someone thinks I am paying close attention to their explanation of something (important or not, makes no difference) when in actuality my mind is a thousand miles or subjects away, racing down the autobahn of my subconscious with a full tank of gas and no brakes.

On occasion, if what I was supposed to be listening to is of real importance, I will stop the speaker and say, “I’m sorry, could you repeat that? I forgot to listen.”

Okay, yes, that is very rude, and truly, I rarely say it. Usually once I come back to the moment I can pick up the general gist of what was being said with a few well-placed questions, such as asking for a particular detail (time, place, whatever) to be repeated, and I can fill in the rest from there. It’s sort of how you figure out the meaning of a word you don’t know by the context in which it is used.

Of course, I am not always so unfocused. The thing is, I tend to be an all or nothing kind of woman, so what will happen (soon, I hope) is one morning I will open one of those multiple projects, type a word or two... and then not stop for hours. Eight, nine, twelve hours... it’s hard to say. I won’t stop to eat, and barely stop to relieve my bladder, and before I know it, another one of my babies has matured and is ready to go out on its own.

Right now, I have people cheering for the fifth book of the Rainie Series, the fourth book of the Red Wolf Series, and the sequel to “Shadow.” But I am leaning toward a rewrite on “Shattered World,” the very first novel I ever wrote. I don’t know which one will finally claim my full attention first.

Or maybe it will be the still unborn...

I’ll let you know, as soon as I focus.

For the sake of argument...

This blog isn’t about caregiving or  writing. It’s about being a human being.

You wouldn’t think this would be something to write about. I mean, we are all human beings, so we should pretty much know what it’s all about, right?

But it seems to me that some are better at it than others.

I know, I know, I said in an earlier post that it isn’t my place to judge. It isn’t, so I try not to, but the one thing that I can’t tolerate in my fellow human beings is... intolerance.

I am so weary of people defining others by one aspect of their humanity. So you meet a person and they are of a particular race or sexual orientation or size or even political bent, and right away you form an opinion based on that one fact.

I pity those that choose their friends that way. They are missing out on so much that people have to offer.

I have friends that are gay, straight, thin, fat, black, white, college educated, high school drop outs, geeks, former jocks and even... yes, even Republican! (and Democrats, if you want full disclosure.)

I can’t point to a single one of them and use a single word to describe them. I have fat, gay Republican friends and thin, geeky anarchist friends. The thing they all have in common, if I count them as truly a friend, is their willingness to allow each other to be different.

I argue with my friends; this is a good thing, and pretty entertaining. It wouldn’t be much fun to hang out with people who agree with me all the time. What sort of conversation would that make, a group of folks just sitting around nodding their heads and repeating the same old doctrine, like listening to the same song over and over and over...

Dullsville, man!

I want to hear differing points of view. I want to argue my points, and even, sometimes, be convinced that my point of view is wrong. That’s how human beings develop into better human beings.

I’ve been told I’m pretty smart and creative, and there are some who like my sense of humor. I’ve been called a hippie chick and been told I have an “old soul.” I have been told I have a wicked temper that some fear, and that I have a bit of a stubborn streak (okay, I could out-stubborn Ghandi on a hunger strike, if truth be told.)  I will accept all those things as part of who I am, but I will not accept any single one of them as a definitive description of “Melody.” You want me, you have to take the whole package, folks, or just keep on going.

But if you’d like to stop and argue the point for a while... well, come on in, I’ll put the coffee on.

Observation and the Meaning of Life

A friend a I were recently talking about being observant.

To be observant, you have to be a bit outside of yourself. You have to be focused on the world around you, and pay attention to it, in order to actually pick out details.

As a writer, I find this attention to detail crucial, but I don’t know if I am observant because I write, or if I write because I am observant.

I’m fascinated by details. I love trivia, and I tend to notice all kinds of details, from the subtle contrast of colors in a field of flowers, to the tick of a tire on the road when there is a pebble stuck in the treads. I notice insects when I am walking (I try hard not to step on bees when I am ambling barefoot) and subtle scents on the breeze. I can spend long minutes contemplating the color of a fallen leaf, or even study a simple object, such as a pencil, and wonder exactly how it was made.

I love to watch for nuances in people’s facial expressions as I speak to them, or, even better, when they are engaged in a task not involving me... no, I don’t mean that in a creepy way! I like to look at people sitting in the car next to me at a traffic light, and try to figure out from their facial expressions what they are thinking, and speculate on what kind of person they are or what kind of day they are having.

I think perhaps this is a habit (or skill, depending on how you see it) that helps with caregiving. I have learned to read people’s facial expressions to the point that I can often figure out what even my most uncommunicative clients are feeling. I once had a client who had aphasia (loss of ability to speak) resulting from a stroke. It was thought that he had also lost the ability to understand language. I wasn’t with him long before I figured out his brain was still clicking along in high gear, and he had a great sense of humor! Eventually he reacquired the ability to say a few words: “yes,” “no” and “damn it!” With those three utterances and facial expressions, we could pass a pleasant day together, communicating quite well.

If you know what you are looking for, it is almost impossible for someone to get away with lying to you, and you can know when the people around you are hiding pain or irritation, or even if perhaps they love you.

Most of all, though, paying attention to detail gives me a deeper appreciation for the world, with all its beauty, fascination... even its ugliness.

As Thelma will tell you, it gives my life meaning, because if I don’t live it like it does... it simply won’t.

Writers block, cooking, and floods... oh my!

I am suddenly very much in the mood to cook.

I plan to make mac & cheese, ham & beans, stuffed peppers.... and probably whatever else I can whip up out of the pantry.

I don’t really plan to eat all that. I’ll most likely pass it around to family, friends and my client. It’s the cooking I’m in the mood for, not the eating.

This, my friends, is a symptom of writer’s block.

I am currently working on three books: The fifth in the Rainie Series, the fourth in the Red Wolf series, and the sequel to “Shadow.” They couldn’t be more different, and each requires an entirely different mood to be written effectively. Now surely, one would think, my mood should match one of them, and I should be able to write...

But no. I am not quite cheerful enough for Rainie, not quite ticked off enough for Shadow, and not quite whimsical enough for Red Wolves.

So, I must cook.

The creativity in me has to seep out somewhere. Sometimes I play guitar, or draw (not well) or do free hand embroidery or even paint little pewter figurines representing the characters in my books. Like Rainie, I sometimes resort to poetry (although I don’t often write it on bathroom walls) or if I’m really desperate I will simply rearrange the furniture.

All of these things do the same thing for me; they focus my mind on minutia, and let some of that creative energy trickle out a bit so it relieves the logjam in my head. Often, in the midst of stirring a sauce, inspiration will strike, and I abandon the stove for the keyboard.

Usually I remember to turn the burner off, but sometimes... well, I haven’t burned the house down yet!  I did, however, flood the bathroom once. I started water in the tub, thinking a hot bath might inspire me. I went back to my office to make a note on something, and Word pulled me in...

Two hours later, the bathtub was quite full, and so was the bathroom floor... carpeted, mind you!

That was somewhere around chapter three of “Rainie Daze,” if I remember correctly... but clearly, my memory is not to be completely trusted, especially if I am in writing mode!

So for the next couple of days I will cook, and hopefully get kick started into writing... which book, I don’t know. It might depend how the sauce turns out!

Maybe at my next book signing I’ll be handing out bowls of ham and beans to my readers along with a signed copy of my books...

An Author's Multiple Personality Disorder

It's four o'clock in the morning, usually my best time for writing, but it seems all my characters are still sleeping in those back rooms of my head where they go is between adventures.

I read somewhere a long time ago that four A.M. is the best time to launch an attack on someone. That's the time that most people's circadian rhythms are the lowest, and they are most vulnerable. At the time I read it, I wondered about the ones launching the attack; shouldn't their energy levels also be ebbing?

"Ah," I say to myself, (and myself listens eagerly, always excited to hear a revelation) "not all of us march to the same drummer." Some of us clearly pulse to a different rhythm, and four in the morning is when we peak. It seems then, that we insomniacs could take over the world... but unfortunately most of us seem to prefer to spend our time at serious introspection.

Or writing. Which some might consider an introspection of another sort. All those characters, after all, do come from within my own mind: Rainie, Jack, Thelma, Nate and Phenny, George and Katrin... I suppose in some way they are all aspects of me. Does that make me Sybil, suffering from multiple personality disorder?

Some might think so, when I explain how it can be when I'm writing. How sometimes I am shocked by the way my characters behave.

"How is that possible?" I'm asked. "You are doing the writing, the characters do what you tell them to do."

Well, not so much. I start a character with a very basic personality and no more than an outline so far as looks go. For instance, maybe it is a woman with a sense of humor and high intelligence, medium build, brown hair.

Imagine you are meeting someone at a party for the first time, and this is all the description you are given of her. You might form a few opinions of what she will be like, but then you meet her and spend an evening with her.

You are surprised to discover that her brown hair is actually a stunning shade of auburn, and she has nearly golden colored eyes that keep you almost mesmerized. You hear her discussing string theory with someone as if she has studied it since birth, but the next minute she turns and guffaws at a fart joke with a laugh so contagious the whole room cracks up.

Suddenly a fire breaks out at the party, and this woman heroically throws a man over her shoulder when he is overcome by smoke and carries him outside before returning to the burning room to rescue a couple more...

Now, if asked the next day about this woman, would you repeat the description you were originally given? Probably not, because you know so much more about her beyond brown hair and a sense of humor.

That's how it is with my characters. And as I get to know them, I get to understand how they will behave in certain circumstances, and if I try to write them behaving in a way that is counterintuitive, they will balk. They simply will not do it.

Now, don't get me wrong; they often surprise me. Just like my friends in the "real world," they can do unexpected things that make me laugh, or cry, or simply shake my head. That's because human beings are unpredictable... which is why I like them so much.

And that includes the human beings that are currently napping in the deep recesses of my head, waiting for the next adventure.

 

 

The truth about lying...

Have you ever told a lie?

Most people have, at one point or another in their lives. It can be useful as a form of self-preservation (Suzie, did you break Grandma’s antique china dish? No Mommy, I don’t know how that happened....) and it is also an important social tool (Hey, honey, do you think I’m too fat? No dear, you look wonderful...).

Some lies are told to others, some to ourselves. Even the most introspective person needs to lie to themselves once in a while, or facing our imperfections would become overwhelming and we’d end up rocking in a corner somewhere, wearing a hair shirt and flogging ourselves with a knotted rope. Ok, maybe not that bad, but you see what I mean.

There are a lot of people who lie to better their own positions, in work, in relationships, even to get a better place in line at the grocery store. There are people who seem to tell lies as a matter of course, to make themselves look better or maybe just because it amuses them.

I have always had trouble telling a lie. I blush and stammer and look away, sure that I will be confronted and then die a slow death of embarrassment.

But caregiving has taught me the usefulness of some lies.

For a time I took care of a wonderful elderly man who was in a nursing facility. This was a beautiful place, well laid out and clean, but the staff... not so much.

During the course of my day with Mr. Smith (there, a lie... that is not his real name) I would have occasion to interact with the other residents. There was one very sweet lady, a retired schoolteacher I will call “Mary.”

Mary’s husband had died some years before, but she was long lost in the dark woods of dementia, and didn’t remember that. She would sometimes walk around the facility, asking if anyone had seen her husband “Bill.”

“No I haven’t, Mary,” I would tell her. “Maybe he isn’t home from work yet.”

“Oh, you’re probably right!” She would say brightly, and go on about her day. She might come and ask me the same question a few minutes or an hour later, but the same answer would satisfy her.

A lie. I could tell it without the slightest stammer or averting of eyes, because in that case it was a kindness.

Sadly, the staff didn’t see it that way. They were told to “keep the residents oriented. Tell them the truth.”

So, one day I was sitting on the sofa with Mr. Smith, and Mary came running in, sobbing almost hysterically. She had asked one of the staff members if they had seen her husband, and the staff member had bluntly told her “Your husband is dead.”

Mary, thinking that she was twenty years in the past, believed that this tragedy had just happened. She curled up next to me, crying her heart out, having just lost the love of her life.

And so I told her another lie. I told her that staff member was just being cruel, that of course Bill wasn’t dead, he was at work, it was only two o’clock in the afternoon, after all. He was probably sitting in his office sipping a cup of coffee.

After some discussion as to why that staff member would be so cruel (it helped that Mary had been a schoolteacher for years, and understood the ways of bullies) she finally calmed down, and went back to wandering the facility, waiting for Bill to get home from work.

I went in search of that staff member.

It was not a lie when I told her I would come looking for her if she did such a cruel thing to Mary or any other resident again. Did I threaten her with bodily harm? Don’t be silly, I’m a caregiver, I don’t resort to violence...

I have no idea why that woman avoided me with a look of fear in her eyes thereafter (why am I blushing and averting my eyes while I write this...)

I do know, she never again told Mary that her husband was dead.

So go ahead, call me a liar. I’ll wear the label proudly if it saves a lonely old woman from grief.

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A kick in the ass

Client: “I’m not getting up today. I’m just going to stay right here in my bed.”

Me: “Yeah? Good luck with that. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

This is an actual exchange that took place between me and a client. Now, some of you might be thinking “Wow, she’s really rude!” Well... yes, sometimes I am.

It isn’t that I am disrespecting my client. It’s just that some people don’t respond well to cajoling and weakness. They require a bit of a push on some days. In fact, my client calls it me “giving him a kick in the ass.”

And yes, he got up fifteen minutes later, and had a lovely breakfast, and we went for a walk and in general enjoyed the day.

The alternative to my rudeness would have been to just agree to his desire to not get up. He would have stayed in his bed until his back started to hurt and he got really hungry and maybe had a seizure because he skipped his meds.

There usually comes a point in my elderly client’s lives when it is better to just let them stay in bed. Their bodies start to wind down, and the effort to get up or even eat is tantamount to running a marathon. At that point, it becomes cruel to force them to get up; you see it in nursing homes, people slumped in their wheelchairs in the hallways, their heads and bodies at awkward angles, probably in pain, but out of their beds because they are “supposed” to be.

Don’t get me wrong; I have also seen people left in their beds when they needed to be up and about, socializing and still allowed to live their lives. And I don’t completely blame the nursing facilities; they do have a lot of people to care for in a day.

But I am privileged to do homecare, where my one on one relationship with my client allows me to make a considered judgment on what course is best.

Some days, I get my client up and I can tell from his posture and demeanor that yes, he would be better off in bed. He is, after all, ninety two years old, and sleep is practically a hobby. On those days, I escort him back to his bed and tuck his blankets in exactly the way he likes them and I let him sleep.

But not that particular day. That day he still had some living to do, and I am there to remind him of that fact and to help him do it. Even if it requires a kick in the ass.

Dementia & the Hostess Mode (or, Why We Sometimes Miss the Obvious)

“Are we going to the grocery store today?”

 “Yes, Mabel, after breakfast.”

“Oh good, I’m out of soup.”

“Are we going to the grocery store today?”

“Yes, after breakfast.”

“Oh good, I’m out of soup.”

I wrote this in “Rainie Daze,” and as I said then, no, it is not that I am trapped in a time loop like the intrepid cast of Star Trek or Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day.”

This is an actual conversation I would have several times a week with a client of mine, who I shall call “Jenny.”

Jenny was (yes, she passed, and oh! How I still miss her!) a warm, intelligent, hard working woman for most of her ninety-plus years. She ran a successful business and raised wonderful children and was actively involved in charity and community projects, many of which you folks local to the area probably still enjoy to this day. She lived alone for a couple of decades after her husband passed, still very social and very much a part of the world.

Then... dementia started creeping in.

Dementia is a tragic, frightening attack on the brain that can rob us of our loved ones long before their heart stops beating. In Jenny’s case, it first affected her short-term memory. She would do little things, like put money away and forget where she hid it, or put water on the stove to boil and then go take a nap.

Jenny’s family picked up on it early enough to prevent a tragedy, but often families aren’t aware of the problem until something drastic happens... like a person mistakes the gas pedal for the brake while driving, or takes a walk and gets lost miles from home.

Even in families where there is close contact every day these first signs can be missed. How?

One way is what I term “hostess mode.” Jenny was very good at it, even after the dementia was well advanced. Somehow, when confronted with “company,” her brain would switch to another track, and she would sound... normal, for lack of a better term.

One morning, before I arrived, the local newspaper called her for a comment on the closing of a wonderful community project she and her late husband had initiated. Now, Jenny knew nothing about it; no one had told her, for fear it would unnecessarily upset her. But the reporter gave her a brief rundown, and they apparently had quite a chat. Jenny’s quotes were in the paper the next day, coherent and intelligent as she had always been. Clearly, the reporter had no idea of Jenny’s condition. For that space of time when Jenny was speaking with a stranger on a social issue, her brain seemed to be functioning as it had a decade or more before.

She did not, however, remember the incident. She never told me about the reporter’s call, and none of us would ever have known if we hadn’t read the article.

I think we all have this ability to run our minds on alternate tracks. We use it in many social situations. It is the route our brain takes to prevent us from laughing out loud at something particularly stupid our boss says at the office party, and to keep us from slapping the annoying store clerk, thus getting ourselves thrown in jail.

What I’m saying is, that track seems to be an integral part of our survival set, for, like it or not, we are a social species, and we have to learn to get along.

What strikes me as odd is how that track can survive, even thrive, in the face of dementia. Oh, not always. Believe me, I have taken care of plenty of clients where the opposite is true, where they will literally bite the hand that feeds them!

It doesn’t seem to matter whether the victim was outgoing before dementia or not. Like so many things that affect our wonderfully complex and mysterious brains, it seems to be random. The one thing predictable about dementia, after all, is that it is not predictable.

Irascible people turn sickly sweet. Sweet-tempered people turn angry. “Neat freaks” suddenly won’t shower or change their clothes for weeks at a time, while modest folks might suddenly be found in the neighbor’s yard in their birthday suit.

But often, that social mode remains intact, concealing dementia just as a bright but fake smile hides a migraine from your coworkers.

So pay attention to your loved ones as they age. If their smile seems a little too bright, or their eyes seem to be focusing on the middle distance, they may be seeing you as an annoying boss or a cranky cashier, and be simply behaving nicely so you will go away.

So they can hide their money in the toe of a long forgotten shoe, put the kettle on the stove... and go take a nap.

Today’s subject is rather serious, although there are times that I find the same subject rather humorous.

Families.

I deal with them a lot as a caregiver. When I take on a client, it’s rare that they are completely alone in the world. There are usually children or siblings to deal with, and they often become an integral part of what I do.

Some need as much –or more – comforting as the client. Family members are often wracked with guilt when their loved ones begin to decline. Maybe because they have work or other family obligations that prevent them from providing the full time care they must hire me to do, or maybe because of past issues that were never resolved, and with the onset of dementia never can be. (Don’t wait to tell your people you love them. Tomorrow is NOT guaranteed!)

Some family members are angry with my presence. This can be a bit of jealousy, when they see their Mom or Dad become dependent on someone who is a virtual stranger to them. Others see the checks written to me as a direct reduction in their inheritance, and the relationship becomes outright adversarial. Sad, but true.

I accept all of these reactions to me as legitimate positions, and I don’t take them personally... well, not too much, anyway.

I often find myself being the mediator of family disputes, mostly in an effort to keep the drama away from the client, but as my relationship grows with the family, I find myself concerned with how all of them feel. I can’t seem to keep myself from trying to repair rifts within the family dynamic. The thing is, it is imperative that I stay neutral...and yet, that is virtually impossible, if I am doing my job right... I am a giver of care, after all.

It’s a common thing within families with multiple children to have one sibling doing the bulk of the work: first, identifying that the parent needs care, then determining what care is appropriate. Often that sibling has spent a year or more running the folks to doctor’s appointments, helping with housework, shopping... often at the expense of their own personal lives. I have seen people neglect their own spouses, even take early retirement in order to take care of their aging parents.

All this, while more often than not the other siblings sit in the background and complain about the care they are providing.

Again, this can be a matter of jealousy or greed. It can be a matter of long before seeded sibling rivalry, you know, the whole “Mom always liked you best.” I try very hard not to take sides in these situations. After all, I wasn’t there to see them grow up; for all I know, the parents did show favoritism, and those feelings are legitimate. But sometimes, when I see an adult child crying over some ugly thing a sibling said or did, my protective nature flares out, and I can’t help but rush to their defense.

But always... ALWAYS... I keep the best interests of my client in the forefront. I have literally ushered family members out of a dying client’s room when the ugliness creeps out, and make them “take it outside.” This often causes the anger to be turned on me, but that’s okay. I can bear the brunt of it, and usually that anger is just a part of the grieving process, part of what my job entails. In the end, I almost always get hugs from all the family members, who eventually come to realize that I always had my client’s best interests at heart.

As for those who never do... their bitterness will flavor their lives, and that is sad, but when all is said and done that is their sorrow, not mine. I have enough sorrow of my own, losing a beloved client... but that is also a post for another day!

I've been thinking a lot about the differences in people, why they exist, and what is our role in judging them.
My conclusion is: we have no role, unless we are serving on a jury of their peers. And even then... well, that's   a subject for another day.

Stephen Hawkins created quite a controversy in his book "The Grand Design" when he stated that there is no god, that we are basically the results of a chemical reaction, an accident of nature of sorts. I don't pretend to have all the answers to the universe, but I must agree that the human mind does operate on chemistry.

Love, hate, depression, anxiety...it is all a matter of a chemical reaction in the brain. Craving a sweet? A cigarette? Sex? That's because the pleasure center in your brain is begging to be triggered. What triggers it is different for everyone, a single thing, or a particular combination.

So, you look at the fat man using the electric wheelchair at Walmart and you think, "Oh my God, what is wrong with that man? Why doesn't he go on a diet?"

Well, first of all, maybe he has. Maybe it hasn't worked for him, or other health issues are preventing him from exercising enough to drop the pounds. Or maybe he has already lost a hundred pounds, and only now is strong enough to get out at all. OR... maybe he simply doesn't want to. Maybe he gets so much joy from the foods that he eats that giving them up simply makes life seem too bleak.

Do you think that's sick? Well, maybe he looks at people jogging down the road and secretly thinks "That's crazy. Who would subject themselves to such pain and torture?" Yet those people jogging may be getting the same joy from the chemicals coursing through their brains as that fat man gets from eating a carton of Ben & Jerry's ice cream. Who says which is the right course?

The answer to that is: society, social mores driven by the media. All I'm saying is, try looking to yourself for an opinion. And then keep it to yourself.

Oh, you say, but the jogger will have a more fulfilling and longer life. Really? For one thing, joggers drop dead unexpectedly from heart attacks every day. For another, just because a man looks fit and happy, you don't know that he is. Maybe his family hates him because he spends all his time jogging; maybe he's a philanderer or a pedophile or even a serial killer... there is no way to know all the secret places of a person's mind. No one is that good at chemistry.

And so what if the fat man lives twenty fewer years? Maybe that is exactly how many years he wants to live. And maybe he will live them very happily... which he might not do if he spends his days depriving himself of that which brings him joy.

It's a matter of quality, not quantity, folks. Believe me, I see it in my elderly clients all the time. They give up this and that to live longer, and often they do, well into their nineties, but just as often they tell me every day how much they miss those things they gave up. Smoking, drinking, pastries... yes, even sex.

Now, I'm not saying throw caution to the wind and go have sex with forty different partners while on a drunken bender, smoking unfiltered Pall Malls and munching chocolate eclairs. I'm just saying, maybe you don't want to give up ALL your vices.

And maybe some people don't want to give up any.

Me, I like to smoke and have the occasional beer. I like to write and read and drink way too much coffee while standing under the stars on a chilly morning. Not everyone likes those things, and yes, I know some of it will shorten my days on this earth. But my brain chemistry responds well to it, and I am a happy person.

Now, you over there, spending an hour on the elliptical machine every night after work and drinking raw carrot juice... I don't get that at all. But hey, it isn't my place to judge you... I just hope it is your bliss, and not something you do because you think you should.

On my death bed, I will look back on all that wonderful coffee I drank under the stars while enjoying my morning cigarette... and I will smile as the lights blink off.

Okay folks, I’m back.

I know I haven’t updated this blog in a while, but I haven’t written here for the same reason I haven’t been working on book four of the Rainie Series. For a time, it seems I lost my sense of humor.

For some reason, if I don’t have a sense of humor, Rainie doesn’t seem to, either. I’m not quite sure why that is...

Now, most people consider having just the five major senses enough, and I admit, I do like having a sense of smell, taste, touch, hearing and sight. Like most people, I have had periods of time when I have lost some or all of those; like when I have a bad cold, and I can’t smell or taste anything, and my ears get infected and sound is muffled. I’ve even suffered a reduced sense of sight when I can’t locate my glasses, and carpel tunnel syndrome (from too many hours at the keyboard) has periodically numbed my hands and stolen my sense of touch.

I can handle all of that. It’s temporary, and with the help of my immune system, a bit of therapy and my optometrist, all of those senses come back.

But the sense of humor...ah, folks, that one is a bit trickier. It is a delicate sense, dependent on far more that a couple of taste buds or a few finicky nerve endings. The sense of humor is rooted much deeper, and it takes more than a few arm stretches or a cold tablet to bring it back.

I suspected for a time that someone had somehow stolen it. I took out ads in the local paper:

                                “Lost, one sense of humor.

                                  Well used, but slightly

                                   neglected. Family misses it.

                                  Needs medication.

                                  If found, please return,

                                  NO questions asked!”

Well, that didn’t work, so I decided that either whoever had it liked it too much to give it back, or I had just misplaced it. So, I started searching diligently for it.

I looked high and low, in closets and under my pillow and between the couch cushions, but I couldn’t find it anywhere. So I looked in a couple of local bars and shopping malls and even along the bike path in Niles. Nope, not there either.

So I slogged along in a humorless world for a while, hiding my loss behind faked claims of “LOL” and “Ha ha,” wondering what in the world everyone else was laughing about. But yesterday morning I woke up at four in the morning, as I usually do, stumbled to the coffee pot and poured a nice, hot, steaming mug, and I realized I was smiling.

Now, coffee isn’t particularly funny, unless, of course, you inhale wrong while drinking it and snort some out your nose. That can be funny; gross, as well, but still, kind of funny. But I hadn’t snorted any coffee, so why was I smiling?

Then it came to me. I was smiling because the world itself is pretty funny. It’s full of unplanned and silly incidents, ironic twists, random acts of Karma and a million other things that one simply must laugh at or go mad.

“Ah ha!” I said to myself – I had to say it to myself, because of course no one else in their right mind is up at four in the morning – “There it is! My sense of humor!”

I don’t know where it had been. Maybe it was stuck in the bottom of my coffee mug (which I tend to just give a quick rinse to most mornings, rather than a thorough washing) and the hot, splashing coffee dislodged it. Or maybe I had never lost it at all, but was simply failing to heed it. You know, like when you listen to music playing in the background but you aren’t really listening, until a particular bit of lyric or thread of melody catches your attention and you focus on the song for a moment.

So, I’m paying attention to my sense of humor now, and I vow to never neglect it again! I promise to laugh at stupid jokes and politicians (which are often the same thing) and the craziness in the world that I can’t fix. I swear I will always giggle when I hear a child giggle, and especially laugh at my own mistakes, which let me tell you, are often hilarious!

So, now that I think the world is funny again, it seems that Rainie is pretty amused about being chased by vicious dogs and getting slammed into a wall by a large, hairy naked man.

All is right with the world again.

Forgotten blog

Okay, so I started a blog four years ago, posted once and forgot all about it. I'm willing to bet I'm not the only one!

I would actually prefer to use the old one. It is simpler, with just my name, no silly little dashes to remember, since I'm already asking enough of my readers to remember "Melody Muckenfuss." However, I can no longer access the email associated with that old blog, and all my research through "help" has not shown me a way to change the situation.

So here I am, at "melody-muckenfuss.blogspot.com."

I have begun a campaign to make a public issue of myself on the web. Those that know me know how un-Mel-like that is; I generally prefer to remain out of the public eye, and under the radar as much as possible. However, the Melody I have become, who very much wants to sell her books, has decided that the public eye is the place to be.

I am now "twittering" and actually using my facebook page. Google me, and I pop up all over the place.

I'm all out there, world.

I suspect, like the "goodies" in Pandora's box, that I can never stuff myself back in again.

Wish me well out there in the cold, cruel world!

Why book four isn't finished yet

Sometimes, I am a caregiver, first!


Yes, I have a passion for writing, and the Rainie Series is an important part of my life. But the thing is, like Rainie, I also provide home care for the elderly. I recently lost a much-loved client, but her husband is still in need of home care, so that is where I'm spending my time.

There are days (usually after the loss of a client) when I think it is all too much, and I decide I'm just not going to be a caregiver any more. The pain of losing someone who becomes such an integral part of your life is just too much, and the thought of attaching to yet another person, only to lose them, seems like a foolish thing to do.

And yet, I can't NOT be a caregiver. For all the pain of loss, there is so much good that I gain. I learn from my clients, not just about how things were in the past, but about changing mores and different perspectives on this life we live. I experience other family's dynamics, good and bad, that have made me realize there is no such thing as a "dysfunctional family." They all function, but comparing them is like comparing a blender and a toaster. They have different purposes to serve, and we shouldn't judge how one person's family serves them.

I have learned the benefits of self-sacrifice, and the joy of putting another's needs before mine. I have learned to appreciate the little things in life, like a sunny day or a bouquet of flowers, whatever brings a momentary, if fleeting, joy.

Yes, i will get back to writing Rainie, but I have a few new things to learn, first.

I am NOT a "sitter."


I recently had a call from a lady who wanted to hire me, because her previous "sitter" had quit. Perhaps that was the problem; a "sitter" sounds like someone with absolutely no investment in the client's well being, and therefore no real incentive to remain with them.

I am not a sitter.

I am responsible not only for getting my client up in the morning, but for helping them find a reason to get up.
I make sure they are clean, comfortable and well groomed, as well as safe.
I keep them occupied in mind and body to the best of their abilities, push them to do more if they can and comfort them if they can't.
I keep their environment clean, safe and healthy. I prepare meals the way they prefer them and assist them to eat them. I shop for the food or take them to shop for it.
I schedule doctor's appointments and get them there on time; I take notes so the client and the family will be up to date on the doctor's orders. I call the family or the doctor when I see a problem, since I am often the first one to recognize a problem exists. I remind them to take their meds and monitor side effects.
I make sure their bowels and urinary tracts are on schedule and take appropriate measures if they are not. I clean up when they are incontinent without making a fuss or making them feel as if they have "created a mess." No, this is not glamorous or fun, it is simply something that needs to be done.
I don't get angry when they are abusive or forget my name or they refuse to cooperate. I listen to their stories and smile and respond, even if I have heard them a hundred times.
I wait patiently for them to complete a task, even if I could do it myself much quicker. I encourage their independence and NEVER point out their failures.
I am a stand-in for family when they can't be there. I soothe their fears and share their laughter.
Sometimes I let them eat desert first.

I am not a sitter. I am a caregiver.