The Only Thing We Will Never Stop Owing

She used to faithfully attend my creative enrichment programs, often ushering others along so they wouldn’t miss out. Attentive to my opening ritual that included arm stretches while singing Popeye the Sailor Man, Bea would occasionally rearrange the semi-circle of chairs, insistent that I hadn’t left enough room between seats for the residents to move freely. She was as conscientious about providing an optimal experience as I was. It was something I took for granted, until the day everything changed.

Bea was a nonagenarian assisted living resident very few people enjoyed. She was a busybody and her hearing impairment left her unaware of how loudly she complained about others in the presence of those being complained about. She liked to be in people’s business and didn’t hesitate to be the town crier, gossiping about fellow residents and employees without evidence to back her claims. That she participated in my gatherings was slightly uncharacteristic of her, a loner, except for her attendance at weekly Bible studies and church services. Bea was also a religious woman who read her Bible daily.

Just down the hall from Bea was Roger, also a resident who preferred to stay to himself and who usually ignored or declined my invitations. Roger, however, loved to crack jokes during meal times, and often crossed the line with his irreverent humor which typically included sexual overtones. This provoked the ladies who sat near him including Bea.

On one occasion, Roger surprised me by accepting my invitation to participate in my program. He arrived late and was about to take a seat at a table on the periphery of our semi-circle, but I insisted he sit in the one empty seat that remained next to Louise, a poised and elegant woman who sat at his right.

“Come on in, Roger!” I coaxed. “Let the circle be unbroken!”

As Roger, with a mischievous grin, made his way to the empty seat, I spotted Bea scowling with disapproval. Nonetheless, I carried on with my topic of the day without a hitch and Roger behaved himself, thankfully.

As the group disbanded I watched Bea follow Louise down the hallway. I followed behind to eavesdrop on what Bea had up her sleeve.

“I didn’t like that Kareen invited Roger to sit in the circle,” Bea snarled. “Next time, if he ever crosses a line, you can take my cane and give him a whack!” she shouted, swinging her cane to demonstrate.

“He didn’t bother me,” Louise insisted graciously.

Just then, I stepped into the conversation to intervene.

“Bea, you and I are both women of the scripture,” I coached. “And you must know that it’s the kindness of the Lord that leads others to good behavior.”

Though I thought I was doing her and Louise a favor by de-escalating the situation, I had instead meddled in a conversation that Louise was perfectly capable of handling and thus, humiliated Bea by using scripture as a weapon to put her in her place. It was the last time she attended any of my programs.

This regretful exchange occurred shortly before the Pandemic. Unfortunately, since I was an independent contractor and not a full-time employee, Bea took it upon herself to make me the scapegoat for all things COVID-19.

“She’s a world traveler. She has no business being here spreading the virus!” Bea would say loudly to whoever was unlucky enough to be in proximity.

Quick to defend myself, I walked my masked self over to Bea and insisted I had never left the country and that I had followed the mask and vaccine mandates both at work and outside of work.

“You have nothing to worry about, Bea,” I insisted.

She was not fazed. For the next three years, Bea badmouthed me loudly, viciously, and frequently, sometimes screaming that I had no business being in the kitchen since I wasn’t staff, even though up to that point I had for years helped serve meals and bus tables. She soon stopped coming out for lunch on my scheduled weekly day to work.

I found myself avoiding her, murmuring about her to my coworkers, journaling about her, ruminating about her, and sadly, despising her.

After the COVID restrictions lifted from the world of long-term care, things settled down a bit with Bea, though she never returned to my programs. And to my delight, I was invited for the first time since the pandemic to be the keynote for a conference for nursing home administrators and state surveyors. The theme of the conference was, “Loving those we serve.”

“Piece of cake,” I thought. That’s my specialty, teaching caregivers about how to better love the elders for whom they are responsible to provide care. I started gathering my materials and rehearsing the original songs I wrote about individuals who were lonely, dying, and living with dementia.

A few days before the conference, I was doing my Morning Pages, a daily practice of three pages of longhand, stream-of-consciousness writing, done first thing in the morning. The concept, created by Julie Cameron, author of The Artist’s Way, is designed to get us to the other side of our emotional blockage. Suddenly, thoughts of Bea emerged while writing. And then it occurred to me that I had only written songs about elders who were endearing, not loathsome to me. I got curious and started imagining how to access love for the otherwise unloveable. I challenged myself by considering three ways Bea’s existence provides an opportunity for me to be a better person.

While processing my thoughts, I came up with three answers: 1) Bea shows me I have some inner work to do to improve in the area of emotional differentiation. That is, the intimidation I feel when I see her reveals to me that I could develop in learning to be o.k. with myself even when I know someone else isn’t o.k. with me. 2) I can look for earlier times in my life when someone similarly triggered me as Bea and how, if at all, I resolved that situation. 3) I can gain empathy and compassion for Bea’s woundedness. Ironically, Bea and I had kind of a ricochet effect going on. I wounded a wounded person who in turn wounded me back.

That was a good start. But I still couldn’t yet see how to gain compassion for Bea or others who triggered me. I kept writing until I came up with another question: What are three negative qualities I have in common with Bea? I established that 1) Bea and I both like to gossip once in a while, 2) Bea and I are both passive-aggressive at times, and 3), Bea and I both make up stories in our minds about people or situations without evidence to back them up.

Wow! I wanted to pat myself on the back. But I wasn’t there yet. As I continued to process, I gained another epiphany. As I thought about the three negative characteristics, I realized they don’t define who I am. Neither do they define Bea. And if I can own that I am worthy of love and that I matter despite those negative characteristics, I can apply the same to Bea.

I shared with confidence my new insights with the conference attendees. But something was missing. I felt there was one more thing I needed to do. Even though encounters with Bea stung a lot less, I was still curious. What if I were to revisit that moment with her and Louise? What if I were to acknowledge how I had wronged her by correcting her in front of her friend and using scripture to discipline her?

The next week, I mustered up my courage to knock on Bea’s door, fully anticipating she would shoo me away.

“Hi Bea,” I said when she opened the door. “Could I chat with you for a moment? I feel I owe you an apology.”

“You don’t owe me anything!” she beamed and held her arms out wide. “You don’t need to go back and rehearse anything. I wouldn’t remember it anyway. You don’t owe me a thing!”

“Can I give you a hug?” I asked.

“Sure!” she replied.

We hugged and she invited me to sit down. We chatted for at least 45 minutes. And I chuckled on the inside when I realized I had more commonalities with Bea. I discovered that she and I don’t like to waste money, we don’t like to buy anything extravagant for ourselves, we don’t mind wearing used clothes, we like to tell the stories behind each of our furniture pieces and how cheap we got them, and that we love to point out the family photos we have on display.

Oh, and that an apology is all we need to cover a multitude of sins. For Bea, I owed nothing but love.

Photo by Kareen King

A Church Dis-Service in the World of Elder Care

The following is a true story. Names have been changed or omitted for matters of confidentiality.

Setting: An Institutional Model of a Skilled Nursing Facility, year 2008

Characters:

Ron,  a Pentecostal minister with no formal education

Jim,  a resident with Parkinson’s and possibly Lewy Body Dementia, a wheelchair user, time-and-place confused, a former football coach, and a devout Christian who sings with a beautiful vibrato and who has a background working with a famous televangelism ministry, now defunct

A crowd of residents assemble in the dining room. Pastor Ron is one of the local pastors volunteering on a rotational church service schedule. It’s his turn to take charge of the Sunday church service for the residents. He has a karaoke machine playing gospel music for inspiration as the residents arrive. Ron abruptly turns the music off and begins the service.

“The world is a dark place,” he begins and then proves his claim with evidence mention of a disgruntled neighbor and a college shooting. His message is a series of disjointed scriptural references and statements of personal opinion.

“Once upon a time, Isaac and Rebekah were makin’ out,” Ron says but is interrupted by Jim who begins singing a gospel tune with a beautiful vibrato voice.

“He’s got that Parkinson’s. Used to be a football coach,” Ron says to the audience, completely oblivious to the inappropriateness of his public remark about Jim.

“I’m a daddy. I’m a husband. I’m a Christian,” Jim interrupts, and then sings the first few lines of the hymn, “Be Thou My Vision.”

“You lost me on that one,” Ron says to Jim and then goes off on a spiel about the evils of catering to the young people.

“I think I just saw a miracle,” Jim states. “God gave me a song.” He begins singing the hymn, “Fill My Cup, Lord.”

“I want to sing the song, ‘My Tribute’,” Ron announces, flustered by Jim’s disruptions.

“Do you want me to get outta here so you can finish?” Jim asks, calling out Ron’s bluff.

Ron, a Pentecostal lay minister, takes off on another rabbit trail about speaking in tongues.

“I’ve been a recipient both ways,” Ron states regarding tongues and interpretation, oblivious to the notion that this topic is likely unfamiliar or relevant to his audience. “Acts chapter two means probably what it says,” he declares.

“’ My Tribute.’ That’s my theme song (a gospel song written in 1972 by Andraé Crouch, referred to as the “father of modern gospel music”),” Jim interjects. “How can I say thanks for the things You have done for me? Things so undeserved, yet You gave to prove Your love for me . . .”

“Let’s start over,” Ron interrupts and then turns on his karaoke machine. He begins to sing to the accompaniment track of a gospel song, increasing his tempo so that his vocals are off-sync to the beat of the music.

“You can’t go wrong with that one!” Jim declares and then begins singing along with Ron who continues, oblivious to Jim’s need to be heard.

“If you read the scriptures, ‘Why do you torment us before our time?’ some people don’t believe in evil spirits. I believe we have evil spirits,” Ron rants after the karaoke performance concludes, and then points out the flaws of other churches.

“Remember, Jesus loves you and I do, too. I gotta go deliver meals on wheels,” Ron declares as he prepares to close the service.

“Can I pray?” Jim interjects.

“I’m going to sing my own version of the big band song, ‘The Object of My Affection,’” Ron announces, and then turns the karaoke machine on and begins to play the accompaniment track. “I’m still workin’ on it.”

“Crazy, I’m a little crazy,” Jim interrupts.

“He’s changed my direction from death to resurrection,” Ron sings, ignoring Jim’s disruption. 

Jim sings the song, “Oh Happy Day” as Ron continues talking.

“I can’t keep up with that machine,” Jim states. “I wanna hear my voicebox.”

Discreetly, I get up from my chair and walk over to where Jim is seated, and lean into his face.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I whisper to Jim.

“It’s all Him,” Jim replies, pointing his finger upward.

“That’s the voice I use to get their attention,” Ron switches gears, elevating his voice to a much higher pitch. “That wakes ‘em up,” he says to me in front of the helpless onlookers. He turns his karaoke machine on again and sings, “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.”

Ron concludes the service and leaves the building while I walk over to speak to one of the employees about what I just witnessed.

“What do you think of the chaplain?” I ask.

“He’s harmless. What can I say?”

Addendum:

Is he harmless? Who is to say? As for me, I say we are doing our residents a disservice when we park them in front of someone who has no idea nor is interested in their actual needs and preferences, and who is unable to “read” the audience.

This is a real-life example of Theatre of the Absurd. Speaking of absurd, I think I would have rather the residents would have heard a sermon from a donkey than Ron. If you don’t think a donkey can preach, read Numbers 22 in the Old Testament.

Photo by Kareen King

 

The Trenches is Where the Magic Happens

“Did you see Dale’s post?” Susan, co-owner of the two health and rehab communities where I work as a Creative Enrichment Specialist asked after a recent gathering with our residents.

“No,” I replied.

She then handed me her iPhone so I could read his FB post. My eyes welled with tears, and as I read it out loud to my husband the next day, the tears flowed freely as I recalled working alongside my dear friend Dale back in 2006-2008. He showed up unexpectedly for a “Kareen’s Kettle” at Wellsville Health and Rehab and sat as a guest in my circle of residents who were there to enjoy a virtual visit to Scotland where my daughter Rachel and her husband recently celebrated their 10th anniversary.

My daughter Rachel and Aaron’s photo shoot at Quiraing in the beautiful Isle of Skye in Scotland

It’s a rare privilege to have someone attend one of my gatherings and write about it. So, enjoy the following snippet of my work. May you be inspired to BE the energy, the love, and the creative force to those around you, in whatever space you may find yourselves.

“I had a true blessing yesterday. My former boss picked me up in Lawrence and drove me to Wellsville for a program directed by Kareen King. Kareen had a quiet joy, a detailed understanding of the needs and wants of her audience and a true love of sharing the beauty of Scotland with the WRC residents. She made sure residents with hearing problems and visual problems were close and she had her doll Emilou (made after a much-loved resident) blow kisses to everyone in the room. CEO Scott Averill went outside behind the shades and imitated the Loch Ness Monster. Everyone was smiling, Kareen empowered the staff to be happy, free, and unhinged, to let the beauty of the elders be demonstrated to each and every one. I have worked for many years with Kareen. I used to dress in black and sing Johnny Cash songs with her. It was amazing to see a miraculous woman who deeply enriched my life so engaged. For a bit, she confessed she was a little saddened that she was no longer doing concerts or presentations, but I told her in the trenches of care one seizes the highest reward. Thanks for an out-of-the-world experience. And because it was Carl Jung's birthday yesterday, here is a quote from Naomi Feil’s "Validation" for my quote-loving friend: "The cat ignored becomes the tiger." Much love to you Kareen and those whose lives you touch so mightily.” - Dale B.

While Waiting

Yes and! The two most defining words of improv. I’ve discovered they are not only useful in my work with elders, but also in life.

Photo by Kareen King

Over the last several years I’ve implemented improvisational exercises in my creative engagement gatherings, mostly with coworkers who jump in for a few minutes to “perform” skits and dances with little to no preparation. I love to see what they come up with in the spur of the moment and am rarely if ever disappointed. It’s always a win-win situation because not only do these improvisational moments raise the energy in our gatherings, but also re-energize the performers. Morale and camaraderie move up a notch or two for everyone, improving the quality of life and work for both the players and the observers.

I have played the “Yes And!” game with my coworkers, students, and residents numerous times over the last two decades. It starts with a participant making a declaration such as, “We’re going to the moon!” Everyone responds, “Yes!” The rest of the game plays out like popcorn with individuals randomly adding to the scenario. For example, the next participant shouts, “And we’re going to do acrobatic stunts without gravity!” “Yes!” everyone shouts, and the game continues until it reaches a natural conclusion. Imagination and outlandishness are always encouraged.

Last week, however, I adapted the game a bit, calling it, “While Waiting”. I drew my inspiration from Samuel Beckett’s play, “Waiting for Godot” in which two vaudevillian characters, Vladimir (Didi) and Estragon (Gogo), engage in a variety of discussions and encounters while awaiting the mysterious Godot, who never arrives. The play has been a particular hit in the prison setting where inmates have to figure out how to occupy their time while they wait out their prison sentences. Viola! I then connected the dots, realizing that most residents must do the same, as it is the last home in which they will reside.

“While We’re Waiting” is also played out popcorn style where declarations are made and affirmed with a “Yes!” I tried the game out with a group of coworkers and found it to be lots of fun.

The next day, upon arriving at the skilled nursing dining room, I noticed a different kind of energy in the space. I read the room and noticed the facial expressions and body language of the residents revealed a sense of listlessness and lethargy. I decided to do a quick check-in, asking for a show of hands from those who were doing great. One or two hands rose. I then asked for a show of hands from those who were not doing well. Again, maybe one or two hands rose.

“O.k., several of you aren’t responding,” I probed. “Raise your hands if you feel like you’re just kinda here.”

Almost every hand rose.

“That’s what I thought. Let’s see if we can shift the energy in the room. Who here was born before WWII?”

The majority of the residents raised their hands. So I told them about Theatre of the Absurd, a new theatrical genre that emerged in the aftermath of the war which left approximately 50 million casualties worldwide and a lingering sense of the meaninglessness of life. Enter Samuel Beckett and “Waiting for Godot.” I told them about the play and then invited three coworkers to enter the space with me. I explained the instruction of “While We’re Waiting,” fully anticipating that most of the play would be initiated by me and my workers. I was wrong.

“O.k., everyone, we’re going to pretend like we’re stuck in this dining room,” I began.

Several heads nodded.

“Well, I suppose that’s a common reality, isn’t it? So, while we’re stuck here, we’re going to think of things we can do to occupy our time. Anyone can shout out their idea, and we will all respond, ‘Yes!’”

“Let’s throw our hands in the air!” one of the residents responded without hesitation, to my delight.

“Yes!”

“Let’s smile at one another!” another one shouted.

“Yes!”

And for the next ten minutes, we whispered sweet nothings into one another’s ears, blew kisses, snapped our fingers, made faces, and so forth.

By the time the game was done, I witnessed a visible transformation from what I observed before the activity. Eyes were open, heads were lifted, faces were smiling, and everyone was ready for more. I did not have to juggle flaming swords to engage anyone. Like Vladimir and Estragon, we had figured out collectively how to occupy our time. The circumstances didn’t change. But our sense of well-being had improved.

Since this experience, I learned from my life coach that what I just described is an example of “mood contagion.” Otherwise known as emotional contagion, it occurs when someone’s emotions and related behaviors can lead to similar emotions and behaviors in others. So, before you go to work or enter the presence of others, check your face and your body language. What is it communicating? I have to check myself regularly as my default facial expression is a Norwegian scowl which I have been accused of as being bored, confused, unfriendly, or stuck up on more than one occasion. If you suffer from the Norwegian Scowl or RBF (Resting Bitch Face) or the like, don’t be surprised if you see it spread to your coworkers and the people you serve. But if you replace it with HF (Happy Face) and the genuine actions that follow, it might do more good than you might realize. 

Addendum:

A lot of truth and wisdom is contained in the song, “Put on a Happy Face,” a popular song written by Lee Adams and Charles Strouse and showcased in the musical, Bye Bye Birdie which debuted in 1960. If you’ve never heard it before, look it up. I think it’ll brighten your day.

Gray skies are gonna clear up
Put on a happy face
Brush off the clouds and cheer up
Put on a happy face

Take off the gloomy mask of tragedy
It's not your style
You'll look so good that you'll be glad
Ya' decide to smile!

Pick out a pleasant outlook
Stick out that noble chin
Wipe off that "full of doubt" look
Slap on a happy grin!

And spread sunshine all over the place,
Just put on a happy face!
Put on a happy face
Put on a happy face

And if you're feeling cross and bitterish
Don't sit and whine
Think of banana split and licorice
And you'll feel fine

Fruitcake Recipe from the Amazing Memory of a 94-year-old Woman

It’s been awhile! I wish I could just take you along on the journey of my weekly creative enrichment programs we call “Kareen’s Kettle.” There are just so many magical moments, my heart can’t contain them all! Most recently during our March birthday party, I experienced a stunning moment with one of the birthday residents, a 94-year-old woman called Bettye. It was so much fun, I just had to share it with you.

ME: Is there a fun fact you’d like us to know about you?

SHE: I make a good fruitcake, but nobody likes fruitcake.

ME: So, how do you make it?

SHE: I’m 94, You can’t expect me to remember the details. The best ingredient is mincemeat. You can’t buy it in March and can barely buy it at all. Buy it at Walmart. Then six eggs, two cups sugar, one cup brown sugar, two teaspoons vanilla, two teaspoons artificial rum, two cups nuts, two cups raisins, two cups mincemeat, two cups flour, one teaspoon baking powder, one teaspoon baking soda. Grease a pan, put it in, and bake it at 325 for two hours. GOOD LUCK!

ME: Wow!

SHE: It’s much better if you can find black walnuts, usually from an old retired gentleman who picks black walnuts for a hobby. And if you can find him, take six pounds and put in the freezer.

ME: Good to know.

SHE: I lied about the fruitcake. I forgot to mention the fruit. I always put in extra red and green cherries and buy the candied fruit at Walmart on the shelf on the aisle. You have to put in extra cherries. Leave them whole because they are extra pretty when they’re sliced. Sometimes I put in candied pineapple.

And there you have it! :)

When Life Gets Tough

Taking Flight! Photo by Kareen King

At the end of another year of creating and facilitating enriching programs for older adults, I always like to remind everyone of “The Pollyanna Principle,” a concept related to the 1913 book, “Pollyanna” by Eleanor H. Porter about a young girl whose father teaches her to play “The Glad Game” as a way to find the silver lining in every difficulty. What an important practice, especially as we age, and particularly for those struggling with health issues, loneliness, and boredom in the world of long-term care.

As part of this experience, I ask the participants to complete the following sentence, “When life gets tough, I . . .” It provides a way for them to express themselves, to learn from one another, and to enjoy a shared experience.

Please enjoy the collective wisdom from a variety of older adults as we approach the challenges and joys of a new year.

When life gets tough, I . . .

Ask for a little help.

Be thankful for what I’ve got.

Bike, piddle, and procrastinate.

Blow it off.

Buckle down.

Chew a Tylenol.

Complain to my husband.

Cry.

Cuss!

Don’t give up.

Drink.

Eat ice cream.

Fight it.

Figure out what’s the best thing to do.

First I get astonished, and then I think about it, and then I hope.

Get determined to make it better.

Get going.

Get out and be with people.

Get positive.

Get the hell going.

Get tougher.

Give it to God.

Go to my Bible.

Go visit somebody and have a good time.

Grin and bear it.

Gripe, complain, worry about things that never happen, and feel sorry for myself.

Hope for tomorrow.

Hope it’ll get a little better.

Hope, pray, and let the chips fall where they may.

I find it’s best to pull back and let things work themselves out, because they will generally work out.

Keep my good attitude and don’t let it get me down.

Know it’ll soon go away.

Laugh.

Lean on friends.

Learn from the mistakes.

Let it go by and forget about it.

Look forward instead of backward.

Look up instead of down.

Plan my escape route.

Play my music.

Pray about it.

Pray for Christ to give me strength.

Probably bitch about it.

Reach out.

Remember the good things.

Retreat.

Sing.

Sit and think about it.

Stiffen my lip.

Survive it and hope for the best.

Think about when I used to carry mail.

Think maybe it’ll be better tomorrow.

Try to adjust.

Try to correct it the best I can.

Try to drop it and think positive.

Try to shine a little brighter.

Turn my back on it and don’t let it bother me.

Wait for God to move.

Wave for help.

Whatever I choose to do will be o.k., because I’m in the boat alone, and sometimes I have to do what I have to do.

When the emotion builds up to the point of tears, I let it go and then act.

Work through it.

Yell for help.

HE: I look for you.

The Beauty of Remembering

Remembering a Lovely Moment with my Granddaughter - Photo by Kareen King

Remembering a Lovely Moment with my Granddaughter - Photo by Kareen King

I recently attended a training workshop for Kansas Teaching Artists, Arts and Senior Service Organizations as part of the Kansas Creative Arts Industries Commission’s “Kansas Creative Aging Project”. During a storytelling activity, we were asked to make statements that began with “I remember.” I loved the creative potential included in this reminiscence activity and decided to incorporate it in my most recent weekly creative engagement program known to the residents I serve as “Kareen’s Kettle.”

The topic of the recent program was Amelia Earhart in light of her July 24th birthday. In preparation, I pored through Amelia’s biographical information and constructed some “I remember” statements from her childhood experiences including:

  • I remember climbing trees.

  • I remember hunting rats with a .22 rifle.

  • I remember “belly-slamming” my sled downhill.

  • I remember collecting worms, katydids and tree toads.

  • I remember making a homemade roller coaster by attaching a ramp to a family tool shed.

  • I remember seeing an aircraft for the first time at the age of ten at the Iowa State Fair.

  • I remember my sister and I wearing bloomers when others girls didn’t.

  • I remember spending countless hours reading books in my large family library.

  • I remember being broken-hearted after watching my childhood home and all of its contents being auctioned off.

  • I remember keeping a scrapbook of newspaper clippings about successful women.

I recited the statements, hoping to jog a few memories, and then invited the participants to come up with snapshots from their own lives. I was pleased with their answers which are as follows:

I remember . . .

  • Climbing a tree.

  • Learning how to roller skate.

  • The statement, “The war is over!”

  • Trying to keep my sisters from fighting, and then all three of us getting into trouble.

  • Sitting by the radio listening to fireside chats with Roosevelt and hearing him say, “This day will go down in infamy.”

  • Getting upset when my brothers would run off after I hid during a game of hide-and-seek.

  • Mom’s angel food cake.

  • My parents kissing before they went to work.

  • My disbelief in hearing my brother say, “Marilyn Monroe was at our store today,” only to discover it was true, and that he added, “She used our bathroom and we were gonna lock the door!”

  • The 4-H fairs.

  • Living in South Dakota.

  • A tornado striking my parents’ farm.

  • The 1966 tornado and the 1951 flood.

  • Running around.

  • School days.

  • Going uptown to see the movies.

  • My wedding day – it snowed.

  • Sliding down steep hills.

  • Playing lots of softball.

  • Climbing mulberry trees and eating the mulberries.

  • Taking my father up a steep hill on a bicycle, and he was a big man!

  • Nothing.

The crowning moment during one of the gatherings occurred when we heard an enthusiastic declaration from a woman who chose to sit in the back, outside our circle: “Getting drunk! I was slipping drinks, and this man’s drink was loaded!”

I recently learned that the memories that stick with us the longest are those that are attached to strong emotions. This was evidenced in particular by one woman’s tears at the end of one of my programs while I sang our usual closing song, “Happy Trails.” When I was finished, I reminded everyone that we needed to get up and go so that we could have enough time to set up the dining room for lunch.

“What if we don’t want to go?” the teary-eyed woman replied.

And that’s when you know what you’re doing is making a difference.

It's Never Too Late to Do What You Need and Want to Do

Cardinal - Photo by Kareen King

Cardinal - Photo by Kareen King

This is for all the procrastinators and late bloomers and everyone who feels, "It's too late for me." Oh, and the cardinal showed up outside my dining room window as I was finishing writing this story. I hope it inspires somebody.

Lies on Couch

By Kareen King

My mom was a storyteller, not a professional one, but one who repeated sad tales from her childhood. We heard them over and over again – mostly stories of feeling neglected and unaffirmed. It was apparent she had unresolved issues.

I reflected on some of the stories my mom mentioned most often, but there was a specific one that stood out. My grandmother, her mother, was an extraordinary homemaker who was well organized. When my mom was a little girl, Grandma stepped into my mom’s bedroom, opened a dresser drawer, and discovered everything in disarray . . . as usual. Disgusted, she scolded her and said something like, “Oh Marilyn, what are we going to do with you?” instead of a preferred, “Marilyn, why don’t we go through your dresser drawer together and I’ll teach you how to organize.”

Something about that incident freeze-framed in my mother’s soul not only the notion that her disorganization was shameful, but that there was no hope for it. From that moment, my mom’s fixed way of being was that of helplessness. She often looked dazed and confused. Whenever she and my dad would leave on vacation, Grandma would travel to our home and stay a week or two. We loved having her there because she would clean and reorganize everything. I once heard her mutter as she organized piles of folded towels in a linen closet, “Oh Marilyn, what am I going to do with you?” She knew everything would fall back into disarray in a couple weeks.

My childhood recollections include snapshots of my mother lying on the couch in a state of overwhelm, even though she didn’t work outside the home, and seldom participated in my school activities. Chaos was the norm in my household of origin. It was a contributing factor toward the end of her marriage of 25 years and which unraveled our family. But the divorce forced her off the “couch.” She got a job as a real estate agent and raised my youngest brother and sister on her own while the rest of us were off to college.

Fast forward several years to a time when I was a young mother and shortly after the release of the epic film, Dances with Wolves. My youngest brother and sister and I sat on the carpeted floor of my living room while our mom was lying on the couch. Suddenly my brother had what he thought was a great idea. He said, “Let’s go around and give each other names like those in Dances with Wolves. You know, names like “Wind in his Hair” and “Stands with a Fist.”

“I’ll start,” declared my mom with enthusiasm. “I’ve got one for Kareen. How about, ‘Must Have Own Way.’”

Slightly taken aback, I ignored my instincts and retorted, “I’ve got one for Mom. ‘Lies on Couch.’”

My mom instantly burst into sobs as my brother and sister glared in my direction. I had struck a well of personal shame that ran deeper than I realized.

Thirteen years after my parents’ divorce, my mom found love again and got remarried, continued working as a real estate agent, and managed two antique booths. And then, when she was 72, she got breast cancer. I figured her fixed state of helplessness would take on a new dimension and we would expect to hold her hand throughout the journey.

Instead, she surprised us all. I attended only one chemotherapy appointment with her because she insisted she was fine on her own. Over the next decade, my mom’s cancer created many plot twists in her life, yet she rarely ever complained or asked for pity. And in the midst of it all, she continued to manage her antique booths. Yet, her obsession with buying and selling antiques and collectibles took its toll on me. I visited her less and less because the house became increasingly undesirable to enter due to the enormous amount of possessions she had accumulated. Sometimes she would mention that her children didn’t visit her very often. I didn’t have the heart to tell her why. My siblings and I dreaded the day my mom would pass away and leave us hanging with this monstrous situation she had created.

And then one day, the miraculous happened. At the age of 80 my mom got off the proverbial couch and with very little assistance from her children, moved from her home she had lived in for 45 years, and upsized with her second husband to a glorious new home. Most of her possessions were sold at auction, donated to local charities, or hauled off.

I remember her words; “I want my children to be proud of me.” But the context from which she spoke them didn’t hit me in the moment. Though I understood her wish, I wasn’t experiencing the feelings she wished for. In spite of my love for her, I was not necessarily proud of her, because I couldn’t let go of my perception that she was still a prisoner of the couch.

Over the next two years, her cancer spread throughout her body. Though I had earlier advised she make a will, dragging her to a financial seminar for moral support, she resisted, not realizing it would only lead to confusion for the family. For Mom, sometimes ignorance was bliss. Thankfully, after the insistence of my youngest sister and me, she gave in and made her will just a few months before she died. It was nothing short of miraculous.

It took awhile before her words struck me. After she was gone, I realized that my beautiful mother did not leave me with a legacy of helplessness. She demonstrated that it’s never too late to get off the couch. And it’s never too late to make your children proud. I hope she knows that.