Author: Fastener Gal

Uncategorized, Work

knowing your why

Fastener Gal

For the first two weeks of my new job I wondered why I chose to leave my old one.

On my first day of work I had to sign multiple forms and one of them was entitled, “Incompatible Activities.” The nature of my work requires objectivity and in the back of my mind, I had known I would not be able to visit my former workplace; that there would be a conflict of interest.

What I discovered was that I also had to let my relationships with both the residents and former co-workers go.

I struggled with this and both my immediate and regional bosses understood my sense of loss for they too had come from the private sector years ago. I had cultivated these relationships for almost five years and my territory does not include my former workplace.

My regional boss said it would get easier to let them go, that it became too messy; as she knew from her own experience.

I had known I would be saying goodbye but I had erroneously thought I could still see my former coworkers for dinners or baby showers. I began to realize that our bonds were closely associated with work. That our personal lives were very separate.

I miss the residents I used to be with every day. A few shared they felt a sense of betrayal; they had thought I would remain with them until I chose to retire. They didn’t understand why I chose to leave.

My new work place is very different from where I came from. I am the new person and there are already established cliques and routines. I have transferred from the private sector to government and most of my new coworkers have been government employees for a long time.

I am the anomaly.

anomaly: noun. 1.something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected.

Oxford Languages

I mourned this every morning during my commute. I worried that my twenty-two year old vehicle, that has been my trusted mode of transport all these years, wouldn’t get me to where I needed to be. I felt the tightness in my neck and shoulders each day as I traversed canyon roads that twisted and turned to my workplace over twenty miles away.

For two weeks I sat in my cubicle with earbuds in, pushing through mandatory trainings on my work laptop. I have completely left my comfort zone and am learning all things regulatory. I am grateful that my hire date coincided with two other people; both transferring from other government agencies. One of them took me under his wing to remind me to take a break, that we had an hour lunch, not the thirty minutes I was used to. The three of us navigate the office politics together.

On our last days of online mandatory training we sat in on a live session from our leadership team and the question posed to all of them was why they do what they do. As I heard their stories I was inspired. I noted the diversity in age, color, gender identity, educational and social backgrounds. I began to remember why I chose to step out of my comfort zone.

On a Saturday I spent seven hours detailing my vehicle. It had been years since I had done this and usually when my family asks what I want for my birthday, it is a car wash and detail. As I scrubbed hub caps and vacuumed my interior I had asked the hubs to check my oil levels and he promptly filled my vehicle. In my prior workplace the maintenance staff placed a corkboard in the middle of my assigned parking space to catch the oil slick that came from my older car.

I began to hear noises and smell burnt oil emanating from my vehicle and three days later my hubs was once again filling my oil tank. The hubs is the type of person who takes pride in manually fixing his vehicles but this fix would need to go to the shop. The cost would be more than my vehicle’s worth.

I am learning to let things go.

When our fourth new hire joined us on Thursday, I decided to pay it forward and asked her if she wanted to go on break with us. We remembered one another during the onboarding process and I was sad when I did not see her on my very first day.

As my other coworker and I stood by her cubicle, our regional boss noted what was happening and walked over and soon other coworkers came over to greet our newest hire. When she tried to give the credit to me I shared how my coworker, who stood nearby, had done the same for me. I registered the surprise on his flushed face as our big boss announced, this is how it should always be.

It is a little thing, to be welcoming. There is no hidden agenda in being kind.

The desktop calendar quote from Stephen Covey, the late author of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, resonated,

What you do has far greater impact than what you say.

Stephen Covey

I no longer get teary as I drive past my former workplace every day to get to my new one. In my new workplace I remain being the person that I am. I don’t need to conform to what is expected or normal.

The quote, from the late Steve Jobs, is currently on my desk,

Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.

Steve Jobs

I was grateful that my latest mammogram was normal. It is a reminder that life is short. Navigating through breast cancer made me take stock of what was important and I am blessed with people that accept me for who I am, flaws and all. That experience made me question what I wanted out of my finite life. What is my legacy? My sons are older and being a mother isn’t my primary role in life now. They are my legacy.

I had felt discontent in my former job even though I loved what I did. I had to discover what I wanted to be when I grew up. I had more to contribute if I could just figure out how.

I had to discover my why.

I spent the last six months doing just that, inquiring at my former workplace where my growth opportunities were and if they aligned with who I am. Who am I now? On a day when I felt particularly low, a song on my Spotify playlist came on that I used to play on repeat in college. I hadn’t heard it in years.

Music is one of those portals that can transport me to a particular time and place.

Hat to da back
I gotta kick my pants down real low (aww, yeah)
That’s the kinda girl I am
That’s the kinda girl I am
Hat to da back
I gotta kick my pants down real low
That’s the kinda girl that I am (aww, yeah)
Here we go, here we go, here we go again

TLC

Hearing the song reminded me of who I was then, my hopes and dreams as I was close to graduation. The excitement of what life had to offer. The song celebrates being who you are and not fitting in with the norms. Soon after that I had decided to cut my hair to the hairstyle I always used to have, an A-line bob. I remembered that period of my life and realized I had known then who I wanted to serve, I just chose a different profession.

I channeled my post-college self and reframed my career background and experiences to return to how I can serve the elderly. I had focused on health care, advocacy and hands-on careers but my true passion is public administration.

It was hard to put myself out there to step out of my comfort zone. I could easily have remained where I was and be complacent.

I felt affirmed yesterday when I went out in the field and shadowed my coworker. It happened to be at the sister community of my former one, the environment familiar. I had perspective viewing things on the regulatory side and as we sat at lunch my coworker commented that my pathway is very different from our peers and my background and experiences are most welcome.

I often remind myself that the title, salary, education or things that I own don’t define me but I would be lying to you. The opportunities that I have been given do rely on some of those things such as my education and the jobs I have held before. I desire things such as an updated vehicle to get me where I need to be.

I praise God and continue to practice patience and humility. He has other plans for me.

My pursuits have always been to serve the older population and, as lucrative as the private sector can be, the non-profit/public sectors align with my upbringing and my personal mission statement. As I sat among my peers at an all-staff meeting and listened to the agenda and discussion, my focus became crystal clear. I am grateful to have a seat at this table.

I know my why. My love language is service, after all.

Work

midlife career change

Fastener Gal

I worried about ageism as I began the job search process in my fifties. 

Ageism. noun. : prejudice or discrimination against people of a particular age and especially against the elderly.

Merriam-Webster Dictionary

When I first contemplated a job change, last year, my husband wondered why? I work 1.6 miles from my home. I bring happiness and joy to my elderly residents in the large Residential Care Facility for the Elderly (RCFE) in which I work. It is a boutique community, beautifully appointed and I am able to plan and coordinate activities and events for any holiday or reason that I choose.

I have a deep love for the residents who grace me with their presence each and every day. I have been blessed with their wisdom and life stories which inspire me. Why would l want to leave this?

Growing up in a small, migrant town on the central coast, my parents did not celebrate any holidays except for Easter and Christmas. When I was engaged, and then married to my hubs of now twenty-five years, he couldn’t understand my need to decorate for every single holiday; even the obscure ones. As I became a parent I continued in this fashion and would throw playdates and parties to celebrate every holiday I did not celebrate as a kid. 

In my work place I carry that same vigor, already planning for the Lunar New Year on February 10th (the year of the Dragon), Super Bowl Sunday on the 11th, Mardi Gras on the 13th and Valentine’s/Ash Wednesday on the 14th. National Caregivers Day is on the 16th. Leap year on the 29th. Groundhog Day will be a happy hour with entertainment. And did I mention that February is Black History Month? 

Since I live in the community in which I work, I cross paths with many people from other sectors of my life. My co-workers laugh when people say they know me because, to them, it seems like I know most families whose loved ones reside in our community. My girlfriends volunteer their time and talents with: music, education, crafts and donations for our residents. It’s a beautiful thing.

Last July I had reached out to my employer to discover growth opportunities in my current role. And when I was interviewed for the logical position to follow, I realized that my present career path isn’t really where I want to be. In the end, that path was not offered to me and it made me assess where exactly I wanted to be.

Things happen for a reason.

It took several weeks for me to dig deep; going down several rabbit holes to figure out why I felt discontent. My love language is always in SERVICE and I longed to use my experiences and background to serve the elderly population in a different way. I felt I had outgrown my role and my growth mentality kept pushing me to find something different. 

I searched Indeed, Glassdoor; updated my LinkedIn profile and job searched. The job from my past that had always appealed to me required that I not work in a RCFE for one year. I began to despair; nothing out there seemed to fit me. My current connections are all in assisted living. I applied to jobs locally so that I could begin my year countdown until I could apply to the former job I desired. 

I found myself on online portals uploading transcripts, certificates and having to take timed tests. In my current role I am also a hiring manager so it was helpful to know how I use our applicant tracking system to screen for employment. This also brought me anxiety because I know that I can have several applicants with great qualifications and the deciding factor comes down to how this person will fit with the team. 

Would someone look at my age and think I wouldn’t fit based on how many more years I would have to contribute? Would my personality and experiences fit their teams? 

In late summer I discovered the job that would fit me best. The person in that role walked into our community and I knew. I immediately went online to discover how to apply for the job and within a week, submitted my application. Jobs in this field are few and far between and I checked the portal daily. There were only two positions and I quickly applied to them. I waited.

Three months went by and I knew I had to move on. I couldn’t put all of my eggs in one basket.

I sat in temporary staffing cubicles doing timed typing tests. My interviews involved panels of four or five people across a large table; their name badges and titles on tented name templates that I really couldn’t read. My questions were taped to the seat in front of me as the interviewers took turns asking questions. I was graded on my responses. One of the timed tests was as rigorous as the SAT Verbal section; essay included. 

I was discouraged and mentally exhausted. I had to ask myself again, why was I doing this? I have a perfectly good job and love what I do. My heart, though, wouldn’t let it rest. 

On the last day of November everything intersected. My workplace hosted a large event; which included higher-ups from the job I really wanted. I was coordinating behind-the-scenes and never got the opportunity to meet them since they were surrounded by the forty other participants who wanted their time. My former toxic boss was also a participant and when we crossed paths and hugged, it was at the exact moment that a culture changer was in a discussion with me about our company culture and why he felt such a positive vibe. What made our place so vibrant? I felt affirmed.

Today I received the conditional job offer from the job I really wanted. I had been shocked when the phone call initially came in December, that they had been trying to get a hold of me for an interview. I had been nervous and excited but it was close to the holidays and the busiest time for me at work; which distracted me. The second interview call came in late December and I began the new year behind yet another large conference table in a panel interview and timed verbal and written test. 

I cried. 

My husband had been home before he left to work when the call came. And then the second call came from the office that is closest to me geographically; the first interview where I felt that I fit the best. I was given the two offers for my desired position, all in one day!

I have been manifesting and praying that this opportunity would present itself. I am grateful that these agencies felt my background and experiences fit their teams. That my age is valued; not discriminated against. That I can continue to advocate for the elderly in my new role; one where I can actually make a difference.

I have arrived. I am so excited.

Being Catholic, friendships, Italy, joys of book club, Marriage, successful aging

navigating aging

Fastener Gal

I navigate how to age gracefully.

Although I work in assisted living and am immersed with active seniors aged 63 to 102; my co-workers are youth obsessed. They talk of botox, fillers or spend thousands of dollars during Sephora Rouge sales. When the 23 year-old talked of her botox treatments I was aghast. She was already beautiful with youthful skin, why did she need to spend close to one thousand dollars on injections every few months?

When my boss off-handedly mentioned my crow’s feet I became self-conscious. In our management group I am the eldest. They try to guess ages of family members; especially those who have aged well. Some have had “work” done and I silently listen to the banter; completely oblivious to this way of thinking. A former co-worker bragged about her age, since she looked so youthful, and asked people how old they thought she was.

I felt my thoughts spiral down. I slowly began to seethe.

Each week I facilitate a Bible Study group. I am not overly religious, nor do I feel qualified to lead this endeavor. I love to discuss books and being a part of book clubs changed my life. I know that sounds trite but it really is true.

It was December 2006 when I had been approached to join a neighborhood book club. I had three sons aged six and under and an active duty husband who was always deployed. I was new to the area; just moving in November 2006 with no family nearby. I politely declined the request to join. But the neighbor was insistent and recommended a babysitter for me to use; someone she trusted. A few of the moms in my son’s kindergarten class told me they would join and that I should too.

How does a mom with three kids six and under find the time to read?

The book chosen for us to read was Elizabeth Gilbert’s, “Eat, Pray, Love.” They told me it was an easy read and it was a bestseller. I couldn’t recall the last time I had read anything besides a college textbook or required high school reading decades before. I was given the book to read with the babysitter’s information.

I hated the book but I did attend that first book club.

I didn’t know any of these women really well; nor did they know one another. I rediscovered my love of reading; easily finding or making the time to read and I had a reason, each month, to get the mental space to be something other than the mom of my young sons. Three years later we returned to our “forever” home. I had reconnected with my girlfriend from three years prior and we formed a book club in January 2010. In 2018 I helped form a second group. I read a lot. Both groups are still active and meet every month.

I wanted to form a book club at work with my seniors but after trying different formats, even through the COVID pandemic, the only book that my residents willingly agreed to read was the Bible. And so I found myself facilitating a weekly Bible discussion group. I tried bringing in religious leaders from different churches and faiths; but the group continued to grow and they insisted I be the facilitator.

This weekly Bible Study teaches me so much. It is my favorite activity.

The residents in this group come from various Christian denominations but all can relate to the inspiring messages of the Bible. Now in our third year we’ve become a support group and we talk of the trials and tribulations of aging, including grieving for our fellow group members who have passed away. Our Bible topics vary but when we discussed finding inner beauty while reading Ecclesiastes, a few shared how they had spent thousands of dollars on plastic surgery. I was shocked! It included one of our males.

30 Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

Proverbs 30:31 NIV

Each of these men and women proudly wear their wrinkles and sagging skin. When I shared my aging struggles as a middle-aged female, they spoke of how outside beauty eventually doesn’t matter. That it wasn’t sustainable. They told me to look at their faces and to tell them what I saw.

I looked. Really looked. When I speak to these seniors I don’t see wrinkles. I see their eyes, hear their voices and listen or laugh at their stories. But never do I see sagging skin or crow’s feet. Some of the struggles our residents face are of selling their “forever” homes, their failing health, loss of a spouse or child, loss of independence and driving. They must rely on others to assist them. They don’t care to cook meals for themselves. Nobody dreams of living in assisted living.

We talk of family dynamics and inner demons knowing our faith foundation grounds us; that our fellowship and prayers sustain us.

Beauty comes from within.

I hadn’t known my life experiences would take me here but I’m grateful for the wisdom this group gives me. The only sustainable beauty comes from your perception of oneself. If you believe you are ugly, then you will never feel beautiful. If you are 85 years old and see sagging skin, resent hearing aids or walkers, you will never appreciate that you have lived a long life. If you feel unworthy, you will never feel joy.

Aging successfully can be many things. But the takeaway I get from my seniors is that it is all about relationships. I don’t need Botox to feel young; nor do I need to hike Everest to feel healthy. It has taken a few years to arrive at this epiphany but I have finally accepted and embraced it.

I want to surround myself with those who don’t emphasize physical prowess or beauty.

In the past few months my headspace has not been in a good place. I recently shared with my boss that I don’t fit this management group and she was quite shocked. I am good at what I do but the reason people look elsewhere for employment, if not for the money, is because of the people you work with. It angers me that these co-workers, who work closely with seniors, judge their books by their covers. They don’t always see the person within. They only see the decline.

The day before I left for vacation I attended a memorial for a beloved resident. The attendees in the chapel were all in tears. Many of our residents came and we grieved together. To cheer me up one of my co-workers, who was excited for my trip to Italy, told me she had just watched, “Eat, Pray, Love;” the book I had not liked years before. I found the movie on my flight and watched it prior to landing. It put me in a better frame of mind and I actually enjoyed the film.

We traveled as two couples both celebrating our 25th anniversaries; my hubs’ best friend and his wife. The best friend had asked us if he could propose to her during our wedding reception all those years ago and they married soon after. It was their suggestion to celebrate our anniversaries together. I chose to depart exactly two years after my breast cancer surgery. I wore pink and counted my blessings.

I had no expectations. Bread, pasta and cheese are not normal items on my palate so the Italian gastronomic experience wasn’t on my to-do list. They all agreed that our goal for vacation was to eat and drink our way through Italy. And we did. We drove Chianti Road and explored the vineyards in Tuscany, risottos in Rome, Floretine Steak in Firenze and seafood in Venezia The only thing on my bucket list was to visit the Vatican and we purposely agreed to be present and not create an itinerary; to live in the moment. Standing beneath Adam’s Creation in the Sistine Chapel brought tears to my eyes.

When the hubs left our $1600 camera on a train platform near Florence we didn’t fret. The conductor in Florence kissed the air after we shared the story of our lost camera bag. That was our gift to Italy, he said in his boisterous Italian accent. We still laugh at that. There was no identifying information on the bag; only the camera and the charger.

My happy place is Piazza San Marco as the sun set; my hubby between the magnificent architectural facades and the Grand Canal breeze moving past. My mind had reset and my heart was full. As two couples we watched the activities around us. It was the end of our trip and we were grateful to have done this together. Between the four of us we have decades of shared moments together.

I was surrounded by people who were like me, authentic, accepting and flawed.

I watched older couples holding hands as they walked past. As we ate dinner we heard loud animated conversations; people much older than I. My favorite memory of Italy is this; watching a group of older men playing bocce. Multi-generational families sharing their day late into the evening with babies and toddlers and aged grandparents at restaurants. It was beautiful.

On the flight home I watched, “Book Club The Next Chapter,” also in Italy. The female cast includes: Jane Fonda, Diane Keaton, Candice Bergen and Mary Steenburgen; all into their 70s and 80s. I hope the book clubs I am a part of have these bonds and experiences as we age together.

An example of graceful aging; ancient ruins that stand the test of time and become one of the seven wonders of the world.

My time away gave me the headspace I needed to remember what matters.

I look forward to aging as gracefully as possible. I’m grateful to the relationships who stand the test of time and sustain me.

Work

door paths

Fastener Gal

I can count the days in my life when I knew my path had to change.

My pathway had been set. In my senior year one of my US Government assignments was to contact a government entity and to write about the experience. There was no world wide web or cell phones. Our home phone was the push button type with tiny numbers and a long curly cord that I always wrapped around my fingers.

It took some time for me to research, in the school library, the phone number of the government entity I wanted to contact. I was still quite shy so it took me several times to dial and not hang up for fear of having to talk with someone. I had chosen the 800 number to the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, Maryland.

After a few days of procrastinating I finally let the line ring and a person, not an automated service, answered. The woman had to say her greeting twice before anything came out of my mouth and it took all the energy I had to request a brochure to be sent to my home address. She realized she was speaking to a young person and gently inquired as to why I was calling. But instead of explaining that it was my US Government assignment, I bluntly blurted out that my dad was dying of colon cancer.

She sent me many brochures and things to read. It had solidified my course that I would go pre-med. It was my father’s wishes that I do so and I was naturally inclined towards the sciences. I applied as a chemistry major to the four universities that I could apply to for free and one private one; knowing I couldn’t afford to go there.

But the doors opened and the scholarships came with them. The private university gave me the most money. Most importantly, it is where I met my tribe.

My life took me through the four years of university and my major changed from chemistry to gerontology; the study of aging. My goal was to be a geriatric oncologist and my pathway was clear. After one year at a medical school, I knew the path I had chosen wasn’t mine.

I think of this now as once again I consider where my path will take me. I have been blessed for the last few years to work as an activities director in a large residential care facility for the elderly (RCFE). I had chosen a job very close to home so that I could be near my sons as they finished out high school. Four years have flown by.

I’ve watched the growth opportunities for my co-workers and wondered if there were any for me. After some exploration I’ve discovered that it may be time for my path to change once again. There is no growth for me in my organization. I don’t fit.

The seed of discontent was planted when a coworker shared her salary at a retreat this past July. It chafed my hide that someone, whom I don’t have a lot of respect for, makes a much higher wage and has many growth opportunities.

I had been happy to dedicate my time and efforts to our community until I discovered that I was the only director who came in on almost all holidays to plan events and so I couldn’t execute my event this past 4th of July. I had shared my vision for weeks but none of them communicated that they would not be at work until the week before. I canceled my plans.

I noticed my fellow directors never came in and were bean counters about their hours. Last week one director wouldn’t even sing, “Happy Birthday” to a group of residents during a birthday lunch, because she “was on her lunch break.”

I was recently confronted by a few team members to not plan anymore events on Saturdays; these team members who always leave early or do the bare minimum to assist.

More often than not I find myself reframing my mind, reminding myself that I am here for the seniors who reside in our community. I had thought I’d found my niche. But there is so much more for me to give and I have many years left in the workforce. I am going to have to reinvent myself once again.

In midlife, how do people find growth opportunities?

As my 25th anniversary came and went, I reflected back on the years with my hubs. My assistant recently married in the month of July and I sense the joy and hopefulness in her married future. Of moving in together and fixing up a home. Having kids. Walking the dog and navigating holidays with families. The possibilities are endless.

I imagined myself twenty-five years ago thinking these same things. Although I am currently unfulfilled in my workplace, I have had some amazing moments these past twenty-five years; with the exception of 2011. I’ve buried my second parent, mothered three sons, raised a ferret, five cats and two dogs.

I have reinvented myself many times. The hubs and I survived. The women who served as my bridesmaids all those years ago are STILL part of my tribe; the family members, the girlfriends from childhood and college.

I should be used to this by now; of doors closing. In the past I found ways around them and opened new ones. But right now I feel stuck. Do doors open for women in midlife making a career change?

The hubs initially felt I was crazy. I live 1.6 miles away from my job site whereas he commutes an hour to his. I love providing activity programming and events, building relationships and hopefully improving our population’s quality of life in some way. But how do you explain that you feel there is more out there? That even though I love what I do, I still have more to give in other ways? That I need to be surrounded by people with my work ethic.

I suppose this is my own midlife crisis. Why close this door?

I will not-so-patiently wait to see what life brings. I don’t know where my path will take me next or what doors will open. But my heart tells me to give it my all and to grow. I don’t have anything to lose and everything to gain.

I only have this one life to live and it can end at any given moment. As I step through the threshold I must try.

Pets

journeying in dog days

Fastener Gal

My head continues to throb as I wait for the acetaminophen to kick-in. Outdoors it is ninety-five degrees with the temperature climbing.

journey (noun) 1: something suggesting travel or passage from one place to another 2: an act or instance of traveling from one place to another (intransitive verb)  to go on a journey (transitive verb) : to travel over or through ~merriam-webster.com

In the dog days of summer, when the Sirius constellation appears in the sky aka the “dog star,” the hottest days of the year come upon us. I had no idea where this phrase came from until I read summer trivia to my seniors at work. The imagery in my mind was of dogs next to spewing fire hydrants in the city and I assumed it had to do with releasing water for dogs to stay cool in the hot summer. How wrong I was!

I am grateful each day as I enter our large assisted living community that I love what I do.

Recently a girlfriend sought my input on creating a blog and as I accessed my site I gasped when I noted it had been almost a year. Where has the time flown? As I tried to help her with technical details and talked about why she wanted to blog I considered the question myself. But life once again got in the way and I pushed those thoughts aside.

I am not prone to headaches.

As I journalled my to-do list into my Happy Planner the realization came to me. I had changed my canvas from the digital to the tactile. My Happy Planner is my daily manifesto of things to be done but a scrapbook too.

journal (noun): 1 a : a daily newspaper b : a periodical dealing especially with matters of current interest c : an account of day-to-day events d : a record of transactions kept by a deliberative or legislative body (transitive and instransitive verb) : to keep a personal journal : to enter or record daily thoughts, experiences, etc., in a journal ~merriam-webster.com

Last year on July 4th, a small leak in my master bedroom shower pipe caused my entire home to be renovated with new flooring, carpet, plumbing and paint. The experience was not pleasant and it was not completed until mid-October.

During this stressful time, when we lived in a local hotel with four animals, my hubs and eldest son begged to adopt a German Shepherd puppy from a local shelter. After various ways of telling them no, they pleaded their case and I begrudgingly assented. I had no place for a puppy in our life. Our household was an animal house as it was!

And so it was that our family of five, in two hotel rooms, housed a bunny with the hubs and I, and my three sons kept the two kittens, the 14 year-old dog and a puppy that was NOT potty trained. For two weeks.

During the home renovation all of my framed pictures in my common areas came down; to my sons’ glee. They requested that I change the decor and that they no longer wanted to see pictures of themselves graced upon our walls. I was devastated.

I love my pictures above all things. A picture orients me to time and place. It gives me proof that I belong somewhere; that I have a tribe. They photojournal my life and make it feel like it has meaning.

My walls remain bare. As we moved back into our home I was forced to look through the boxes of our belongings. Five large boxes are of pictures in frames of my three sons at various ages and of the places we’ve travelled. My hubs suggested I take the pictures out of the frames to scan them into my computer to be saved digitally forever. They remain on my upstairs landing untouched.

As the holidays came I was not motivated. Half of my home was still in boxes, because life continued on and the fall season is usually the most busiest time of year. I kept with my minimalist vibe and eventually made myself go through each and every box. It’s amazing how much detritus we can accumulate and I used Marie Kondo’s motto if the item sparked joy. I donated or threw away a lot.

I learned to be honest with myself and threw away items that I swore I would lose weight to fit into once again. Life had kept me busy that I had continued to accumulate things that were just that…things that gave instant gratification and then sat in my closet or garage. Did I really need to keep my son’s first pair of shoes for a possible grandchild someday? Or the childhood board books that I lovingly read to each son every night?

As I decluttered my home I realized I was decluttering my mind and my Happy Planner journal helped me do it creatively.

I gave the books to our nephew who now has two young children, as well as the shoes. And as winter turned into spring I finally felt motivated to do some spring cleaning.

Two days ago my workplace experienced an outage as the country experiences an extended heat dome. The last time we lost power at work was on March 16th; a day before we were headed to New York City. As I walked the halls checking in with our residents in their apartments I remembered how I had received a call from my husband before noon that spring morning. It was unusual for my hubs to call me in the middle of the work day.

The hubs informed me that I had ten minutes to get to our veterinarian to say my goodbye to our 14 year-old dog who had multiple tumors.

The hubs and eldest son both worked remotely that day and noted that our dear dog was vomiting and immediately took him to our vet. She is a friend and told the hubs to call me right away. I promptly left work to hold our dog in my arms before he went to sleep forever.

I intermittently cried the entire five hours of our flight to New York the next day. I have never grown up with animals and it was then that I understood how much he was a part of my life. He was my fourth son.

I remembered the camping trip when he and I were floating on a raft into a swift current and it flipped over. The dog and I locked eyes with one another as he floated away and I got stuck in the current. Thankfully, people sitting on a rock nearby jumped in to save our dog while I tried to right our raft and get to him. It had been a close call. It is my favorite memory of him and after that day he always slept in my sleeping bag with me.

This recent 4th of July my mother-in-law shared the story about our puppy when we left her with them to go to NYC. When the hubs and eldest son left, the puppy continued to sniff the chair where her master sat (the eldest son) and stood guard by the front door. She wouldn’t sleep in the dog bed or come to my in-laws.

She continued to sit or lay by their front door for two days. Upon our return our puppy continued to sniff and search our home for our other dog in all of his normal places. It took her two weeks to realize he was no longer with us.

Recently my coworkers glanced at my open planner as I was presenting in a meeting. It is full of pictures of my tribe, including our animals, among event details, calendars and to-do lists. They asked how long it took me to plan/journal my days and when I found the time to do it.

In the past I used to have piles of post-it notes that would get lost around my work desk. When my house was getting renovated and I didn’t have access to my personal computer (PC) I had defaulted to my planner. It helped to put my lists of things to do in one place and by creating a journal with stickers, pictures and inspirational quotes it was my personal time to try to think creatively for event or calendar ideas.

I’ve made myself do this several days in the week and my focus and clarity has improved 100%. I am more productive and this leaves me time to think outside-of-the-box.

This summer as others enjoy vacations I am happy with the staycation at home. I recently was motivated to clean up my area of the backyard and am considering what flowers to grow in my stacked pots once again. Our almost one-year old puppy joins me in the pool and we swim alongside one another. Eventually my sons or hubs venture out to watch or join in.

I remember why I blog. The words are always unplanned and I was surprised to find myself at my computer itching to type today. I had needed to work through the jumbled thoughts stuck in my mind and I am at a point where I am ready to grieve the loss of our beloved dog Snuggles.

My headache has eased, my heart’s burden free.

As I journal and journey through these dog days I can now clear some headspace and work on the spaces between my four walls once again.

I have to admit I like the minimalist look and my velcro puppy guards over all of us; cats and rabbit included. I’m in a good place.

We are her tribe. I’m glad she’s joined us for the ride.

Uncategorized

Trot thoughts

Fastener Gal

Early this morning, as my son and I headed out the door for a jog, our thirteen year-old dog trotted to the door, tail wagging.

Our dear dog, in the past weeks, had been limping around on three of his four legs. We were unsure if he had broken his left hind leg; the one he wouldn’t put pressure on. We soon realized it was arthritis.

My son and I looked at one another and with an imperceptible nod, my son motioned to the dog to go outside. It had taken me by surprise.

“We can jog tomorrow and take the walking route today,” he said.

Taking a semi-deaf, aging dog on a walk, without his leash, is a frustrating experience. In the past I yelled to the dog to, “Heel!” and catch-up. My son usually admonished me to not yell; that the dog cannot hear me anyway but our sleeping neighbors can.

I hit the walk icon on my watch and resigned myself to a long, frustrating journey.

I am on a tight time schedule in the mornings in order to get my chores done and to work on time. Pack my lunch. Clean the cat litter. Feed the bunny. Make sure the dog has enough water. My to-do list ran through my mind. A thirty minute jog was going to turn into an hour walk.

I watched my son pick our dog up as he veered out of the crosswalk. Thankfully there were no cars on the road but he did it anyway.

I forged ahead, my minutes ticking away as my to-do list looped in my mind. I listened for our dog’s collar and the tread of my son’s footsteps and when I didn’t hear them behind me, I stopped.

The dog sniffed most of the bushes on this walk we’ve taken many times through the years. But as I watched the dog sniff and my urge to yell at him came to mind, I took a minute. Deep inhale.

From a few feet away my son noticed my body language. He had been hovering near the dog and nudged him gently. I got the long look from him to not yell.

I slowed my steps and, instead, chose to tap my leg. This got our dog’s attention. He understood to heel and slowly trotted to me. As my son took the rear and frequently nudged, I took the lead and tapped my leg often.

Our aging, arthritic dog happily sniffed and stayed with us most of the time. When he got tired my son would carry him to give him a break.

This dog has jogged next to me for many years without complaint. The tension of the leash would be taut as he tried to run ahead to chase a rabbit in our path or birds in nearby bushes.

I found myself staring at tree bark and noticing different colors aloud to my son who would grunt in response behind me.

I’d hear the bell of my dog’s collar as he trotted nearby.

I stared at the sky and remarked how the purple clouds looked like a painting in Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas.

I pointed out my favorite tree whose branches grow over our path.

I was grateful for the fifty-four minute walk.

The dog walk was action faltering but the mindful moments were day altering.

As we entered our street our dog immediately knew to run home. The son and I walked briskly to catch-up. Our arthritic dog was happy.

As I handed him his treat I realized he had given me a gift. Unlike my canine who sniffed everything and stopped to smell the bushes, I’m usually busy trying to check-off my things-to-do.

I’ve gotten lost in my thoughts and have tripped myself up; not paying attention to the changing terrain. I’ve missed the beauty of sunrise, the chirps of the birds and the silence of the usually busy street.

I don’t know how many more dawn trots I’ll have with my furry friend or my twenty year-old son. Today I truly appreciated their company.

friendships, successful aging

mind over matter

Fastener Gal

The brain is a beautiful thing.

I recently texted this to two of my dear girlfriends upon learning one of their daughters was in a coma. It never occurred to me that this young lady would not come out of it, that it would only take time.

As I enter menopause I delve into books to help me decipher this new phase of my life. I have the knowledge of how to temper belly weight gain, hot flashes, etc. but my mind overrules the wiser choices of trying to avoid caffeine or the occasional alcoholic drink.

I get plenty of physical activity from exercise and work and attempt to curb my sugar cravings but it really is a battle of mind over matter. I eat more than I burn. I do not have mental discipline to choose healthier choices.

I focus on the mind.

One of my newfound things to do is vinyasa yoga. Initially I took this up to increase my range of motion in the arm where my axillary lymph node removal occurred; since I couldn’t walk or jog without irritating that area.

I discovered that I was wholly present when I flowed from one position to the other. Very rare, indeed.

I had to fully focus on what the instructor was saying, without looking, as I listened to my body. Yoga is a workout! There is no room for external thoughts to enter my mind as I focus on static postures such as half-moon or move from chaturanga and upward dog to downward dog.

An impactful image from the onset of the Ukrainian invasion was a news story on a family sheltering in their apartment. The 24″ x 71″ mat was the only thing that could bring sanity to the mother as bombs were heard around her. It brought her peace of mind.

While discussing brain games at work I shared my issues with mental discipline. This surprised my co-workers since they know I wake up at 5am to exercise four days a week; if not more.

Over the years I’ve learned that eating out is the luxury not afforded by my childhood.

Growing up my mother cooked all of our meals except for the Wednesdays, once a week, of my piano lessons or a special occasion. On those days we would have McDonalds or eat a buffet for an anniversary or birthday. But outside of these occasions, eating out was rare.

I eat out because I can.

My laziness contributes to my lack of cooking at home. I naturally cannot come up with dishes to cook with raw ingredients without a menu, theme or recipe; unlike my better half who can whip up amazing meals as if he were on Iron Chef. I think of my two girlfriends; one who is a chef, the other who whips up meals and says everything is easy. Both produce amazing healthy meals.

My hubs says I can do this too. That mentally I don’t want to. This same guy tells me I can also fix my closet door, change the filters in my vehicle and build a shelf.

But why would I want to, I reply, when I have him?

Even in my short ten minutes of meditation, each morning, with my Calm app do I battle my mind. I sit in my comfortable position and begin to focus on the breath. And then my mind wanders to the day ahead, of the things I need to do and Tamara’s voice is lost in the chaos until I have to rein it in and I am hyperventilating.

It isn’t hard for me to sit physically still for the practice. It is my mind that races at all times of the day.

As I jog, when the thoughts of my day come into my head I begin to focus on my footfalls. I look at the changing scenery and am thankful for the adjacent footsteps of my middle son, who is the one who accompanies me. I suspect he comes because I have fallen a few times with missteps; my mind in other places and not paying attention to the terrain. He always jogs slightly behind me with our twelve-year old dog. My plantar fasciitis insoles have helped immensely with my missteps and gait, as well.

Each day I’m grateful I can continue to jog as my body recovers from the fall before. I send a little prayer upstairs each morning in thanks.

The brain has the capacity to recover from trauma, to rebuild neuronal synaptic networks and heal. It’s an amazing organ and my most favorite.

But it’s also the organ that I fear. Since my mother had Alzhheimer’s dementia-type, the genetic likelihood of having this happen to me is higher. It’s always ironic that this was my course of study never knowing it would befall me very personally.

There is nothing worse than losing someone who forgets who you are and the memories and bonds you shared.

My mother’s mind was lost in the matter.

I think of my other girlfriend who shared the story of her daughter, who was struck in a crosswalk at work. The driver had been texting and never looked up to see the person in the crosswalk and after months of recovery, she returned to work as an assistant deputy attorney for the county.

The body and brain need time to heal.

I plan my activities calendar at work with different brain games. Yes, I do it for the residents I work with but I also do it for myself. We always have the capacity to learn new things. I encourage puzzles and riddles and love doing them too.

You CAN teach an old dog new tricks. You just have to have the desire to learn.

And so I open my mind, give myself a little grace and embark on changing up my time-worn eating habits. My hubs was shocked that I turned down the pizookie for dinner last eve and that I cooked a pomodoro sauce with eggplant the night before.

I can come up with many excuses but the reality is, if ever I want to make a change, the time is not after I return from vacation, when I’m not tired from work or lack of time. I need to make the time and the best time is right now.

Our time is limited. Make every moment count.

School

Lessons learned

Fastener Gal

It’s hard not to live your life through your kids. Believe me, I know.

This morning as I drove my high school junior to school I apologized. He had applied for a leadership position in his marching band program and was disappointed with the results. I had come home from work yesterday and asked if he had heard any results. From his quiet demeanor, my maternal instincts kicked-in.

I sat on the couch next to this son as he shared. “He didn’t care,” he said.

I sat quietly absorbing his news and asked only a few questions.

As a mother you always want the best for your child and this charismatic, sarcastically charming son doesn’t normally experience melancholy. He eventually went upstairs to his room while I continued to sit on the couch.

Things happen for a reason and later when I came to his room; it was I who had to vocalize my thoughts. This son is not punctual and is ALWAYS late for his first period. He isn’t the kid that stays after to help put things away. He’s one of the first ones to go. Though he is a natural leader, he needs to be able to set the example and it’s a lesson learned for my youngest son.

I’d rather he learn it now.

But my son was more angry with me, that I asked too many questions. That I care. And he still was given a leadership position; just not the main one. I had harped on the negative instead of focusing on the positive.

“I’m your mom, who else is going to tell you this?”

I have exactly six minutes every morning to impact this son as we drive from our driveway to the library next to the high school. I apologized for always living through them (my kids). His response was that I will never learn.

I also urged him to talk to his high school counselor before school lets out next week; to look at his options for colleges. He immediately responded no.

Stuck at a traffic light I told my son how my high school counselor saved me. My father had terminal colon cancer and my mother had not wanted me to go to college because culturally I was supposed to care for her. But my counselor urged me to apply to colleges anyway and he walked me through the process.

I used the high school typewriter from my typing class (yes, those used to exist) to type my essay and applications. There were no computers or common applications. My fee waiver only allowed me to apply to a few schools.

When my acceptances came in, I didn’t know what to do with them. Again, my counselor helped me fill out my FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid). I owe my higher education pursuit to him since my parents weren’t involved.

When I stopped the car to let my son out, he looked thoughtful. I thought he had known this about me and it’s why I’m so “extra.” It is why I am so involved with my own kids.

I recounted a recent discussion with my co-worker as he shared his relationships with his four sons. I asked him the best parenting advice he would impart to other parents to have great relationships with four adult sons.

Make the time to spend quality time with each one individually.

I had a similar conversation with my girlfriend on our drive into the city for a Frida Kahlo exhibit. We shared stories of our sons and she made the same comment as my co-worker. Live intentionally. Make the time for each son individually and really listen, with non-verbal cues, what their body language is saying.

Live intentionally.

My goal when I became a parent was to send my kids off to college with the same experiences I had.

As I decorate my house in blue and orange colors for my eldest son’s upcoming college graduation I think of how far we’ve come.

Four years ago when my eldest applied to colleges, I assumed his experience would be similar to mine. He is much smarter than I ever was, his standardized test scores were high and he was involved in high school and the community. He had a high GPA with AP courses.

As a computer science major this son got rejection after rejection. He wasn’t the very top of his class and as all of his schools emailed responses he was left with two.

While attending one of the previews we had gotten lost and happened to walk into a reserved tour of parents and students (which we weren’t supposed to be on). It was on this tour that he met his program advisor and entered a four-year combined bachelor’s/master’s program; the one which he’ll be graduating from next week.

And unlike my college experience, he is debt free and has multiple job offers. This son’s path is all his own.

It had been ingrained in my mind to go to big name schools for the connections. Years ago I had been offended when one of my family members asked if this son would transfer to a big name school and this son had overheard.

My eldest needed none of that. It doesn’t matter where you go or how you get there because the end result is the same if you’re capable and have a good work ethic. Another lesson learned.

I’m not one of those parents on Fakebook or Instagram posting the shots of my kids’ accomplishments. I’ve been humbled by my boys’ experiences and am grateful to see them grow from disappointments. My goal is NOT to have successful young adults with titles and large incomes because there are a lot of problems trying to attain these things.

As a parent I want to have strong relationships with each of my sons.

When the middle son stated he wanted to go shopping last night, I stopped decorating with my blue and orange and hopped into his car. When the youngest comes to my bedroom for me to scratch his back, even though I’m half-asleep, I try to awaken for a brief scratch. When the eldest wants to meet for a happy hour drink and fries, we toast our days.

Success is in living intentionally with gratitude for what we have. I am grateful for each son and the unique qualities they bring to my life. They’ve taught me humility and what really matters. I am proud and continue to grow and learn with them.

Live and learn with intention.

hospitality, successful aging, Work

Finding my groove

Fastener Gal

Who knew that my recent health hiatus would give me my groove back?

I used to be a hospitable person.

hospitable definition from merriamwebster.com/dictionary/hospitable

1a: given to generous and cordial reception of guests a kind, hospitable people b: promising or suggesting generous and friendly welcome c: offering a pleasant or sustaining environment 2: readily receptive : OPEN

As a young girl I watched life go by my front window as my childhood friends dressed up for Halloween and people threw eggs at our front door. My parents didn’t celebrate most holidays, like the 4th of July, and didn’t wish to be near fireworks. Valentine’s Day was always a school party to exchange candy and cards. On St. Patrick’s Day I knew to pinch people not wearing green.

In my first year in college, during the Thanksgiving break when my father passed away of colon cancer, I returned to my dorm with a small, live “Charlie Brown” tree from a tree farm close to home. I placed it on the ledge with a few lights and decorations and as I’d return to my dorm after classes I would look up and see the tree on the 6th floor window and it would cheer me up. It was a little piece of home since college was three hours away.

This is when my holiday decorating began; at age eighteen.

Through the years I’ve tried to celebrate holidays. I enjoyed learning about the different cultural foods and traditions that brought meaning to celebrations and looked forward to re-creating them when I had a family of my own.

When my sons were young it was normal to have playdates and family parties at my home. My husband deployed often and so these get-togethers allowed me to meet others. As an only child I’ve always been drawn to observing people dynamics and being with large groups allowed me to experience this first-hand.

It was my form of “play.”

Until the parties became work. Drama would get in the way with kids or parents. Finances needed to be capped since hosting get togethers required money. Time was limited as my sons began soccer, swimming, golf and religious education.

Eventually I withdrew from hosting anything or anyone as I pondered why I went through all the busy-ness of hosting in the first place.

I learned to sit within my four walls. When raising kids it’s easy for mothers to put their family’s needs before their own. I had defined myself as mother and forgot the rest of myself.

And as my young sons became sullen and testosterone teens, they didn’t care for the celebrations and decorations. I was told it was a waste of time. My house remained unadorned for a few years. Then it went through a remodel when a water pipe leaked in our kitchen.

I pondered what was next in life for us as we transitioned out of the family business to CTRL-ALT-DEL our lives, re-starting anew to Life 2.0 as the great recession continued.

After a few fits and starts I eventually landed in my current workplace. Upon being interviewed by the executive director he had hoped that I would work in memory care but that position had been occupied. He asked if I’d be interested in activities with the intent of moving me when the memory care position was vacated.

What does activities do? my family asked. My answer. Anything to entertain over one-hundred plus elderly residents. No small task.

And then the pandemic hit.

The position in memory care opened up, as well as the admin position for activities. And though my resume and background matches me to memory care, I chose activities.

How do you entertain over one-hundred residents isolated in their apartments who can’t have family or visitors and who watch FOX News or CNN at high volume all-day for entertainment?

My learning curve was steep. Entertaining was work and I’ve had no experience in activities. I learned to flex as COVID guidelines constantly changed. We explored the rules of engagement, to reach our residents, as they spiraled into depression and anxiety.

I had to find my former hospitable self.

As the restrictions eased I was able to plan parties and celebrations; to try to regain some kind of normalcy after two years of lockdown. I was so excited to celebrate Halloween in our community once again, the holiday that I always missed as a young girl.

Until my breast cancer diagnosis came; my surgery scheduled. The entire month of October the Halloween festivities were left for my team to implement while I recovered at home.

Prior to my surgery I found myself nesting. I brought out my dusty Halloween spider my sons and father-in-law made over a decade ago and dragged my hubs around to purchase pink pumpkins with me.

If I had to be stuck at home for a month, I wanted it to be interesting to look at.

My sons nor hubs really noticed or cared how our home was decorated. Decorating my home for Halloween and Pink October brought me joy and I used my balloon garland fetish to create spider eggs.

I decorated for me.

Slowly, my hostess-with-the-mostest self began to return. I rediscovered my Pinterest account and pinned appetizers I wanted to incorporate for work happy hours and tiered-tray decor for my home tablescapes. Decorating for myself was liberating and my home became my canvas as I tried ideas I wanted to do at work.

I thought I’d be left alone to my own devices. But the month of October brought me countless visitors of friends both near and far. Some are within a few miles of my home who I hadn’t seen in months or years. The bff from 2,000 miles away landed on my doorstep. I had not seen her in-person since 2011.

I had not known my decorated home would host so many people!

As this Valentine’s day neared my assistant shared how she doesn’t enjoy receiving flowers; because they die. Flowers happen to be my love language and I shared that it’s because their beauty is short that makes me appreciate them all the more.

Nothing is forever. We have to appreciate the beauty before us each day; each moment.

Upon returning to work from medical leave I had to transition with the changing COVID guidelines as my workplace shut down to visitors to mitigate the Omicron strain. We’ve since re-opened and I am in event mode once-again.

I cursed the fates as this past week I hosted three parties within four days with book club in my home and Super Bowl/ Valentine’s Day back-to-back for work. I was working a six-day week to allow my staff some time-off; which meant I’d be hosting my work parties alone.

I got “Into the Groove” with Madonna and my 80s playlist while I cleaned my home for eight hours straight on my day-off. I didn’t know how many of our book club members would be coming to my book club. In the past these things would bother me, details and courtesies such as RSVPs, but over the years I’ve let those expectations go. I enjoy themes and plan my parties around them so the book by Miranda Cowley-Heller titled, “The Paper Palace” set my summer/ New England vibe.

I stood on the periphery as my home filled with fourteen of our nineteen book club members. It is rare for all of us to convene at the same time and it has been over a year since I’ve seen some of them. Our pet bunny rabbit’s ears were pinned to his body and I felt a little bit like him, overwhelmed by the bodies crowding into my family room and kitchen. I had not expected this many people and it was loud.

Thankfully, I made a lot of food and as everyone caught up, ate and drank I happily fell into my hostess role. My Bible Study at work knows that I am the Martha who is busy cooking and serving Jesus while her sister Mary sits at his feet listening to his words and teachings in Luke 10: 38-42. So after making sure plates were filled, I pointedly sat down among my thirteen other girlfriends in the loudness of my home. At 1 AM when the last of them left, I tiredly grinned. I have missed these ladies and our book discussion was lively and deep.

I brought out my home decorations as I prepared for our Super Bowl pre-party. I never know how many of our residents will decide to come and the chef had been falling behind. I worried that I’d have too much food with too little people. But as our theater filled and the Star Spangled banner was sung, I was happy to see the theater almost full.

The chef filled the chafing dishes with appetizers that were completely eaten by half-time. The drinks flowed, the game was a nail-biter but our home team pulled it out (Go Rams!) and everyone was vested in the game. I was grateful to the engagement coordinator who assisted me and our dining supervisor for bringing dinner to our residents so they could continue to watch the game. I watched half-time before heading out to my sister-in-law’s home to finish out the game with family.

The very next day I had to get my cupid groove on. I had chosen to host a formal Valentine’s dinner. My hubs and I choose not to go out to eat on Valentine’s day, due to the expected long wait times, and this inspired me to re-create the romantic restaurant vibe at work. My request to our entire assisted living community was to dress-up for dinner and I expected staff to do the same. I dug deep into my closet for the dress I wore to my husband’s naval aviation winging ceremony in April 1998. It still sort of fit!

I tiredly sat at my desk and hoped our residents would come or even dress up.

The week before many of them expressed that they did not have formal wear and had no use for heels and fancy clothes so what was the point of it all? I worried my last minute entertainer would not come through. He charged a premium and we had requested for him to come on Valentine’s day from 4-6pm during his prime time.

I silently crossed my fingers that it would come together as I stared at the mess of my office. Chinese New Year, football and Valentine’s day decor were strewn everywhere. I slipped on my heels and was ready to roll. It was GO time.

Our main dining room was full, as was our secondary dining room for our memory care residents. Our crooner sang for both groups and for the rest of this past week residents and staff expressed their appreciation for the fancy dinner and fabulous entertainer. A lot of our residents did find formal wear and I got teary seeing a few of them dressed up in heels and tuxes. For April or May I’m already thinking of a prom.

Being in your 80s and 90s doesn’t mean you can’t still dress up and have a good time. Just like the flowers, you have to enjoy life right now. Carpe diem and all that jazz.

Letting go of expectations has allowed me to enjoy these moments.

I came home to my family for a simple take-out meal from my favorite Indian restaurant on Valentine’s day. It was enough. My heart was full.

What makes a great party?

It doesn’t entail spending a lot of money, although for work I have a budget and I spend every dollar of it for our residents. The trick to being the hostess-with-the-mostest is in the thoughtful planning and details. To know how to read the room and engage people. Sure, it helps to have nice decorations, an entertainer/DJ/music but what makes the party are the guests invited to it.

You need to know your people or make it a point to get to know them. It’s all about social interaction. The rest of it falls into place.

It’s an unexpected gift to get my hospitable self back; to find my groove to celebrate all things big and small. Seize the day!

Being Catholic, friendships, successful aging, Work

my invaluable lesson

Fastener Gal

Every Monday I facilitate a Bible Study for a group of twelve to fifteen seniors. I hadn’t known it would be popular when I introduced it on my activities calendar. I have attempted to start a book club within the large residential care facility for the elderly (RCFE) where I work, to no avail.

It was month’s end and I busily inputted invoices, finalized and distributed calendars and events and the Bible study was the last thing on my mind. Thirty minutes prior I downloaded the study, printed, copied and collated and tried to read through the leader’s guide.

I am a voracious reader. I have helped start two different book clubs with people I didn’t know very well and both continue to thrive; one for twelve years this January and the other for five. My seniors are also avid readers so I thought it would be easy to start a book club at work.

One day, after sharing with a resident on reading the Bible in one year, in 2007, she asked why we couldn’t start a Bible study. I am not overtly religious and Catholicism is not a seeker faith like other Christian denominations. There are large mega-churches that surround my work place with leaders who lean political, evangelical and everything in-between. Our large resident population is just as diverse.

As we eased out of the COVID pandemic in Spring 2021 my first Bible Study was focused on how to deal with anxiety, fear and change.

The residents who regularly attended, and continue to attend, come from various Christian upbringings. Some easily quote verses while my fellow Catholic counterparts, and myself, learn how to maneuver through the various books of the Old and New Testaments. I applaud them for wanting to learn how to navigate the master book, though I feel ill equipped to bring them spiritual guidance.

I have asked several community members to help lead this group. Some are pastors, others laypersons. I have been blessed with the answers to my call. But my residents prefer that I facilitate the group.

Almost a year later I’ve realized that the Bible Study has become a spiritual support group; just as the other two book clubs I’m involved with are social support networks who originated with moms, teachers and administrators from my boys’ elementary school.

Reading discussion groups = social networks.

My family likes to joke that my book clubs are wine/whine clubs. But all kidding aside, I’ve had very intimate discussions with my fellow members and it is very affirming to know others hear you and validate your thoughts. We don’t always agree but we understand the need to be heard.

We can easily get lost in the busy-ness of our lives with kids, parents and work/volunteer commitments that we lose sight of who we are.

Today I asked our Bible Study, as we discussed Psalms 107:1-9, what age they considered “old?” The average age in this group is eighty-five with members as young as early seventies and others aged ninety-nine. We considered a traumatic event in our lives where we questioned our faith and how we overcame that obstacle.

It is customary to read the study and chosen Bible verse and then for me to go to each person to share; just as I do with book club. I used to have to print reading questions and study guides, and I still do this. But I can easily go off-topic and relate things to our discussion as I did today.

We talked about the death of a spouse, a stillbirth, a change of health condition. The entire group had shared and it became my turn, I being the last person.

In the past I found myself not listening to what others were sharing, totally absorbed in how I would respond to the question. But after many years of facilitating and coordinating people I’ve learned the value in being present and hearing someone before me. To provide affirmation and validation. Empathy. To just listen.

And so when it became my turn, I didn’t have a premeditated response and what came out of my mouth was real time and unfiltered.

I spend my time listening to others and less time worrying about what I’m supposed to say or share.

It’s an invaluable lesson.

Being in-person, as our children and our residents discovered during the pandemic, is vitally important in our lives. We need the social connections, to be present to read the physical cues in the room. We are not meant to be isolated.

The group, as well as myself, was surprised with my reply to the question of what event in my life impacted me the most. If I had given it more thought it could’ve been my recent bout with breast cancer, the death of my mother or father, getting married, or having kids.

Instead I speak of dementia, Alzheimer’s type. The early signs I missed with my own mother. My bachelor’s degree is in gerontology and I had worked in a neuro-gerontology research lab for Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s diseases for three years.

It was my co-workers at the long term care ombusman office, where I had worked at the time, that prodded me out of my denial.

I told the Bible study group I was a terrible caregiver. That all of my education in aging and dementia all went out the window. That when I shared this experience training law enforcement, health care professionals and adult protective services that the room would become quiet and I’d see my participants were crying. I would not be.

With the birth of my eldest son, my mother was the first person I called and she had not recognized my voice. My obstetrician had been tending to me as I called from the hospital bed to share the news and to this day I remembered the look of sadness that passed over his face; which he quickly masked.

I shared that after the birth of my jaundiced, colicky eldest son my dear husband was then deployed for six months. Upon his return he had been shocked that I had moved my mother out of her home to a small board and care for memory impaired seniors. He had offered to have her live with us but after escaping several times and leaving the stove on with a newborn, my co-workers assisted me in her placement.

When asked at my work place, to oversee our memory care unit, they were surprised I had declined. In the thirty residents that reside in our memory unit, I see my mother in each one of them. It is still too close to my heart. I shared my fear that I, too, will inherit the genes for Alzheimer’s.

After speaking I finally focused on the room. It, too, was very quiet and I saw tears in my fellow residents’ eyes.

As a group we shared our coping mechanisms. Social networks (friends, family, church). Our faith. One resident sings church hymns in her mind to get through hard times. Another resident, a musician, just sings. Most of us rely on our faith foundation and pray. Another recites Bible verses; particularly Romans 8:28 (NIV).

28 And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. ~biblegateway.com

I found solace in an anonymous Alzheimer’s support group for caregivers where nobody knew who I was. The same facilitators speak with a dear friend of mine who chose to care for her mother at home.

“Age is just a number,” shared one of the residents.

She disclosed how she doesn’t mind being called, “old” but hates to be referred to as elderly. We discussed the distinction. At that moment a one-hundred and one-year old resident entered the room to wait for our next activity; the game of Rummikub. I tell the group that I want to age gracefully, just like our 101 year-old and she laughed out loud.

I have much to learn from my Bible study. I’m grateful to have this weekly opportunity with them to glean from their years and wisdom. It’s invaluable.