Catch Your Breath: Tender Meditations for Caregivers

By Linda Spalla

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""One of the meditations from Catch Your Breath cited in Oprah Magazine""

Whether you have chosen to be a caregiver or were hijacked by circumstances, Catch Your Breath, a series of touching meditations by Linda Spalla, will become a wisp of sanity and a day-to-day stabilizer. Spalla retraces an eight month care-giving journey with her mother, captured in raw, candid images, truly becoming a walk in her shoes. What started as a thirty-days-to-live commitment of care in her home turned into an unexpected eight months of never-ending responsibility.

You will feel a kinship with the roller coaster of emotions; from anger, confusion, surprise, resentment, guilt and ambivalence, to finally relief, recovery and celebration. You will learn through the various vignettes some refreshingly practical information on such topics as finding sitters, managing medicine, dealing with sibling rivalry, contracting with Hospice, moving to assisted living, doing will preparation and other legalities as well as funeral planning. You will laugh; you will sob; your heart will soar; your heart will break. You will find solace, encouragement and inspiration for one of lifes most daunting challenges. But especially, you will discover your best self, emerging stalwart, strong and forged by the fire of your caregiving experience.

Give yourself a gift of renewal and Catch Your Breath.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Oct 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452522241

Linda Spalla

Linda Spalla was a caregiver to her mother for almost a year, and has captured that journey with inspirational poignancy in Catch Your Breath. Spalla, author of Leading Ladies and now retired from a career in television, resides in Huntsville, Alabama, where she is a weekly Alzheimer’s volunteer, a golfer, and a grandmother.

Book preview

The Early Days

Chapter 1

A Dose of Overconfidence

We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.

—Joseph Campbell, The Power of Myth

W hen I was in my midfifties, my dear mother, who was eighty years of age, suddenly found blood in her urine—copious amounts of blood. After a trip to the ER, we discovered that a great deal more was going on inside her body, which led to a diagnosis of advanced leukemia. Suddenly, in one long afternoon, our world turned upside down and the oncologist with a gentle demeanor conveyed to my mother that she had about thirty days to live. He recommended no chemotherapy because of her age and the rarity of the type of leukemia she had. He conveyed the diagnosis and the prognosis, smiled, patted her hand, and quietly left. I was stunned. Mother was devastated, and through tears she asked for her preacher to come to the hospital to talk with her about the courage to face death. No one knew what to say or think. Yesterday she was tucked away happily in an independent-living facility with an active social life and pleasant camaraderie; today she was dying!

All sorts of personnel came into my mother’s hospital room that afternoon, including social workers asking if Mother wanted a nursing home, assisted-living facility, or hospice. With a surge of indignant confidence, I blatantly stated that we would have none of their services—I would take her home with me. I would provide the best thirty days she had ever had.

That afternoon’s revelation, which was supposed to last thirty days, turned into eight months and led me to understand what it meant to live on fumes, a phenomenon understood by all caregivers. Though my initial burst of self-confidence was healthy, loving, and well-intentioned, it was not very realistic. Caregiving is like step-parenting. It’s one of the single most difficult tasks you will ever perform. You don’t embrace its ramifications until you get in the middle of it. What caregivers learn is that their gas tanks run low most of the time and day-to-day living is about surviving on the fumes. All of your gas is burned off so quickly that there’s nothing left to fuel your soul or body. You give everything you have away. It’s a lonely time, especially if, like me, you’re single. It’s a time for self-reflection and making sure your psyche is intact and secure. It’s a time for venting to good friends and reading the Psalms in which David can relate to your heartaches and challenges. It’s a time to draw on family to help you.

I was over-confident; I was sure I could do it. I sold that to my mother, and she believed in me. What I didn’t know, and what no one knows, is truly how long the tending can last. Consider all the options carefully and push aside that rush to over-confidence. Think through a possible elongated period of tending and make sure you are truly up for it. Consider your finances and your support system, your own health, and your personal stamina. Consider the impact your tending will have on all of your other relationships inside your family and social network.

Would I do anything differently? Absolutely not—and neither would you, I suspect.

Chapter 2

Rearranging Space and Finding Some for You

This was the rearranged space of yesterday.

—Deborah Levy, Swimming Home

W hen you agree to take on the role of caregiver, your space is suddenly violated. There is an invasion of privacy that pushes the familiar routine of daily living and habits aside—for example, where and how people sit at the table for meals, where people watch television, where people sleep, and how they navigate through the interior of your house. Every resident will be affected.

A two-story house like mine meant that the only available bedroom on the main floor was the master, my bedroom. I rented a separate hospital bed and tried to remain sleeping in the same room as my mother, but she had many needs throughout the night and snored loudly. I realized that I had to move upstairs to a new, uncomfortable guest bedroom. The lighting was poor and the bathroom was inconvenient. Suddenly I was redoing everything, trying to make a doable space for my life.

On the first floor, there were rugs to clear and furniture to move to make room for a walker and then eventually a wheelchair. I was glad to discover that most of my doors were wide enough for both walker and wheelchair and that I had an easy-entry shower. Never before had I thought of any of these elements.

Consider your living space very carefully before you accept a loved one. If you make the commitment, remember to keep the big picture before you. Space is space just like things are things. The real dynamic is the relationship, the time, and the focus on your loved one. But in the meantime, a good night’s sleep for you is a must! Carve out a cozy corner and be intensely kind to yourself, accepting that your usual space will be compromised for a time.

Chapter 3

A Bumpy Mattress and Street Noise

Live simply so that others may simply live.

—Gandhi

M y new space upstairs was never comfortable for me, even though I tried hard to make it so. The bed’s mattress was old and lumpy, and thus I didn’t sleep quite right. The lighting was poor; the noise from the street—barking dogs, trucks, sirens, blowing wind—was intensified because of being on the top floor as opposed to snugly in the back of the house on the ground floor. I had never known all of this racket took place, and I became much more empathetic when my kids came to visit. I also noticed that the guest bathroom was ridiculously sparse. It had no Kleenex, no drinking cups, and no real warmth of accommodation. I quickly fixed