Dr. Christine Northrup, Oprah's gynecologist on speed dial and author of Women's Bodies, Women's Lives, and the Wisdom of Menopause suggests that you spend 30 minutes three time a week in "self love."
Yes, that's right. The M word.
Now, I can only speak for myself here, but unless "self love" includes eating a bag of Dove chocolates, painting my toenails and thumbing through a magazine, I'm going to have about 27 minutes to kill.
It's not like I have to woo myself or assure myself that I'll respect me in the morning...
As a caregiver, mother, daughter, sandwich generationer, pet "mom," I have to tell you, thirty uninterrupted minutes is hard to come by.
(pah dum,dum)
I figure I can blog about this if Oprah can discuss it at 4:00 in the afternoon while I'm making chicken pot pie.
But a healthy love life is important.
Being a passionate person spills over into everything in your life--how you dress, walk, what you choose to eat, how genererous you are with your timea and energies, how affectionate you are to all living creatures--not to mention the effects giving and receiving love has on your heart, immune system, psychological, emotional and spiritual foundation.
I thought I'd suggest a few tips for revving up the ole' love life for couples who also caregivers, raise kids, and walk dogs.
Mom’s Home—Quick, Lock the Bedroom Door!
Tips on How to Enjoy Your Relationship Even if Your Mom
Lives With You
· Put a lock on your bedroom door—and use it
· Sneak around—intimacy doesn’t just have to happen in the bedroom. Be playful! Flirt!
· Nix the old t-shirt and sweats and wear attractive PJs—they don’t have to be overly sexy to be attractive.
· Stay affectionate--even if you have to make yourself at first—call each other during the day just for a “Hi, and I love you,” hug and kiss hello and goodbye, cuddle on the couch, call each other affectionate names/ take baths or showers together (you do remember those?)
. Take short walks together—even 5 or 10 minutes of fresh air is invigorating and gives you a chance to talk
· Plan a surprise—sneak out to the yard after dark to cuddle on a quilt under the stars with cups of hot chocolate
. Laugh! Rent a comedy, pop some popcorn and sit ont the couch together--not in dueling recliners
· Don’t sweat it if you aren’t in a lovey-dove mood--caregiving is stressful and there are seasons in life. Remember though, a healthy love life is healing, satisfying and stress relieving—and better for you than a bottle of Scotch!
Now, go have some chocolate.
Happy V Day!
~Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
Kunati Publishing
Showing posts with label heart disease. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heart disease. Show all posts
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Sitting Beside Our Loved Ones as They Pass Away
The first time I sat beside someone I loved as they passed away was my adoptive daddy. He was dying of heart disease--something that had eaten at him the last decade or more of his life. I watched him pop nitro-glycerin tablets as if they were Pez candies.
But sitting beside someone in an ICU unit is much different than allowing the dying process to enter your home.
Mother and I were let in hourly--for ten minutes at a time. We sat in the orange vinyl chairs, or hovered over his hospital bed rail. I never felt as if I could get close enough.
And the nurse came and got us, told us he was going, and we stood by as he gasped his last breaths.
Sad, I know, but this too, is a part of life.
My mother's passing was different.
She passed away in my home. I sat in a recliner next to her bed. There was carpet, and although she was in a hospital bed, it was still homier. I had weeks to watch her die. Yes, it was excruciating, but it also gave me chance to climb down the mountain with her.
I've climbed mountains, real mountains, and I've learned it's not the uphill, the incline that's so hard. It's the decline when your quads are shaking, your balance is wonky, and you feel completely off kelter.
I wrote every day my mother lived with us. It kept me sane, helped me work out the enormous pressures and concerns I carried in my heart.
I allowed my family to keep living--going to swim practice, to part-time jobs, for my husband to go to work.
Life doesn't pause much, not even for death. But I sat there, that late spring, and I allowed dying to take up residence.
I wrote in my book, Mothering Mother:
Where are you, Mother? What’s going on?
I’m tired, but I’m more worried than tired. You won’t eat and it’s hard just letting you lie there not eating. The hospice nurse said not to force it and it felt fine when we were talking about it, but it doesn’t feel fine now.
Are you dying? Is this it? Are you taking those final steps or is this just another dip and turn? I don’t know; maybe it’s not for me to know. I’ve been back to your room two dozen times this morning. I can’t stay,
I just keep pacing, adjusting your pillow and cover like it’s going to help. I brush your hair back and look into your eyes, wondering if I’ve lost you for good.
I'm ironically grateful for this experience. I've sat beside my mother. I've read her Psalms, moistened her lips, bathed her hands and forehead. I didn't know if I could do it--sit there like that--but I did.
It's not even as painful to think about now as I thought it might be. It's soothing in a way. It's closure.
As a caregiver, you have to eventually realize that your loved will eventually die. It's tough to face, I know.
I hope whether you're in a hospital, in a hospice facility or at home, that you too, will have the priveledge of sitting in the quiet and experiencing life--and all that it has to offer.
Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
http://www.mothering-mother.com/
But sitting beside someone in an ICU unit is much different than allowing the dying process to enter your home.
Mother and I were let in hourly--for ten minutes at a time. We sat in the orange vinyl chairs, or hovered over his hospital bed rail. I never felt as if I could get close enough.
And the nurse came and got us, told us he was going, and we stood by as he gasped his last breaths.
Sad, I know, but this too, is a part of life.
My mother's passing was different.
She passed away in my home. I sat in a recliner next to her bed. There was carpet, and although she was in a hospital bed, it was still homier. I had weeks to watch her die. Yes, it was excruciating, but it also gave me chance to climb down the mountain with her.
I've climbed mountains, real mountains, and I've learned it's not the uphill, the incline that's so hard. It's the decline when your quads are shaking, your balance is wonky, and you feel completely off kelter.
I wrote every day my mother lived with us. It kept me sane, helped me work out the enormous pressures and concerns I carried in my heart.
I allowed my family to keep living--going to swim practice, to part-time jobs, for my husband to go to work.
Life doesn't pause much, not even for death. But I sat there, that late spring, and I allowed dying to take up residence.
I wrote in my book, Mothering Mother:
Where are you, Mother? What’s going on?
I’m tired, but I’m more worried than tired. You won’t eat and it’s hard just letting you lie there not eating. The hospice nurse said not to force it and it felt fine when we were talking about it, but it doesn’t feel fine now.
Are you dying? Is this it? Are you taking those final steps or is this just another dip and turn? I don’t know; maybe it’s not for me to know. I’ve been back to your room two dozen times this morning. I can’t stay,
I just keep pacing, adjusting your pillow and cover like it’s going to help. I brush your hair back and look into your eyes, wondering if I’ve lost you for good.
I'm ironically grateful for this experience. I've sat beside my mother. I've read her Psalms, moistened her lips, bathed her hands and forehead. I didn't know if I could do it--sit there like that--but I did.
It's not even as painful to think about now as I thought it might be. It's soothing in a way. It's closure.
As a caregiver, you have to eventually realize that your loved will eventually die. It's tough to face, I know.
I hope whether you're in a hospital, in a hospice facility or at home, that you too, will have the priveledge of sitting in the quiet and experiencing life--and all that it has to offer.
Carol D. O'Dell
Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir,
available on Amazon and in most bookstores
http://www.mothering-mother.com/
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