There's an adage that goes: "Having a place to go is a home. Having someone to love is a family. Having both is a blessing."
Another one says: "No matter how poor a man is, if he has family he is rich."
These sayings are on my mind today because tomorrow will be our first day of foster care training. Four training sessions are required to begin the process of becoming a licensed foster family.
Family is an interesting thing, isn't it? We love them, we hate them, we ignore them, we take them for granted. We avoid them, we help them, we depend on them. We can't live without them. When I turned 18 and moved away from my family, they were still my family. Nothing beats that.
But what if you didn't have a family? What if, through no fault of your own, you were alone in the world? Some people choose this, certainly. They walk away from their families on purpose. But others, such as foster kids, have no choice. The choice was made for them when their parents violated the basic rules of humanity by failing to care for them and the powers that be were forced to remove them from their homes.
What about those kids? Suddenly they have no home, no family, and the world is a big, scary place. What will happen to them? Ideally, their parents will get their act together and get them back. But that doesn't always happen. And even if it does, what if it takes a while? What happens in between?
Those are some of the questions that compelled us to sign up for the foster care training sessions. We love and appreciate family, and I don't just mean flesh and blood. Family is much more than that. So we thought maybe a kid who's been separated from her family might find it a little easier to bear if she knew she had another family waiting to support her. To be there for the in between.
We want to be that family. How about you? Which makes me think of another saying: "You don't have to be perfect to be a perfect parent." Thank goodness for that.
Check out http://www.adoptuskids.org/ to learn more about foster care in America and even see pictures of kids in the foster care system who are waiting to be adopted because their parents have given up all their rights. Please check it out and consider what you can do to help. Because where would we be without family?
Memories of saying goodbye
It was pretty nice as far as nursing homes go. Maybe the nicest I'd ever seen. But I hated it.
Walking down the hall to Room 117, I gripped my children's hands and dragged them along behind me. They weren't any happier than me to be there but they knew enough to be quiet. They knew enough to be scared.
The door was closed so I knocked lightly.
"Come in," I heard. I sighed a heavy sigh. Here goes nothing.
"Hi grandma," I said to the petite, frail woman with white hair sitting on the bed. Please let her remember me.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Katie!" Phew.
Even with all her things in there, her room looked foreign and unfamiliar. I had sworn I'd never let one of my own family members end up in a place like this. My husband and I had even had plans drawn up to remodel our house, complete with a handicap bathroom, so my grandma could come live with us. But when Alzheimer's begins its cruel work in earnest, everything changes.
Grandma sang the "Teddy Bear's Picnic" song to the kids and we visited. Then we left Room 117 and walked around the inside of the building, my grandma's slow shuffle appearing painful because of her hunched back. My kids stared at old women shouting at houseplants and old men sobbing in wheelchairs. I couldn't believe it had come to this.
At first my grandma spoke with a measure of normalcy about her disdain for "this place," her distaste for the food, and her disbelief that grandpa would leave her here. As if he had a choice. Then, before my eyes, she transported herself to a different time, years ago, and found herself on a boat. She could no longer see what I saw or know what I knew. Curse you, Alzheimer's. Curse you to the depths.
I was emotionally exhausted by the time my grandma found her way back to the present, and my kids can only take so much, so I told my grandma it was time.
"We've gotta get going, grandma," I said.
I knew she would be disappointed but nothing could prepare me for the look of desolation that passed over her face. Her eyes seemed to ask a hundred questions at once: How could you leave me here? Where am I? What's going to happen to me? Who are you? But she didn't say any of those things.
"You'll come back and visit again, won't you?" she asked instead.
I answered, but as soon as the word "yes" left my mouth, I knew in my heart it wasn't true. I knew that even if I had the chance to drive the six hours to visit her again, she wouldn't be here. She would be lost forever in the murky, gray fifth dimension of Alzheimer's disease and I would never talk to her again. This was really goodbye. I knew it as clearly as I knew the sun was shining outside.
I leaned down to give her a gentle hug, hating myself for being so anxious to get out of a place she'd never get to leave. My eyes were misty but I forced a smile. My words stuck in my throat but I forced them out. "Goodbye, grandma. I love you."
"Goodbye dear," she said. Then she sat down in a chair and peered down the hallway at another world, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I'll just wait here for the train."
Walking down the hall to Room 117, I gripped my children's hands and dragged them along behind me. They weren't any happier than me to be there but they knew enough to be quiet. They knew enough to be scared.
The door was closed so I knocked lightly.
"Come in," I heard. I sighed a heavy sigh. Here goes nothing.
"Hi grandma," I said to the petite, frail woman with white hair sitting on the bed. Please let her remember me.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Katie!" Phew.
Even with all her things in there, her room looked foreign and unfamiliar. I had sworn I'd never let one of my own family members end up in a place like this. My husband and I had even had plans drawn up to remodel our house, complete with a handicap bathroom, so my grandma could come live with us. But when Alzheimer's begins its cruel work in earnest, everything changes.
Grandma sang the "Teddy Bear's Picnic" song to the kids and we visited. Then we left Room 117 and walked around the inside of the building, my grandma's slow shuffle appearing painful because of her hunched back. My kids stared at old women shouting at houseplants and old men sobbing in wheelchairs. I couldn't believe it had come to this.
At first my grandma spoke with a measure of normalcy about her disdain for "this place," her distaste for the food, and her disbelief that grandpa would leave her here. As if he had a choice. Then, before my eyes, she transported herself to a different time, years ago, and found herself on a boat. She could no longer see what I saw or know what I knew. Curse you, Alzheimer's. Curse you to the depths.
I was emotionally exhausted by the time my grandma found her way back to the present, and my kids can only take so much, so I told my grandma it was time.
"We've gotta get going, grandma," I said.
I knew she would be disappointed but nothing could prepare me for the look of desolation that passed over her face. Her eyes seemed to ask a hundred questions at once: How could you leave me here? Where am I? What's going to happen to me? Who are you? But she didn't say any of those things.
"You'll come back and visit again, won't you?" she asked instead.
I answered, but as soon as the word "yes" left my mouth, I knew in my heart it wasn't true. I knew that even if I had the chance to drive the six hours to visit her again, she wouldn't be here. She would be lost forever in the murky, gray fifth dimension of Alzheimer's disease and I would never talk to her again. This was really goodbye. I knew it as clearly as I knew the sun was shining outside.
I leaned down to give her a gentle hug, hating myself for being so anxious to get out of a place she'd never get to leave. My eyes were misty but I forced a smile. My words stuck in my throat but I forced them out. "Goodbye, grandma. I love you."
"Goodbye dear," she said. Then she sat down in a chair and peered down the hallway at another world, folding her hands neatly in her lap. "I'll just wait here for the train."
October
I'm spitting in the face of one of my biggest fears here by sharing with you all a song I wrote. It kind of feels like standing outside on an icy January day with no pants on.
My song is called October, and it's about change, which is appropriate for this time of year. The leaves are turning colors, the air is turning colder, and the days are getting shorter.
Change is a part of life. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. Sometimes a change that didn't seem good at first was necessary to get you where you needed to go. Sometimes letting go of one thing allowed something new and better to take its place.
But even when everything looks like it's fading away...dying even...we know that in the spring new life will come.
My song is called October, and it's about change, which is appropriate for this time of year. The leaves are turning colors, the air is turning colder, and the days are getting shorter.
Change is a part of life. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad. Sometimes a change that didn't seem good at first was necessary to get you where you needed to go. Sometimes letting go of one thing allowed something new and better to take its place.
But even when everything looks like it's fading away...dying even...we know that in the spring new life will come.
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