This Too Will Pass

I am fondly remembering when my children were small. So much energy and love went into making sure they were dressed, well fed, clean and safe. I mothered my children back in the days before baby monitors and wifi cameras helped monitor the safety of a sleeping child. I remember hesitating to even walk outside into the backyard to hang my laundry on the clothesline to dry, always wanting to be within listening distance of my sleeping babies.

Mealtimes with my little ones could be fun but, if I turned my back for an instant in our teeny-tiny kitchen, one of my children could spread his meal all over himself and the floor beneath before I could count to three. The other child made highchair sitting into a baby Olympic event going from being seated in her highchair to standing on the tray in record time.

Little stinkers.

I remember making an effort to make bedtime routine, but special. The process of getting ready for bed was the same every night for our two little kiddos. Baths. Jammies. Brush teeth. One favorite book (each child picked a book) and a Bible story. Then tuck each one into bed with plenty of kisses and hugs.

This weary mommy looked forward to bedtime, but our kiddos didn’t always stay in bed. Someone was thirsty, or hungry, or scared, or had to pee. “Can we read ONE more book, Mommy?”

There was always something.

Now, in this circle of life, it’s my sweet mother’s turn. Meal times can be a bit messy and challenging. She cannot be left unattended. And bedtime ritual is just as important for her as it was for my children. Soothing ritual brings a small measure of security to her sometimes frightening world living with memory loss.

I try to get mom to wind up her coloring and activity about an hour before I want to settle in for the night. I get her toothbrush ready for her and make the suggestion that she brush her teeth and use the bathroom. I get her tucked into her bed and say our goodnights, “I love yous,” and turn off the lights.

Before I can settle into a movie with Wayne or a project on my laptop, I hear Mom’s walker scootching and clunking down the hall. In fact, right now, as I write, she’s up again even though she went to bed not more than five minutes ago. This will go on four or five times (sometimes more than that) before she’ll settle in for the night.

Sometimes she’s hungry. Sometimes she’s just confused and wondering what she should be doing now. Other times she’s worried about where her money is or when she will have to move some place else.

It’s always something.

Just like the young mom caring for a little one who just can’t stay in bed, the caregiver of an elderly parent gets weary too. But tonight I’m remembering how sweet it was so many years ago to wearily carry my pajama-clad little ones back to bed, and give them one more hug and one more assurance of my love. As exasperating as it may have been, the very last time I carried each child back to bed came when I wasn’t even aware it was the last time. It so soon passed.

As a daughter and caregiver, I am fully aware I am now doing the same thing for my sweet mother. I can guide her back to her bed, tuck her in once more with my tender assurances of my love for her, knowing full well that the last day will come when I least expect it, and this time with my mom will too soon pass.

Intruders in the Night

“This is Charlotte Boyles! I need help!”

That was the 4-something a.m. frantic call of Momma, who had spent all night keeping an eye on the intruders in our kitchen. My sister Vivian, on overnight “mom duty” at the time, answered from her upstairs bedroom, “I’m coming Mom!” Vivian listened to Mom’s report of suspicious activity coming from the kitchen, attempting to assure her that all was well and our home was secure. Mom was convinced beyond any shadow of doubt that there were thieves hiding in the kitchen’s pantry; she had seen them with her own eyes and had heard what they were saying. Vivian did a walk-through of the kitchen, opening and closing the pantry cabinetry and its swing-out interior doors to check inside. Nothing unusual there, but Momma still believed ‘they’ were here hiding in there somewhere.

Momma said she had a phone in her purse, and she wanted Vivian to call the police. The phone was actually the remote control for the TV. She had other emergency items packed in her purse…just in case, including a pair of scissors she would use if she had to jab her way to safety. Vivian escorted our frightened Momma back to her room, closing the draperies on the windows and doors. She stayed in the chair beside her, bringing an extra measure of security.

During all of this excitement, I slept peacefully in my bed upstairs. It was nice to have my sister on duty for this one. Both my husband and my bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived sister told me all about the adventure when I woke up.

My brother had a dental surgery appointment that morning, so I would be busy taking him to and from that appointment. While I waited for him in the surgeon’s waiting room, I made arrangements over the phone with mom’s doctor to have her urine tested to check for urinary tract infection, the usual cause for hallucinations of this magnitude. Sure enough, a few hours later, the doctor’s nurse called with the results and to let me know they had called in a prescription for me to pick up at my pharmacy.

Sleep should be less eventful for Momma in a day or two. I hope.

This pretty mug usually contains coffee…but always holds a memory of my dear friend Melinda.

I try to look for “joy” in the midst of these sometimes challenging caregiving days. Admittedly, it’s sometimes hard to find the joy on days like this. But it was there nestled in something my sister showed me later in the day. She said, “Oh, Mom had this in her purse too. She wanted to save it from the robbers for you.” Viv held out a coffee mug. Not just any coffee mug. Momma had commented on the beauty of this particular mug a few days prior. I had told her it was a gift from a very special friend. As I took the Polish pottery mug from my sister’s hand, I was astounded that my mother would remember that this mug was so special to me. And even more flabbergasted that she would seek to save it from the very real (to her) robbers in our home.

My sweet Momma.




A kerfuffle is some kind of commotion, controversy, or fuss. If you read about a scandal in a newspaper, it could be described as a kerfuffle.

Kerfuffle is a humorous-sounding word for a mostly non-humorous situation: some kind of disturbance, scandal or mess. However, a kerfuffle usually isn’t 100% serious. People talking loudly in public could be making a kerfuffle. If a politician says something embarrassing by accident, it could cause a kerfuffle. Often, people use this word when they think people are making too big a deal of something, as in “What’s the kerfuffle all about?”


This word just keeps floating around in my brain. The reason is not entirely apparent, but I just can’t stop landing on that word today. All day. Constantly.

I guess it’s a sign that I should write about it.

There does seem to be a whole lot of kerfuffle going on in the news today. The mere mention of the name “President Trump” can cause a kerfuffle between the best of friends. But that’s not the kind of conflict I’m thinking about at the moment.

In the world of an Alzheimer’s patient, repetitive thoughts are commonplace commotion of the already fragile mind. Life can be like a stuck record. My sweet Momma will get a thought in her head, then it will just keep circling in her mind, prompting the same question. To her, each time the thought comes around, it’s a totally new thought, keeping her mind in a constant state of commotion – a kerfuffle, if you will.

Sometimes it’s a worrisome thought about money. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night and wonder how on earth she is going to pay for her apartment. She does not remember that her bills are on “autopay” and she has social security, a pension, and a steady stream of investment income, so she’ll get up and search through her purse, her drawers, and closets looking for her money. Even with our constant reassurance, the question is never truly answered.

Sometimes Mom’s kerfuffle is in the form of a fear. Fear of water or the shower continues to be a problem. Even though she informs me that her head itches and she needs to wash her hair, there is no way I’ll get her in the shower without force. It’s just not worth the kerfuffle or (here’s another fun word) brouhaha.

My mind experiences kerfuffle when it’s time to sleep. My husband falls asleep within a minute of his head hitting the pillow, but my mind just refuses to find the “off” switch. My brain is too busy for sleep. I’ll be thinking about my to-do list, something that happened that day with Mom, something I should have said but didn’t, or shouldn’t have said but did, someone I need to talk to, what I’m going to have for breakfast, an idea to try…sometimes all of the above, and then some.

Sleep is one thing I’ve discovered caregivers really need…and really lack.

One nighttime kerfuffle fighter I have turned to in recent weeks is to meditate on a Bible passage as I’m settling down at night. I’ll read a passage I’d like to consider, then open my Bible app to that passage, turn on the narrator’s voice, turn off the light, then lay my head on my pillow and listen. God’s Word is a wonderful thing to ponder. A few chapters in and I’m in a restful sleep.

Sleep is good stuff. Even better is sleep nestled in God’s Word.



Make Me a Blessing


Funny thing happened yesterday.

I was preparing supper in the kitchen while my mom and hubby chatted in the living room, when I overheard Mom say to my husband Wayne, “Are you a patient here too?” Wayne chuckled and responded, “No, I’m just a visitor.”

I had to stifle a laugh. It was so sweet. With that bit of in-house comedy came the realization that Mom’s perception of me as a caregiver (or herself as a “patient”) isn’t far from the truth. I may not have M.D. or R.N. following my name but, the fact remains, I do provide care.

In the course of my day, I was her “nurse” as I managed and dispensed her medications, her nurses aide when I helped her get cleaned up following an accident (then disinfected the bathroom), and her live-in dietitian when I made sure she ate food more nutritious than potato chips and ice-cream. Add to that the daily task of constantly helping my sweet mom with the mysteries of life (e.g. “Where’s my purse?”) or helping her remember the things we take for granted, like where the bathroom and bedroom are located.

When midnight rolled around, I was tuckered out and already in my makeshift bed (mom’s couch), but suspected my care-giving wasn’t quite over for the day when I heard the distinctive sound of mom grunting as she pushed her walker from her bedroom. She called out into the darkened living room, “Cindie, do you know where my toenail clippers are?”

“Yes, mom. Do you need help with something?”

Mom took a seat in her favorite chair just a few feet away, then switched on the tablelamp. Blinking back the abrupt brightness, I could see she was holding one shoe in her hand. Apparently her toenail was bothering her inside of her shoe and she was just not going to get any rest (nor would I) until that problem was remedied.

A handy tool for at-home pedicures

Like many elderly people, mom’s nails are very thick. A bit much for her arthritic hands to tackle. Taking my nailcare kit in hand, I sat on the floor with her foot in my lap and became her podiatrist. After clipping her bothersome nail, I trimmed a few others then lotioned her foot.

Momma loved the toenail TLC from her live-in care-giver and soon shuffled off to bed yet another time. Thankfully, she slept for 8 hours straight…and so did I.

Sleep seems sweeter when you know you’ve been a blessing to someone else.