We're all at risk of falling and failing

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Yes, we're in the period of fall risk … my husband Roger from his knee replacement surgery on Friday and me … just being a klutz. No, neither of us has fallen … though the cats are just waiting for a great story to tell on Catbook …

I also realized that we're in another kind of fall risk … our mouths falling open and saying the wrong thing when we're tired or in pain or frustrated. It can happen to the one who needs assistance and their caregiver … all because of this "being human" thing. 

After getting home late Saturday afternoon, I was helping Roger, and his engineer brain was in full overload telling me what to do step by step. I finally said, "Stop! Stop telling me HOW to do it! I know what I'm supposed to do!"

He apologized. I guess that mental "slap" reminded him that I had spent all that time at the hospital learning how to attach the ice unit, and I didn't need the play-by-play report. And I proved it by just doing it WHEN he gave me a chance.

Caregivers and their loved ones all have to give each other a chance in uncharted or familiar territory. We all occasionally stumble, but they're not life threatening mistakes. They're just human errors … the curse we all bear.

Relationships are strong, yet fragile. Some people let them erode out of stubbornness or an unwillingness to forgive others' human ways. Sometimes we get caught up so much in our individual pain or woes that we forget that others who love us are hurting for us, too.

Even when we're hurting inside or out, when we stop to reflect on others' pain for us, it's a drug-free remedy for what ails us. It's also called distraction, because when we're not focused on me, me, me, me … we can give our nerve endings a much-needed break.

What do we do when we see someone sad? Angry? Having a pity party? We distract them with common sense, humor, hugs, humanity … When we give and when we receive, we ease our own blood pressure and pain …

I know this isn't a cure-all, but I can guarantee it's a cure-most-of-the-time … and that's pretty good in this imperfect world we live in …

I guess I'm still a fall risk … when I'm dancing and teasing Roger out of his reach … motivation, baby, motivation …

The two hours that saved me from myself

By Monica Vest Wheeler

May you be blessed with discovering new ways of giving thanks on this day …

I am beyond blessed with the family and friends who never fail to lend a hand, a shoulder, a word, an ear … They put me in a place of calm, such as this moment of soaking in the power and peace of Lake Michigan last month on my way home from camp …

I now take better care of my physical self … walking at least four to five times a week, eating less and better … developing more stamina after losing more than 20 pounds … a great reversal after ending up in the ER near physical collapse two weeks after Mom passed away in July.

Yes, yes, yes, go, go, go …

Self-talk, self-talk, self-talk …

Yes, I believed that I was (re)building a new me …

Several days ago, I finally stopped to ask, “Who am I?" If I only knew. I had been writing the story for 60 years and finding fault with every previous chapter. There wasn’t enough red ink in the world to correct everything “I" considered an error. Intellectually I knew I was wrong but I couldn't course-correct emotionally … Don't worry. No cliff jumping because I'm afraid of heights … :-)

My poor husband and son, the challenges they've faced with someone who has battled depression for soooooo many years … Talk about loving, patient souls … Yes, I wanted/needed help but was unsure what it even was. I had already increased my meds while caring for Mom or I knew I wouldn’t make it. However, I’m smart enough to know that meds alone wouldn’t “rescue” me.

I composed an email asking a professional counselor I knew for help. Then I steadied my shaking finger over the send button … and hit it. This person got me in for what turned out to be a two-hour Monica-athon. Poor person … I owe them a box of tissues to replace the one I consumed … :-)

Finally, finally, finally … I untangled the roots of decades of self-imposed inadequacies, doubts and fears, and it made sense. In the last 17 years, I had had therapy several times because of my depression and made great progress. But this time, because of where I am in my lifeline and losing my parents in the last two years, I guess I tapped into a deeper vein of existence and purpose … oh yes …

And it was enough to cut my tissue consumption at home by 90 percent and to turn my husband’s tears of worry a few days ago to laughing, “Geez, you’re sure happy!” just yesterday …

Blessed be those who help and listen and love and hurt for us … family and friends who are kind and patient and compassionate … people who acknowledge they need help and ask for and accept it …

I need you … and you need me … what a glorious, glorious place to be …

Committed to memory: Three vital life lessons from a caregiver

By Monica Vest Wheeler


Ever revisit a photo that speaks a million, not just 1,000, words?


Every second Thursday of the month, I pause at this image of a couple I met in the fall of 2006 … a beloved husband who had been diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and his devoted caregiver wife. Revisiting them gives me strength and courage to offer support for a new generation of dementia caregivers who gather with me for 90 minutes at the Alzheimer's Association office to talk, listen, laugh, cry, hug … and be reassured they are not alone …

Molly was caregiver extraordinaire … a source of comfort for other families battling what she described as the "heinous disease we have in our midst" … a reliable smile and warm laugh that lingered long after you encountered her … a rare soul who loved life and her precious Joe so very much.

She became one of my dearest friends, not only because of what she shared about the impact of Alzheimer's for a book I was writing at the time, but also for the voluminous emails we exchanged in a continuous conversation about life at its most precious roots. I revisit that correspondence when I need a "Molly moment" … and how I wish she had been here with me the last few years as I struggled with the loss of my dad and mom. 


In recent days, I've reviewed those words in search of comfort and rediscovered many life lessons in a new light. The theme of caregiving jumped out at me this time, so I felt the need to share some of Molly's most honest and poignant words about being a caregiver, whether it's for a loved one with dementia or any health challenge. These also apply to those many stroke and brain injury caregivers I've met all over the country …

Here is just a small sampling of "Mollyisms" we all need to heed:


I have decided that lots of things will be missed along the line ... just can't do it all!

Ain't that the truth?!?! Some caregivers suffer from perfectionism, thinking they have to do everything AND exactly right at the same time. STOP it now!!



As a recovering perfectionist, I think back to what my mom-in-law asked me years ago, whether my house was perfectly neat OR if I had done something that made a difference in someone's life or the world. I've always selected the latter … the house has learned to wait.


And while caring for my mom the last 10 months of her life, my housecleaning skills were not as perfect as she would have liked, but they were good enough to get by … so that life didn't pass us by. 

Pay attention to this critical note:

There is never "total sleep" for a caregiver ... there is never the chance to wake up refreshed, stretch, yawn, watch the sun beams stream through your dirty windows and think --- Ah, morning, I slept well and now on to the day ahead!!! A caregiver sleeps with one eye open, ears listening, and heart pounding, and even sometimes tears flow silently all through the night!

The emotional and physical toll on caregivers is staggering. I've witnessed it in so many individuals who reveal the stressful challenges through their weary eyes, loss of or excessive appetite, missed medical appointments for their own health, deep and painful loneliness and isolation … and so much more, not counting the harmful loss of sleep.

And that brings me to the third of Molly's messages for caregivers:
 

Why is it that I love to give to others but being on the receiving end is so touching that it moves me to tears? Getting old is really bringing that on and perhaps knowing that our time is so precious together and the moments are dwindling brings it on!
 

It's so hard to ask for help … and despite our technological advances, we still can't read each other's minds. As I tell caregivers and survivors alike, we humans are wired to take care of ourselves and others. We hate to ask for help … and so many suffer in silence. We put everyone ahead of ourselves … and so many lose themselves in the process. 

Speak up! Reach out! And if you know a caregiver, give, give, give a little of yourself to them! 

Caregiving can make us stronger. Giving brings out the best in us. I know I am a wiser, more compassionate person for having taken care of my mom for 10 months … being with my dad the last 30 hours of his life even though he was considered "brain dead" … overseeing the end-of-life care for my dad-in-law more than seven years ago … 

And I only survived by reaching out and letting others in … learning from my missteps and raw human emotions. Molly taught me so much … in how she lived and how she left this world … a body tragically worn out by caregiving … Still missing her after nearly nine years. 

I am reminded of Molly's most powerful message: 

The woman looked at me and said, "Molly, I don't know how you do it? I know I couldn't do what you do." I looked her straight in the eye and my response was, "Oh, you could do it all right, even though there are some really rough times. You are driven by a thing called Love! You could do it, if you really loved the person."


Oh, how she loved her Joe, who survived her by four years.

Molly and I simply fell in love with each other in the few years we had together. She thanked me for loving her:

Thanks for your LOVE - the more you give it away, the more you have!


Thank you, Molly. I always pass your photo when I leave the support group meeting, very sentimental about missing you … hoping I continue YOUR mission to comfort and lift caregivers …. 

Or I know you'll find some way of letting me know if I'm not …

Three views to photograph on the first birthday in heaven

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Just how big of a camera lens do you need when you're shooting earth from heaven?

I'm imagining my mom on her first birthday in heaven, November 4. She's not snarfing down a birthday cake. She's photographing the world from the most glorious perch possible. Now, that's THE best way to celebrate!

Is she carrying an assortment of lens … or just packing a zoom like I do when I'm not sure where my photographer's eye will take me? Usually I rely on just one because my neck can only take so much weight and strain. Thank God she's not in any more pain …

Her eyes fill with excitement as she gazes beyond the rainbows … the rugged mountains and serene valleys … the mosaic of farmer's creative dirt and plant patterns … the winding shorelines where land and water play daily … the geographic directives drawn by humans to separate and unite us …

I'm sure, like me, she relies on auto-focus to not miss a thing … yet, I know she's also extremely patient in search of THE moment to unveil before her so she catch it for all eternity. It's that unexplained instinct when you know you're going to witness magic, even though you're not sure what it will be.

Now, Mom, let's say you've got that zoom. Make sure you get all three perspectives, in no particular order:

• Wide angle — you need the big picture to deliver the observer to the overall scene …

• Normal — the view we see with our human eyes without the mechanics of the camera lens …

• Close-up — the tiny details brought to life by the lens that we may have not noticed in our casual observation …

Yes, you should have been a photographer who traveled the world … followed your passion and heart … I should have encouraged you more …

Oh, why didn't we at least run away and do that for a weekend together?

We thought we had other priorities … but oh, how mistaken we were …

What did you photograph on your first birthday in heaven?

Did you get the wide angle of me driving across the country … past the pageantry of fall's golds, oranges and reds …

Did you get the normal view of me hugging your sister as we said how much we loved each other and missed you … and wished you happy birthday …

Did you get the close-up of my tears … sprinkled throughout the day …

Happy birthday, Mom … I love you …

The 20-pound weight loss diet I don't recommend

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Purchasing my August ticket for the ski lift in New Mexico, I saw the option for senior discount: 60 and over. It hit me that I had turned 60 in June and thereby qualified to save a few bucks. And the guy didn't ask to see my ID.

Hmm … I wondered afterward … did I really look that "old"?

Last month, I saw Midwest Pilot Club service organization friends I hadn't seen since April 2017 because I was caring for Mom in Indiana. They were so loving and complimentary about how "good" I looked, asking if I had lost weight. Yes, I had dropped some, though I laughingly didn't recommend the "grief diet" … losing Dad and Mom in 19 months.

I went for a regular checkup yesterday and discovered I had shed 20 pounds since July, when Mom passed away. What a "pleasant" surprise!

Yes, my "grief diet" has evolved in the last three months … from complete lack of appetite … to contemplating the need or consequences of virtually every bite I consume … to the elimination of junk food.

My poor husband Roger has had to not only get used to me living at home again full time after most of 10 months away taking care of Mom … but my drastically revamped eating habits. I simply don't have a hunger for anything beyond healthy essentials as I also walk at least every other day to rebuild my endurance. My comfort food? Pickled beets, like when I was a kid …

I still have an appetite for LIFE … though I have to stimulate it every day. Poor Roger also puts up with an almost relentless daily round of my tears, which seemed to have intensified in the last few weeks. A day without tears … well, it just ain't happening right now and I hate that loss of "control."

I can hardly make it through a conversation without succumbing to unexpected tears. Just ask the dear friends I saw yesterday … And without a word, they just hand me tissues and hug me as I laugh off the flood.

Yes, just keep holding me tight … as I make it easier for you to wrap your arms completely around me …

When we rewrite our life's missions

By Monica Vest Wheeler

I know there's "Throwback Thursday," but I needed a little "Feel Good Friday," and found it when I came across this image as I try to organize my digital life …

Ten years ago this month, in 2008, I met this amazing stroke survivor, Pat Dach, and her supportive caregiving sisters, Holly Stukenberg and Faith Long, at Retreat & Refresh Stroke Camp™ (strokecamp.org) at Living Springs camp in Lewistown, IL. It was my first year and fourth weekend of being part of the Stroke Camp experience.

I captured Pat as she worked every ounce of energy she had to climb that wall. An amazing moment to say the least … and in that vision, I knew that I HAD to continue to be part of this life-changing project for stroke survivors and caregivers … hoping that founder Marylee Herrick Nunley would "allow" me to return the following year … I wasn't waiting for an invitation … :-)

And to watch fellow survivor David Keyes (Shirley Phelps Keyes) congratulate her was awe-inspiring and tear-provoking. If I could only imagine then how I would still "live" for these moments 100 camps later …

I had no intention of going to more than one Stroke Camp beyond my first in June 2008 … just interview survivors and caregivers and go on my merry little book-writing way.

I've "failed" my original mission in some ways — writing a bunch of books — but discovered a far greater one when I picked up my camera at my first camp and haven't set it down since. I came up "short" in some respects, but I'm taller than that climbing wall when it comes to the conversations that matter in life … and the abundance of hugs and love that came with the package.

I've experienced a little bit of everything at Stroke Camp, but I never attempted the rock wall. My hands and arms have never had the strength. How ironic that it's my hands and arms that carry and position my camera to capture the big and little moments of life for others … And give me the energy and courage to keep wanting more …

 

To Pat Dach and all those other survivors and caregivers … you keep ME going …

Tears of a story-listener and story-teller

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Still easing back into the "real world," yesterday I interviewed a nurse who had cared for premature babies for years. It's one of many conversations for a local history project I'm working on.

As she shared a particularly poignant story, I felt the all-too-familiar shuddering inside … and my tears erupted like a faucet. She didn't miss a beat as she continued her story, and the video camera kept rolling as I still jotted notes.

Only for one micro-second did I think, "How unprofessional of me to cry!" No, I had invested MYSELF in this interview, and this is simply who I am.

My tears fell several more times during our conversation because her stories shook my very core about the fragility and meaning of life. After turning off the video camera, I apologized out of habit about my tears, though added I had lost my mom just two months ago.

And we had this amazing discussion … all because we had allowed ourselves to be real … and even vulnerable.

I spoke for an hour to an Alzheimer's support group last week … no notes, no Powerpoint, no specific topic … other than how to survive. The words flowed as my heart wrote them … along with some tears as I shared the fears and hope of this uniquely human journey …

I may cry when I story-listen … and when I story-tell. Because it means I'm here … where I'm supposed to be … spreading the word, sharing the heartache, discovering the joy …

Blessed are those who don't run away

By Monica Vest Wheeler

We all look for someone to hold on to at times …

I love this amazing statue in Green Lake, Wisconsin, of a ring of children holding hands as they play. There's one opening in the circle … and like many before me, I jumped in to join the fun.

Recently, it's almost been easier to grab the bronze child's hand than a human one because I still struggle with tears when I connect with "real" people.

My family and friends continue to go above and beyond as I still grieve the loss of my parents within a year and a half of each other. And then I feel guilty as so many people deal with far, far greater losses, challenges and realities.

Therein lies the brutal uncertainty of grief. It plays cruel games with our hearts, souls and minds. Just when we think we can make it through another day, it screams, "Gotcha!" Its taunting can be haunting …

I've discovered that grief seems to magnify my own shortcomings, fears and insecurities. It's like walking through the walls of distorted mirrors in the funhouse without any of the fun.

This morning, as I witnessed the distant sunrise through the apple tree branches that did not produce fruit this year, I watched my two cats position themselves at the screen door overlooking the back yard. They gaze upon it with such curiosity that you'd think they'd never seen it before. Their heads turn in unison at every sound and movement of nature.

And I am filled with wonder again as I should be … as I realize how blessed I am to be surrounded by loved ones who don't run away from my tears …

Love is not wasted time or energy

By Monica Vest Wheeler

The good news was that I knew what to ask.

The bad news was that I knew what to ask.

Yet, when it comes to YOUR loved one … you need wading boots to avoid drowning in the puddles you’re creating with your tears and fears. You have no idea of the depths you’re walking.

All these years of encouraging patients and families to speak up and advocate for themselves … and reminding medical professionals that they need to listen more and ask heartfelt questions … paid off when my mother and I entered that oncologist’s office for the first visit on September 14.

The doctor and staff were beyond compassionate and knowledgable. We explored the knowns … orange-sized mass in right lung consistent with cancer … and unknowns … exactly what type of cancer, explanation of chemo and radiation options down the road … and life expectancy.

And then you turn your life over to paperwork, the calendar and other people’s schedules … and endless scenarios and uncertainty.

We automatically ask, “What can I do?” or “What should I do?”

Yes, I asked myself that as if on cue, but then I suddenly realized the deeper meaning, “What lesson am I supposed to learn from this and what am I supposed to do with it?”

Silly me, the hopeless philosopher …

On the phone eight days later, Mom said, “I hope this isn’t a waste of time and energy for you.” I was not surprised at her statement though reassured her it wasn’t a waste of MY time and energy.

After then saying in a cold, emotionless voice that she could go to a MRI by herself, I said I know she can, only that I wanted to keep everything on my calendar so I was prepared. Ten minutes later, she called and apologized for hurting me. I said I understand, but she said I didn’t. I explained that I understood that she’s being thrust into a whirlwind of activities and people she didn’t want. She didn’t disagree, which was a plus.

This was extremely hard on a fiercely independent woman who had always wanted to do it HER way. I had to keep reminding myself of that fact and that it was not going to be an easy road for either of us … with a river of tears in our path.

And I gave the tissue industry far too much business in October when we heard the test results: non-small cell lung cancer, a tumor on the left side of her neck that caused all the left shoulder and arm pain … and two brain tumors.

The oncologist — bless his heart — explained all the options and how it was her choice on how to proceed.

“Do you want to go hard at it?” he asked.

“I want to stay as active as I can.”

“One thing at a time,” he reassured us.

Yes, all we could and can do.

Order up … one day at a time … with a side of tissues for the daughter ….

I knew I was intruding but I had to be there

 

 

By Monica Vest Wheeler

 

Bad news has a way of sucking the wind out of your chillin' plans. I only wanted to sit in my sunroom with my baby cats after a week away.

And what a whirlwind it was as I had been home only an hour on Tuesday, September 12. Mom didn't want me to worry while I was on the road, so she waited until I called her after my seven days of travel to Virginia for our first Retreat & Refresh Stroke Camp there and back with a detour to scout prospective camp sites along the way. 

Despite her overall excellent health and some fun photos of us earlier, she told me she had finally gone to the doctor for chest, shoulder and arm pain. She had tried everything over a six-week period to ease the discomfort. After an X-ray, the doctor ordered a CT scan. And the mass on her lung unveiled itself. 

She had signed the paperwork giving the doctor permission to speak to me about her health and get access to any reports. Thank goodness! They were trying to get her into an oncologist ASAP.

We said we’d stay in touch. I love you. I love you.

So, what do I do first? I called the primary physician, and the nurse gave me what information she had.

So, what do I do next? I texted Marylee to let her know what few details I had because we needed backup plans for the FIVE camps I had in the next SEVEN weeks. 

So, what do I do after that? I tell my husband and son that Grandma has cancer and I have no idea what’s going to happen.

So, what comes after that? I called my dear friend Genny and said I’d do a turn and burn — a four-hour drive each way to Indiana — to see Mom on Wednesday and learn more. Genny knows Mom and said she’d come along. She brought stuff for the night; I didn’t because I was certain Mom wouldn’t be able to get into the oncologist until next week at the earliest. And Genny was a perfect and eager support team as she had survived a scary battle with kidney cancer earlier in 2017. She understood the fears and uncertainty.

Mom values her privacy. So, I didn’t tell her I was coming over. She had told me too many times in the past not to come over because SHE said I was busy or SHE didn’t want me to travel any more than necessary.

Sorry, this time, I chose to be the disobedient daughter.

And I needed to do this for ME. I was still grieving the unexpected loss of my dad just nine months earlier. How could this be happening?!?!

On our way, Mom called to say the oncologist could see her in at 12:45 Thursday. She could tell I was in the car and asked if I was driving over. Yes, Genny and I were on our way. Her voice cooled immediately. But I was excited she could get in so quickly. That was good news!

Upon our arrival, I could tell she wasn’t pleased I had come over unannounced, but nothing was said. I knew I needed to stay so I could go to the appointment with her. All we know is it’s a large mass on the middle of her lung, consistent with lung cancer. They said it was the right; she said it’s the left, where she’s been experiencing pain. I couldn’t hug her tightly as she was in so much pain. She will only take ibuprofen though I wonder if she would benefit from more. Not my call to make at this stage.

I couldn’t wrap my head around my only-child emotions. I felt like I was intruding, but geez, I just want to be there. I had to! And I’m not even sure what to say or do.

I asked if she needed any food or other items. No.

I asked if she needed anything done around the apartment. No.

I asked if she’d please reconsider getting text messages so we could communicate easier. No.

As she explained how her cancer insurance policy was for only after the fact, I started to ask if she needed prior approval for anything, but she cut me off, refusing to talk about it anymore. 

I knew I had to give her needed space. Genny and I left and said we’d meet her and my aunt at the oncologist’s office the next day. And I needed some stuff for the overnight stay as my bonus mom Diane opened her heart and home, and the space I needed to process the known and unknown.

And I stayed awake much of that night, sobbing while rocking in my dad’s favorite chair ….

My mom thinks she should keep a secret

By Monica Vest Wheeler

My mom thinks she should keep a secret. 

However, I have a big mouth and feel the need to share.

Sorry, it’s the storyteller in me, and it’s just too big of a life story to ignore.   

So, she’ll just have to deal with it.

Can you see me thumbing my nose at her right now? Good.

The secret is not that she’s strong.

She’s always exhibited a deep sense of inner and outer strength and a self-sufficient attitude.

Now, that comes in handy when you’re trying to open a jar, take a test or finish a job. It can be vitally important when you need to show yourself that you’re stronger, smarter and braver than you would ever give yourself credit.

We can be strong, but sometimes we can break when we don’t give ourselves a break. I’ve worried about so many things that threatened to fracture her through the years.

The secret is not that she’s stubborn, which kinda ties in with strength.

I hereby declare that she’s the QUEEN of stubborn. Now, that can be good and bad. Sometimes we need to be just stubborn enough to force ourselves through ordinary and extraordinary hurdles and challenges.

If you’re living and breathing, you’re gonna and you gotta face obstacles in this world. It’s all about that learning curve that often resembles a figure eight … that I know she’s navigated so many times, and sometimes purely on instinct and fierce determination.

But it’s a royal pain to ME when you’re trying to convince her to let you help her in a variety of ways, whether it’s physically, emotionally or financially. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count all the times she’s said, “I can do it myself.” I never doubted she could, but it would have made many moments easier for ME if she had accepted my offers.

At least, that’s MY opinion ….

I’ve discovered much about stubbornness in my own desire to keep going despite an often crippling depression. Yes, stubbornness keeps me alive when I decided today wasn’t all that bad and tomorrow can be better, and more often than not, it does not disappoint.

And Mom has never made it a secret that tomorrow really is worth getting up for. As always, she’s right.

Geez. Mothers.

The secret is not that she’s often a loner and prefers to mimic Greta Garbo’s “I vant to be alone.” She’s lived by herself for the 36-plus years since she and Dad divorced. She values her space and privacy. I completely understand.

I likely inherited my introverted personality from her. I was an only child who really liked to be alone. In the solitude of my single digits and teens, I spent countless hours sucking ink pens dry by filling reams of traditional school-lined paper with all the stories that I obsessively had to write.

I don’t recall ever reaching the center of a Tootsie Pop sucker, but I reached the last drop of ink and said good-bye to many a trusty blue, black or red pen. That was long before purple ink made it to the mainstream office supply market place.

And that reminds me that it’s never been a secret that she’s always been somewhat frugal.

She has turned pennies into dimes and quarters into dollars. She cheaps out on the unimportant stuff but doesn’t on what she considers important. Her shelves are lined with off-brand essentials except the good stuff she treats herself to like facial creams, shampoos, laundry detergent and dish soap. It’s always been Dawn in her kitchen and Oil of Olay in her bathroom.

And she gave up a lot of personal stuff and luxuries to make sure I went to college. My parents paid my way so I would have not any student debt to start my life.

I paid attention because I went through college in three instead of four years to save them thousands of dollars. And that was back when private college was only about $4,000 annually.

The secret is not that she’s smart.

That woman was the first in her family to earn a high school diploma. If circumstances had been different, I’m positive she would have gone on to college and been some leader in the education, science or medical fields.

Why? Because she questions virtually everything. She has to know the how and why something works and what will happen if you do or don’t do this or that. I’m confident I got my reporter instinct from her, a trait that has opened the door to a world that often scared/scares me. I “hide” behind my pen and paper, keyboard or camera to infiltrate the “real” world where all the magic happens.

The secret is not that she’s made some mistakes.

Yes, we all make boo-boos along the way, some of which sparked some boo-hoos on difficult days. None of us are perfect, and hindsight — which can only be delivered in the aftermath — can reveal an unfiltered and illuminating view ….

And taught me to look in the mirror often to make sure I do my best to apologize and humble myself when I need to, and forgive and forget the world in hefty doses.

The secret is not that’s she has a sense of humor.

I got my desire to laugh from her. I got my often-quirky behavior from her. My son can vouch that I got the habit of singing to wake him up on many a school morning from his nutty Grandma-ma. Hey, it made me less grouchy when I was a kid, so why not experiment on my own?

And laughter saved many a day when tears might have been easier, though less productive. Laughter makes you think more than weepy eyes. And it burns far more calories.

What else is not a secret in my mom’s world? Hmm, that list can go on for quite some time, and I need more sleep ….

So, now, what is her secret that I’m spilling?

She’s waving the white flag to cancer … on her terms.

Geez. Mothers.

And I have to and choose to accept her decision.

Geez. Daughters.

The price of being too emotional

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Recently, I was told I was too emotional, that I needed to chill.

Well, I'll proudly wear the "too emotional" label because it makes me who I am … who I am finally at peace being.

I'd rather err on the side of humanity and authenticity. I'd rather be transparent than cloudy … even when tears blur my vision.

And because I choose to feel and share those emotions, that makes me less than perfect. I accept the role of being only human.

I gave up perfectionism several years ago, and it was one of my best decisions ever. Taking that load off my body, mind and soul opened the door to so many more life experiences that would have left me far poorer in spirit if I had missed them.

Try it if you suffer from the perfection bug. Cheaper than medicine or therapy. Also extends your life. Guaranteed!

Being "too emotional" is not easy. It can be beyond exhausting. It can make you vulnerable. It can be embarrassing. It can make some people uncomfortable.

Apparently that is what happened to the person who labeled me "too emotional."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry …

I've spent much of my life apologizing … for what, I'm not exactly sure. A lot of folks have asked, "What are you apologizing for?" And it's a hard habit to explain. I just wanted to make sure I hadn't bothered or inconvenienced or offended anyone … almost everyone I encountered.

Oh, how ridiculous! And it's an even harder habit to break!

The other day, while saying goodbye to a friend here in Peoria, I got teary-eyed again and tried to hide it. Putting her arm around me, she gave me the greatest gift by saying, "I know you're crying, hon. It's okay."

There are moments and connections and words and love that frequently tickle my tear ducts these days. I guess God wired me with extra tears, and I MUST produce! It's amazing I haven't short-circuited yet.

Maybe it just gives me more power and energy to live … and love.

Caregivers are worthy, too

By Monica Vest Wheeler

I do need more sleep.

But I've realized the past few days that what I really need much more of is more of ME.

Yep, I used the word "more" three times … just like Donna Summer did in the disco age …

The role of caregiver can suck the life out of you. I've seen it happen to the kindest and the most stoic individuals in the world. I've witnessed firsthand the stress of caregiving debilitate the strongest bodies.

Ironically, caregiving can also give birth to the strongest hearts and souls in the universe. For in those moments of monumental physical, emotional and spiritual challenge, a new life purpose can be born.

In more than a dozen years of engaging with caregivers, I've learned that no two individuals and care scenarios are alike. It's all because we have different DNA and experiences. I still find it so fascinating that God keeps coming up with unique fingerprints and souls every second …

After six months of traveling back and forth to Indiana and living 75 percent of my life in the Hoosier state during that time, I've decided that we have a choice to be caregivers or careworriers.

Yep, you heard it here: careworriers.

We can begin to define ourselves by what we think we can and should do. We can give ourselves the title of head cheerleader and then beat ourselves up mercilessly with the pompoms when our loved one isn't cheerful.

We can question our own reasoning abilities when we're arguing on the phone with insurance companies, where we're sure the representatives have been trained to subliminally make us believe we've become stupid after pressing 42 buttons in search of a real human being.

And it's such a tiny request, a live voice …

A live connection …

After you've written a dozen new definitions of the meaning of life … and seem to adopt a new one every few days …

And then start to compose a new theory of your own life … because no one can do it for you … and because you just need to sit down and do it.

It's too easy to be consumed by the challenges that stand in front of you when you care for someone else …

And push aside the ones that are just as important but are hiding … like yourself …

I still don't know what the immediate future holds for my loved one as we take it day by day …

But I know I have to rediscover the core of myself this minute and the next …

Because, as I tell all the caregivers I've encountered over the years …

You are worthy, too.

Yes, I am worthy, too.

And desperately seeking horses to talk to …

The kids are smarter than the adults

By Monica Vest Wheeler

The kids are smarter than the adults … because their minds haven't been poisoned by politics.

The kids have more common sense than the adults … because their minds haven't been poisoned by greed.

The kids are more compassionate than the adults … because their hearts haven't been poisoned by lies.

The kids are quicker to learn than the adults … because their minds haven't been poisoned by tunnel vision.

The kids see more obvious solutions … because their souls haven't been poisoned by hopelessness.

The kids are willing to spring into action … because their bodies haven't been poisoned by laziness.

The kids want to give … because their lives haven't been poisoned by taking.

The kids want to work together … because their lives haven't been poisoned by lack of compromise and cooperation.

The kids want to live … because they haven't been poisoned by hate.

I choose to be a kid.

If you're still searching for the perfect gift

By Monica Vest Wheeler

Valentine's Day is that time when retailers go a little crazy catering to the needs of crazy people in love … in search of the perfect gift … to candy or not … to flower or not … to ring or not …

Whether it's my life experience or the gazillion folks I've interacted with, I've decided that the most sincere form of love for someone else is loving yourself first …

And caring for yourself enough so you'll be there for those who love you.

I've witnessed so many people not take care of their own health or care enough to take basic steps to curb, handle or reverse conditions that can be managed. I've heard every reason and excuse in the world. I've offered a few colorful ones myself …

In 2001, I faced the ultimate self-truth: treat this depression or let it all go.

I like to think I gave my family and friends the best Valentine's Day gift ever that year when I decided to start taking medication and get some therapy to treat myself with the ultimate self-respect I was long overdue …

And give them the real gift of ME that had been haphazardly wrapped for a long time.

Is it laziness that keeps us from taking care of ourselves when we need to? Is it avoidance? Is it living a lie?

I've decided that we can easily feed ourselves a lot of tall tales about who we are and who we can be. Fiction is easier to manipulate than non-fiction, and that's why we keep telling stories featuring the three major culprit characters: Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda.

If you're still searching for the perfect Valentine's Day gift for a loved one, look in the mirror.

Open your eyes to what you may be hiding under the surface.

Open your heart to all the potential of life, YOUR life.

Open your soul to fulfilling the purpose of YOUR life.

And remember, you don't need a holiday on the calendar to give yourself.