Our good friend and regular MidLife Celebration Sunday Guest Blogger, Lorie Sheffer, thought I might enjoy this 61-second video, recorded by this young child with big dreams. Lorie was right:
Will one of your big dreams involve getting healthy, or staying healthy?
Well, There's Fruit On The Plate
I instantly get gratified each week when I see Lorie’s email with her “blog attachment”. Take it away Lorie:
She finished her dinner of grilled steak, loaded baked potato and deep-fried onion with gooey dipping sauce. Just as she folded her napkin, a waiter walked by carrying a tray on which stood a hot fudge sundae. “I’ll have one of those!” she said, feeling instant gratification. The next day she went for her regular medical checkup and was told that her cholesterol was still above reasonable limits and that she had to begin taking medication. She also had type 2 diabetes. Her impulsive decisions and need to be instantly gratified have now affected her long-term health and happiness.
My friend called me in tears. Her husband had cheated on her. He swore that it “meant nothing”. Their family has been hurt and they are now headed toward divorce. His need for instant gratification has ruined his long-term happiness.
Our financial advisor told us of the clients he has who, after only a year into a new Presidency, were angry that we were not out of the recession. They thought we should be back on track and the economy should be stronger than ever. He tried to explain that it takes time, and that things are moving slowly in the right direction. There is no magic wand solution to a global economic crisis, and yet the public doesn’t want to hear that it takes time. They want to be able to receive loans for larger homes and spend money on vacations and newer more expensive cars, not understanding that lack of impulse control helped lead us into this mess. They want to buy now and pay the bill later, if ever.
Hopefully as of next week I will be spending my days in a rehabilitation hospital instead of an acute care hospital. I am preparing my father for the long road he faces. I have told him that some other patients will have an even longer recovery than he will have. There is not a quick fix. There is no other way to becoming functional than to work hard every day. It takes time. We all want him home NOW. We all want him to get out of bed and walk, to be able to swallow his food and to get in his truck and drive off to work. But we cannot snap our fingers and have those things happen. It is going to take months of hard work and patience and determination. He understands all too well. Our family has been down this road before, after my husband’s stroke. It is not fast and it is not easy.
We used to have to wait until evening, when we heard the voice Walter Cronkite or Chet Huntley and David Brinkley, to hear the news of the day. Now, we can turn on one of many 24-hour news shows, or head to our computer, or even get instant updates via our blackberry. We don’t have to wait. In many respects this is good. Sometimes having instant access is even lifesaving. But what happens when we become so accustomed to getting what we want when we want it that we no longer have the ability to wait? If we aren’t used to ever having to exercise impulse control, how do we learn patience? How do we learn patience when we are used to instant gratification?
There are times in life when not being able to delay our instant gratification will undermine our long-term happiness. There are times when, no matter what technology is at hand, there is no fast and easy way to an end result that we need or want. What then? Sometimes we cannot have what we want when we want it. Sometimes we must wait, and understand, in the words of The Most Trusted Man in America, the late Walter Cronkite, “that’s the way it is.”
Reserved Parking?
Our Sunday regular Guest Blogger, Lorie Sheffer, returns to entertain and enlighten us:
I thought that after some time had passed I would learn to ignore it, but it’s been several years now and it still irks me whenever I see it. It is especially annoying when the parking lot is full and I am having an especially rough day. There it sits, mocking me. It is the dreaded Stork Parking sign at my local Food Lion. “Stork Parking” in bold letters, with a character of a bird that belongs on a Vlasic pickle jar. The smaller print beneath the bird gives details for those who may question it; “For new and expectant mothers”.
I have a vague recollection of being pregnant. It wasn’t that bad. People threw parties for me and gave me gifts. I got to buy new clothes. When you are pregnant, you can take a nap when you want or prop up your swollen feet and nobody questions it. You’re “doing it for the baby.” Now I am 51 years old and nobody cares. Google the “35 symptoms of menopause” and see how much fun that sounds like. I’ve paid my dues and I want a special parking space, preferably in a shady area away from noonday sun. It would really be nice to have shuttle service to and from the entrance of the store. While they’re at it, how about a parking space reserved for Mothers of Teenagers? Now there’s a group of women who deserve some special treatment. Maybe menopausal women can get a sign with a vulture on it, for days when we feel especially discarded.
This morning I had to make a run to Food Lion. I forgot to get Gary’s orange juice when I got groceries yesterday. (see menopausal symptom #13, Disturbing memory lapses) The parking lot was nearly empty. The Stork Parking sign was taunting me. I glanced at my reflection in the rear view mirror. I looked like a character from a Tim Burton movie. I was up all night having hot flashes. I pulled into the coveted parking spot. What were they going to do, come out and make me pee on a stick? Tell me to my face that I am too old to reproduce? While I was in getting Gary’s juice, I thought I may as well get myself some Estroven, Nair Facial Hair Remover, Clinical Strength Secret Antiperspirant and a jumbo sized box of Twin Pops. I forced myself to walk past a gorgeous display of the most beautiful glazed doughnuts I had ever laid eyes on. It’s been SO LONG since I’ve had a doughnut! I also saw a shelf of Extra Large Muffin Tops. “No thanks, I’ve already got one of those.”
As I stood in the check out line, I glanced at the magazines. There on the cover of one of them was Jim Bob and Michelle Dugger, holding what I think is their twentieth child. They say they are ready to have another one. Wow. The things some women will do for a good parking spot!
(scroll down for yesterday’s post or go to Lane 8 )
Eat More Chicken
“Sandwiches”, by Lorie Sheffer.
“When we were kids, did you ever think we would grow up to become sandwiches, because that’s what we are,” my friend told me.
The Sandwich Generation is the term used to describe us. There are several types on the menu, too.
The Traditional: Those of us who are caring for aging parents as well as our own children who are still living at home.
The Club: Those in their 50s and 60s who are caring for aging parents, their own adult children and their grandchildren. Or people in their 30s and 40s who are caring for their own young children, parents and grandparents.
Open Faced: Anyone involved in elder care.
According to a Pew Research Poll, 1 in 8 American’s aged 40 – 60 is involved in elder-care.
I thought of this when I sat in at my father’s bedside and my daughter brought my grandson in for a visit. Up until June of this year Dad was very independent. It was sometimes difficult to get in touch with my parents because they were always out doing something. Since the day he was born, I cared for my grandson while his parents worked and I drove to his house every day to get him off of the school bus when he started school. He’s 10 now and he is used to seeing me almost every day. “I miss you. When can we have a sleepover?” he asked me. My daughter has a more flexible work schedule now, so I am trying to spend as much time with Dad as I can. I miss my grandson horribly. While neither my father nor grandson lives with me, I spend tremendous amounts of time with them. I miss my adult son, who lives 2 hours away and is a 4th year medical student. Needless to say, he doesn’t have much extra time to come home, though he and his wife do try to squeeze in a trip as often as possible. I want to go to Philadelphia for the day and visit them and see their new house. We text one another and chat on the phone regularly, but those things don’t replace a hug. I hate to miss a day of visiting Dad, so my husband and I have not left the area this summer.
And so it goes. The Life of a Sandwich. It’s a familiar story. The characters differ, the setting and circumstances are not quite the same, but the core of the story remains. It is stressful and it is demanding and it is draining. But at the heart of it, there are people in our lives for whom we feel a deep love and sense of commitment.
(Lane 8 blog)
Hometown, USA, Near Gettysburg
Lorie Sheffer has been a Guest Blogger here at Mid Life Celebration for so many weeks in a row, I can’t imagine Sunday’s here without her. Take it away Lorie:
“I never had friends later on like the ones I had when I was twelve. Jesus, does anyone?” That line is from one of my favorite movies, Stand By Me, which was based on the novella The Body, by Stephen King.
How often do you think of your childhood friends? Are you still in contact with them? My parents are both in their late seventies and they are still friends with many of the same people they grew up with. One of my dad’s best friends from high school is now a hospital volunteer. One night as I was leaving at the end of visiting hours, I ran into Fred as he was coming in. “Just thought I’d sit with him for awhile. I know how bad it gets in here at night.” Although the two of them had run into one another at class reunions over the years they weren’t in constant contact, yet their bond remains.
Even though I now live only a half hour drive from the same house I grew up in, I lost touch with all of my childhood friends. I think that my desire to reconnect was dampened when I contacted one of them and was horribly disappointed. What can you do when someone sits across the table from you and spews bigoted hatred and disgust toward groups of people who you hold close to your heart? Clearly she would not want to be a part of my world any more than I would have the desire to allow her into it. I felt a wave of sadness for the lovely childhood memories that had just been destroyed. Sometimes it is best to leave the past exactly there, in the past.
Several years had gone by since that unfortunate encounter, when I saw a very familiar name on Facebook. I had remembered Jeff since first grade. He had always been The Adorable Nice Guy. Sometimes handsome high school star athletes have a problem dealing with their attractiveness. He never did. In fact, he didn’t even seem to notice. How heartbreaking it would be if he had now become a creep. I took a deep breath and contacted him. I could tell by his reply that he was still the nice kid I remembered, married to his college sweetheart and the father of a little boy just as adorable as I remember him to be. YAY! My faith was restored.
Next week I am planning to have dinner with an old friend. We met in first grade and I have not seen her since we both attended the funeral of a dear mutual friend twenty-one years ago. She was as silly as I was, and because we lived such a short distance from one another we were together quite a bit. We had sleepovers in the summer and went to the same community pool. We cried over boys and shopped and went to movies. We confided our deepest secrets and laughed till we cried. We sang a duet of Midnight Train to Georgia every time it played over the car radio. I ran into her sister last week and she gave me contact information. Via a series of emails, I told my old friend to choose the time and place. I told her that I hope when we both get to the restaurant we recognize one another. For some reason, I have a feeling that we will pick up right about where we left off. You never have friends later on like the ones you had when you were twelve.
(next blog)
What Determines Their Personalities?
We all wait patiently for Sunday, to see what our Guest Blogger, Lorie Sheffer has to say. Here she is, enjoy:
I was watching a litter of stray kittens that live in my parents’ back yard, and it struck me how even in the animal world, personality is evident from a very early age. Among those kittens there is the shy one, the daredevil, the social one, and the aggressor. I am hoping to get them all tame enough to find homes. As I watched them interact, I thought how much they are like humans. We all have family dynamics, and our roles change little, if at all, through the years. Nothing brings those dynamics to the surface like group stress.
“You can’t see the forest for the trees.” Sometimes when we are part of the group or family on a daily basis, it is difficult for us to see what our role is. We are too close to get a good view. If we step back and are no longer part of that group, then return, the dynamics are as clear as day.
My mother just turned 77 years old. Her eldest sister is 88 and her middle sister passed away two years ago at the age of 82. When the three of them were in a room together it was clear what their roles had always been. They still knew what buttons to push. Apparently it never ends. “She was always such a spoiled brat!” “You were always a goody-goody suck up!” “No wonder you always got into trouble.”
My husband has clearly always been The Rebel. By that, I mean that he is able to set boundaries and to be the voice of reason. It is clear he is almost shunned within his family because of his ability to do so. I seem to be The Mediator. I hate conflict. I am hypersensitive to tension. I can spot an argument before the first voice is raised. It can be exhausting. I’ve discovered that some of my lifelong anxiety comes from my anticipation of an argument or conflict. I wasn’t raised in an abusive family, but I was raised within a big extended family where conflict was inevitable. I want everyone to be kind. I don’t care for labels, but it really does seem that some of them exist for a reason. I don’t know if we behave the way we do because we are trying to fit the label we were given or if the label was given to us because of the consistent behavior we have shown.
I believe that people do have the ability to change, but that our core personalities, just like the personalities of that litter of stray kittens, is set at a very early age. Anyone who has more than one of their own children will tell you, even though two children have the same set of parents and are raised in the same home, they can be total opposites. What is your role within your family? Think back to when you were a child, and then take a look at what your role is now. Have you really changed all that much? When you visit with family, do you see everyone falling back into those old dynamics? There is a reason that shows like Roseanne and Everybody Loves Raymond, as well as movies like Christmas Vacation and Home for the Holidays are such hits. We can all relate.
Scroll down for bonus post.
Why Is He Happy?
Midlife, what’s to celebrate, by Blogger Lorie Sheffer:
Midlife Celebration. Sometimes we wonder what there is to feel celebratory about. Life can seem so hectic we find it hard to find the time to sit for a few minutes and enjoy some quiet time. We may wait for a reason to go out for dinner or take that day off. We wait for a real reason to celebrate. We wait for an occasion.
If you woke up today and were able to sit up in bed, swing your feet to the floor and walk across the room, you have a reason to celebrate. If you didn’t need help showering, brushing your teeth or using the toilet, you have a reason to celebrate. If you could reach down and pick up the morning paper from your doorstep, look at the sky and then go inside to brew yourself a pot of coffee, you have a reason to celebrate. If you could smell your breakfast and feed yourself, if you were able to chew and swallow, you have a reason to celebrate. If you can breathe without a ventilator, you have a reason to celebrate.
Sometimes we take for granted those little things we do every day, so easily and without a thought, until we are no longer able to do them.
I am on week six of spending an average of six hours a day, at least five days a week, with people who can’t do some of those things we take for granted. Sometimes I feel tired and stressed. When I leave for the day, I walk through those hospital doors into the sun or the rain. I look at the gorgeous crepe myrtle that is planted around the perimeter of the parking garage, and then I see the coneflowers and ornamental grasses and small trees that fill the landscaped areas. I breathe in the summer air. I hear birds and cars and people talking. I hear and see life outside. I think of the people in the hospital behind me. My thighs may be larger than I would like, my rear end wider, but I am walking. I am leaving. I get in my car and I drive away, putting more and more miles between me and Them. I drive into the real world, a world where people are pissed off because they can’t find a parking place that is close to the entrance. People who think it a hardship to have to run to their car in the rain. I now see those things as a privilege. When I walk in to my house and see the sink full of dirty dishes that I left I actually feel blessed to be able to stand at the sink and wash them.
Take time today to celebrate. If you had a boring, uneventful day, then you have a reason to celebrate. If you had to mow your lawn, clean your house, wash your car, or do laundry, and you did so without assistance, you have a reason to celebrate. You have a reason to feel filled with joy and to feel blessed. You have reason to thank God for the glorious day, and you have reason to celebrate.
(next blog)
Did You Curse Us?
Guest Blogger Lorie Sheffer:
My mother and I were leaving the hospital a few days ago, and she wondered out loud who put a curse on our family. I knew what she meant, but I asked her to explain anyway. Within the past two years, her sister died from Alzheimer’s, my brother was diagnosed with colon cancer and had to go through two surgeries and six months of chemo, my mother in law died, a beloved family friend died, my husband’s cousin (my good friend whom I have blogged about) died, and now my father has been in the ICU for four weeks and a regular room for one (so far). Believe it or not, that is only a partial list.
“What do you mean, who cursed us? I think we’re blessed.” She looked at me as though I were slightly out of my mind. Then I gave her my take.
She had her sister as her best friend for 76 years. My brother recovered and has been given really good odds that he is cured. My mother in law lived to see her grandchildren grow to adulthood and she died at home as she had wished. Our family friend was a robust 85 years old and died suddenly without pain or suffering in the exact same spot where her husband had died years before her. I feel fortunate that I got to know my husband’s cousin and share such fun times with her; she taught us things about life we otherwise would never have known.
As for my dad, we just spent the day with a man whose surgeon said had a less than 50% chance of surviving only 5 weeks before.
We were told to gather the family and call in anyone from out of town who may want to be with us; now we call one another to see who was going in to visit him and when. I told Mom we can’t lose sight of the positive. My husband can’t run since he had his stroke 14 years ago. He misses it. But if he dwells on having a hitch in his gait then he misses the blessing of being able to walk and to ride his bike. He can’t run, but he can ski. His arm is stiff, but it is functional. He lived to see everything that has happened in the last 14 years with his family. He is blessed. We are blessed.
Bad things happen. That’s life. I’m not saying I haven’t had my share of tears and days when I don’t feel like I can manage to put one foot in front of the other. I’ve had to dig deep lately, that’s for sure. I also know that things are what they are. One day, while driving to Baltimore for my husband’s physical therapy, I saw a billboard with an advertisement that has stuck with me. Wisdom from unexpected places, I suppose. It said, “You cannot change the direction of the wind, but you can adjust your sails.”
The Bear That Travels The World, Eh?
First time visitors, Sunday posts are brought to you courtesy of Lorie Sheffer, our good friend from Central Pennsylvania. Enjoy:
When my children were small, like most children, they had security items. My daughter had the satin edge from a blanket, which would twist in her hand, stick up her nose and tickle her ear. On her first day of kindergarten it was tucked in her pocket, safely out of sight of the other kids. One time she accidentally dropped it into a public toilet, and in an act of desperation that only a parent can understand, I fished it out and took it home for disinfecting. My son had a small stuffed rabbit that he named Bonnie B. He would sneak it into my husband’s suitcase if he had to go out of town. We have photos of Bonnie on hotel beds in Portugal and Arizona. I suppose my son felt that if Bonnie comforted him, she would also comfort his dad while he was away from home. Thankfully Bonnie never took a swim in the john. That I know of.
As we get older, most of us have that favorite pair of well-worn jeans, or that soft old T-shirt that is full of holes, or maybe a favorite pair of slippers that we just can’t seem to part with. Many of us have photos of our kids and grandkids in our wallets or on our desktops. We love those little items from home.
My dad has now been in the ICU for a month. He is finally alert and can speak, and he is asking for things from home. Much to my amusement, he dictated a list for me, including his favorite shirt. He wanted me to leave right then and there to go retrieve the items he requested. Most of those things are not allowed at this point, but I am going to pack a bag for him. Mom and I will take in his pillow and some photos. At night when we leave and the ICU is dim and foreign, he will have something of home to focus on. I ride the elevators every day with people carrying pillows and blankets and stuffed animals, and not all of them are headed to pediatrics.
When you get home from a vacation, no matter how wonderful, are you happy to crawl into your own bed? If you get sick, is there a food that you just have to have? Do you take your own pillow when you travel? How about, like Archie Bunker, a comfortable chair that you sit on the watch TV? It seems we all have them; those comfort items. We all have those special things that make us feel better, that soothe us and make us feel secure.
What is on your list? If you were away from home or sick, what would you ask for to make you feel more at home? My children are now adults and they no longer live with my husband and me, but when my daughter gets sick I automatically go get ingredients for my homemade beef noodle soup. My son was upset when I got a new fluffy pillow to replace the flat old pancake on his bed in his old room. I know I will always be on the losing end of the battle to throw away my husband’s old ratty T-shirts. As for me, if I’m feeling sick or sad, I just want to curl up with a bowl of vegetable fried rice and a fountain Coke, wrapped in my nap sized, down filled comforter with the snowman print. And if Leave it to Beaver happens to be playing on TV Land, well that’s just an added bonus.
Treasures Await
Lorie Sheffer, take it away:
Last winter my dear friend died suddenly, leaving us with an enormous mountain of legal work and two residences filled with stuff. Grief had knocked the wind out of us, and the magnitude of the cleanup was almost incomprehensible. As soon as people realized that she had been a hoarder, I began to hear the comments of how sorry everyone was that we were left with such a “mess”. Yet we almost immediately realized that what looked like a mess to others was to be a gift to us. We didn’t know exactly how that gift would be uncovered, but uncover it we did. We are still uncovering it, layer by layer.
It is fascinating to sift through the years of a family’s life. Beautiful dresses from the 1930s. Ladies’ hats, not worn since the 1940s and 1950s, meticulously packed in boxes. Toddlers’ lovely woolen coats with little hand crocheted lace trimmed collars; hand knit sweaters and caps that belonged to her, the only child, the cherished daughter. Photographs of my husband’s family, smiling up from holiday dinners, sitting near beautifully decorated Christmas trees. Summers at Hershey Park when my husband was just a small boy, standing with her, his cousin, protectively holding his hand. Most heartbreaking were the photographs of my son and the thank-you notes and post cards from both of my children, lying on the tops of the heaps, where she could see them always. These were clearly the most cherished of all her possessions.
I slowly developed this need to rescue things from being sold or donated. It wasn’t the monetary value that interested me. I wanted to clean and restore these things and cherish them out of respect for the lives of the small family out of whose home they came. I saw a photograph of my friend as a teenager, lying on her bed reading a book; I am now preparing to remove, clean and restore the beautiful art deco furniture from that bedroom. The racks of vintage clothing that I discovered in the attic now have a place of honor in a lovely vintage clothing store. It comforts me to know that someone will come into that store and walk out with what they consider to be a treasure. I have stripped and sanded and refinished small tables, and I have cleaned and restored old clocks. I found lovely framed botanical prints that now grace the walls of my dining room, the same room where we had our last party with her. She sat with us and had dinner and laughed and knew that we were so very honored to have her with us for that evening. We had our annual special Christmas party just for her.
Now my father is seriously ill and is beginning what will be a long recovery. Every day I come home from the hospital exhausted, in desperate need of diversion. I turn to another gift she left to me, my beautiful chest filled with antique linens. I take them out one by one and soak them, beginning a process that can take as long as a week. A large tub of water sits on my porch, and every night I pour it onto my thirsty flowers and refill it, until the water runs clear. This has to be repeated for days. Then I begin the soak in oxygen bleach, which takes several more days. Finally, a few days in detergent, and then a final few days in clean water. Each day I change the water and each day more stain is lifted and beautiful fabric is revealed. It is cleaned and renewed. It is restored. It is cleansing and it is healing. I look toward the summer sky as the stars begin to appear, and I know she is there. I know that she is somehow helping me through this. I smile and I am grateful for the mess she has left for me.
Sometimes, Life's A...
Not sure I have to tell you it’s Sunday, and every Sunday, Central Pennsylvania’s Lorie Sheffer is our featured Guest Blogger. Take it away Lorie:
Last Friday was one of those days that was just so bad I sort of got the idea that I may be on Candid Camera. I spent the day visiting my Dad in the ICU. On the way home I saw a woman in a car hit a man on a motorcycle. When I got home my six-year-old fantail fish was dead, and then while I sat on my deck to relax my right eye turned bright red and swelled shut for no apparent reason. I told myself that things could have been worse, and that tomorrow would hopefully be better.
Saturday morning there was a public auction being held next door, and it was distracting and sort of fun. My doorbell rang around 10 AM, and I answered it wearing my leopard print pajamas, a horrific case of bed head and a still slightly wonky eye. A lady who was about the same age as my mother was standing on my doorstep. Shaking and near tears, she told me that she had just run over my mailbox. I laughed. I told her about the lady who hit the man on the motorcycle the day before, and said that the mailbox was just a thing that could be repaired or replaced. She offered to give me her name and pay for the damages, but my husband and I told her to just go to the auction and have a good time. It was then that she told us her circumstances. She never put a dent in her car in her life, but her husband was admitted to the ICU over five weeks before, and she had decided that maybe a beautiful summer day at an auction would take her mind off of her situation for a few hours. Her nerves were shot and she just wasn’t functioning normally. Her husband was in a room just across the hall from my dad.
The economy isn’t great and we get to see millions of gallons of oil pumping out into the Gulf every day, with no end in sight. We have troops in dangerous places. With all the big deals going on, it would be easy to feel pushed over the edge by the small stuff. But maybe this is the perfect time when we need to recognize those minor irritations exactly for what they are: no big deal. In the grand scheme of things, who cares? Perhaps we need to think before we lash out. Sure, that guy who cuts you off in traffic may be a giant jerk. But maybe you would feel a bit less anger if you heard his story. I remember a day last winter when a man screamed at me at the top of his lungs in line at the grocery store. My crime? I was in the “12 items or less only” line. I apologized to him, telling him that I very honestly didn’t see the sign, and that my mind wasn’t focused because I had just come from being with my seriously ill brother. He continued to scream at me, and I stood there in full view of the now very attentive crowd and started to sob. His tirade continued while I was loading my groceries into my trunk. Now that I think about it, I worry for him. I wonder what his issues were. People who handle stress by acting out in anger over what amounts to nothing must certainly be putting themselves at risk for heart attacks, strokes and God knows what else.
We all have those candid camera days. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if, when someone does something that irritates us, we would react with some compassion? Even if their life is going incredibly well and they are just an obnoxious jerk, I’m sure they will be taken aback by the more Zen reaction. Added bonus? We didn’t allow them to cause us more stress. I wonder what would have happened had the man, who was so enraged by my grocery store faux pas, pulled into traffic in anger and a motorcycle had been in his path?
They Watch Everything You Do
Today’s Father’s Day post brought to you by Guest Blogger, Lorie Sheffer:
Once again, one of the men in my life is fighting for his life. Different men, different medical emergencies, with one underlying thread: “He has a chance because he was in good health before this happened.”
Lesson learned: Taking reasonable care of yourself and getting regular checkups is like contributing to a health account; you bank an extra reserve that could very well save your life. There is no guarantee for any of us that we will never get a serious illness. However, if one system has a problem and all of the other systems are strong, you tend to stand a better chance of recovery. Even the little healthy changes are like putting points in that health reserve.
Sometimes when we get to a certain age we think that it’s too late for us to get into shape. No so. Every healthy change we make counts. Save your loose change in a jar for a month, then count it and see how much you have. Those pennies and the nickels add up. So do healthy habits. Eat an extra serving of fruit and vegetables every day, park at the far end of the parking lot for so you can walk those extra steps. Take the stairs. Don’t be afraid to schedule a checkup with your doctor. Avoidance of a screening will not magically protect you from whatever disease the screening is for. You check the oil in your car, you make home repairs, you don’t allow your toilet to remained clogged and you clean out your dryer vents. If you maintain your car and your home, don’t you owe it to yourself to at least give your body some maintenance?
“He’s alive and has a chance because his overall health is otherwise so good.” How many times do you hear that before it sinks in? I’ve heard it for three different critically ill men.
Words from a neurosurgeon: “Had he been a smoker or had even one other cardiovascular risk factor, like obesity, the stroke could have killed him.”
Words from an oncologist: “His overall excellent physical condition will make his treatments much more tolerable and his recovery much faster.”
Words from a surgeon and nephrologist: “The fact that he has no other underlying medical problems is going to go a long way toward his chances for survival and recovery.” And from an ICU nurse, “The fact that he isn’t a smoker really does make a difference as far as being on a ventilator.”
It’s not too late to start that savings account. Please don’t think that if you don’t spend hours at the gym or eat a perfect diet that you may as well not bother. That’s like saying it’s not worth having a savings account unless you have a million dollars to deposit. Start small if you need to. Make changes that are doable for you. You don’t want to ever find yourself in need of an emergency account and realize that you are bankrupt.
Play Well The Hand You're Dealt
By now, you know that Lorie Sheffer is Mid Life Celebration’s Sunday Guest Blogger. Here she is again with intriguing insight from her own experience and research:
What makes you happy? I often hear people say that they are looking for someone/ a job/ a home/ a new car to make them happy. In the past few weeks there have been announcements of celebrity divorces as well as that shocker about the Gore’s. Apparently they no longer made one another happy. Because of the loss of my dear friend, who had a very severe hoarding problem, I have been reading as much on the subject of acquisition as I can get my hands on. Several of the books deal not only with pathological hoarding, but also with this country’s seemingly endless need for things bigger and better. It seems no matter how much we have, we always want more. Perhaps this is an effort to acquire enough material possessions so that we finally feel happy and fulfilled. The constant pursuit of happiness brought to you by Visa. If only I can lose ten pounds. If only I get some Botox. If only my kids make the Dean’s list. If only.
Have you ever noticed that there are people in this world who are generally happy in spite of their seemingly bad situations? On the flip side, there are people who appear to have it all, and yet they are miserable? Unless there is some organic reason for this seeming inability to feel happy, why are they not? I have read The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama and several other books on happiness as well as having spoken to a few mental health professionals and a neuropsychologist. The general consensus may surprise you. It seems that happiness is a choice. We CHOOSE to be happy.
While I have never suffered from depression there are times that I, like all of us, am not feeling happy. Grouchy days, bad days, crabby days, call them what you will, we all have them from time to time. That is normal. However, they can become ingrained and the negative thinking can become habitual. We have the power to rewire our brains for good or for bad. It’s called forming a habit. Neuroscientists are studying the brains of Buddhist monks and how, through meditation, they can actually change the way their brains respond to stressful stimuli. It seems we have more control over our emotions than we realize. Try it for just one day and you will be amazed. Choose not to be unhappy with a situation. Every time you are tempted to respond in a negative way, find a more positive way. Choose to act like you are in a good mood, and you eventually will BE in a good mood.
I am not for one second trying to say that someone who is truly, clinically depressed can think his or her way out of the darkness. For that, they will need professional assistance. With the help of appropriate medication and cognitive behavioral therapy, they can hopefully find relief. What is cogitative behavioral therapy? Rewiring your brain, with the help of a therapist. For the rest of us who have no organic reason to feel unhappy but instead are just Debbie Downers, we really do have the ability to start thinking like a happy person.
The next time you are looking for that special someone who can make you happy, go stand in front of a mirror and take a good long look. Nobody can MAKE you happy. You have to ALLOW yourself to be happy. Choose it. Act it. Pretty soon it will become second nature.
I'm Not Monkeying Around - THANK YOU!
Ever have someone do really nice things for you, and then you thank them a decent amount?
But they don’t stop doing nice things for you. They keep at it and continue to be nice, without letting up, without asking for anything, they just keep giving.
And after some amount of time, you suddenly have a panic attack that you haven’t kept up with your gratefulness for their niceness?
Lorie Sheffer, THANK YOU for being a faithful, insightful, and humorous Guest Blogger here at Mid Life Celebration.
If there’s someone in your life that could use a “reminder” thank you, today might be a good day to do it.
Not All Mice Are Bad
Central Pennsylvania’s Lorie Sheffer returns for her regular Sunday Guest Blog Post. Are we lucky or what? Take it away Lorie:
The Things We Do For Love. 10cc sang that one back in 1977. We’ve all done some pretty crazy things in the name of love.
I have cared for a few loved ones suffering from a serious illness, doing the really gross, not-so-pleasant tasks that entails. I’ve raised two kids and have been the primary caregiver for my grandson when his parents have to work. I’ve done my share of things for love. I’m not squeamish.
There is one thing, however, that turns me into a screaming, hyperventilating girly girl. Rodents. I cannot even walk past them in the pet store. Which, by the way, is one of life’s biggest oxymorons; pet mouse. So wouldn’t you know…
One Saturday afternoon, I was digging through the pantry when I saw them: mouse droppings. I ran screaming from my kitchen and into Gary’s arms. I was so hysterical that he couldn’t understand what I was saying, save for “kill it, kill it, KILL IT!” Strong words for a vegetarian who carries insects from the house in a paper cup and releases them back into the wild.
I was horrified to think that one of those disease-ridden little harbingers of death was attempting to reside in my house! I proceeded to throw away anything the mouse could have looked at. Sure you can sterilize glass jars and cans and whatnot, but that mouse had touched them. EUW! I blasted through at least a gallon of bleach in an attempt to disinfect my shelves. I also had Gary set a trap. And then I waited.
The next day, the trap was gone. The mouse had been caught but not killed. In what was surely an attempt to win the war, it had dragged the trap between the cupboard and the wall, where it died. I called in a professional exterminator, who thought that A: it was hysterical that I had called him in for one mouse, and B: the mouse would “dry up in a few days.”
The next few days were a nightmare. The smell in the house was something out of a Stephen King novel. I couldn’t take it. I was ready to get a circular saw and buzz my way through the kitchen cabinet. I would have agreed to put the house up for sale and live in a hotel rather than stay in my house. Gary came home to find me sitting on the bench in front of the house, sobbing, refusing to set foot inside. I asked him to please go pack some things for me, as I was going to go live with my parents.
Then something wonderful happened. He steeled his spine, puffed out his chest, and took long, deliberate strides toward the house. He came back out dressed for battle. He had on a long sleeved shirt, rubber gloves rubber-banded at the wrists, a mask and goggles. He was carrying a small mirror duct-taped to an old broom handle and a black trash bag. He was headed for the Shop Vac. “I’m going to get that mouse out of there for you.”
The theme song from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly began playing in my mind. About a half hour later, he emerged from the hot zone, gagging, bag in hand. He plopped it into the dumpster, then looked at me and said, “Got it. I’ll open some windows, spray some Oust and take a shower. Then I’ll come back out for you.”
I can honestly say he has never looked hotter in all the years I have known him. George Clooney would play Gary in the movie version. My heart pounded and I felt like I did the first time I laid eyes on him over twenty years before. My GOD, man! “You may want to hurry up with that shower!” I said to him in a throaty voice.
Let’s just not tell him that you can buy mice at the pet store! He may try to stock my pantry with a few of them.