Killing Anxiety Before it Kills You (Part 3).

As I continue my thoughts about anxiety, I think I've discovered another way to overcome it. In addition to prayer and living life one moment at a time, I'm pondering what thankfulness can do.

The table we use at my house is an heirloom and belonged to my Great Aunt Fannie, which was given to her by her parents, so it's well over 100 years old. I only cover it on special occasions and the tablecloth makes any meal extra special. Even the most everyday piece of dish ware is made special just by adding a lace cloth underneath.

One of my most precious memories of my Mother was the way she would decorate the table when we had guests. Not only was she a fabulous cook, but she had a way of making the table and everything on it look just as splendid as the taste of her homemade and home-raised food. The tablecloth was carefully selected and ironed.

When she had to move to skilled nursing, I pulled out one of her old tablecloths and we had a picnic lunch together down the hall from her room. The squeal of delight she made as we rounded the corner to where she could see the "surprise" indoor picnic on the old tablecloth is one of my treasured memories of time spent with her.

In part 1 of my posts about anxiety I mentioned that prayer is a great way to overcome anxiety. I shared a verse that I often turn to when I'm tempted to feel anxious. I think a heart of gratitude is like a tablecloth underneath our prayers and is another great way to overcome anxiety.

"Don’t worry about anything; instead, PRAY about everything. 

Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. 

Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. 

His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus." 

Philippians 4:6-7.

I used to kind of skip over the part that says "and thank him for all he has done". It can appear to be an afterthought, but the longer I live, the more I'm convinced that it's just as much a part of fighting worry as praying can be. 

I find that the more I cultivate gratitude, the less I need to "pray" about things. My attitude changes, my faith is increased and I start to feel stronger just by listing all the things I'm grateful for.

As I approach the big Portraits of White night, I have started keeping a gratitude journal for all the big (and little) things that I see happening. I even slip in a few things from the past two years. That way, as I begin to remind myself of all the miracles already taking place it begins to encourage me and lessen the anxiety.

Perhaps praying without any moments of thanksgiving is like setting the table for a nice dinner and then remembering that you should add the tablecloth. It's much easier to put the tablecloth down first. 

I don't think thankfulness is meant to be an "add on" to finish up our prayers. It should undergird our lives. 

I say put the tablecloth on first. Start with thanksgiving before you put out all the components of prayer.

Crutch, Crutch, Goose - a new game with my Mother

You've probably played the game "duck, duck, goose".  You know, the one where you sit in a circle and hope you are the one chosen to run around the circle—like a maniac. Next, you bop someone on the head and they continue the frenzy of activity.  Such excitement and anticipation in the air. At least, that's how it felt when I was a young girl.

As an adult, I still play a version of this game. First I sit and meditate quietly, or I vigorously ride my bike. Then BOP, an idea taps me on my head and I'm up and running around in circles.

Bop - "let's do a Christmas CD"
Bop - "let's learn to figure skate"
Bop - "let's put together a Christmas show"
Bop - "move your mother to the nursing center"

oops.....that "bop" wasn't my idea.  

But there I was...off and running (well, actually, I was hopping on crutches) to get her situated in her new room in the skilled nursing department at the retirement community where she lives. Being on crutches has slowed me down......a LOT! 

In the midst of all this hustle and bustle of moving my mother, it is so easy to lose sight of the positives.

Until last Saturday morning.

I had been planning a special picnic lunch for my mother.  I spent most of Friday afternoon making food preparations and creating the perfect scenario in my head.  

Early in the week I had promised her that I would take her out for lunch. Going out to eat would be a nice change from the institutional food and the atmosphere she has had to adjust to.  

But I began sensing that what she really needed was a touch of home. Memories are all she has left and they are fading too. Familiar things that would tie her to the past.  

So I started conjuring up this picnic idea in my head:

Sunshine.
Picnic table in the woods.
Home-made foods served on her Fiestaware.
A family heirloom tablecloth.
Root beer floats.

And then we got a call at 9:00 p.m. Friday night.  

She had fallen in her bathroom, hit her head on the tile floor and would be heading to the ER.  

We arrived before she did. 

She had a massive goose egg on her forehead and I gasped when I saw it, trying not to let her see my reaction.

I held her hand at one point to help her lift her arms for the nurse and saw the skin drape down over her bones like a wet dish rag.  She's only 95 pounds and I'm convinced most of that is just bone. 

It was a long night.

She wondered about our lunch plans.  Could we still go through with them?  

"Let's just take it one step at a time", I said.

Saturday came and it was sunny, but there was a very blustery wind that came with the sunshine so I wasn't sure we could go to the park as originally planned.  Plus, I had no idea what kind of shape she'd be in from falling the night before.

I made the root beer floats ahead of time, put them in the freezer so they'd last in the cooler, packed the blue Fiestaware and cheery tablecloth. 

Would she even remember the cloth I wondered? 

Next, I packed chicken salad, fresh kale salad with fresh strawberries, avocado, almonds, feta cheese and homemade honey-lemon poppy seed dressing and drove the 30 minutes to the retirement home.

When I arrived, a nurse carried all the food in for me and suggested a little sunroom at the end of the hall.  It was obvious my mother wasn't up for an outdoor picnic.

I stepped into her room and gasped again.  

I don't have children so I don't know what it's like to watch your child suffer from bruises and ailments, but I do know the feeling of seeing your aging mother becoming more frail by the week and I shivered at the sight of her black and blue face.  

A child always has the hope of growing up and getting stronger.  At 91, it's a very different scenario when they are bruised or ailing.  It seems to only weaken them.  You take a deep breath every time you see the incoming call from the nursing center.  Is this going to be it you ask yourself?

I could see we had about two options.  Let her lay in bed and have the picnic lunch in her room or try to get her up and sit in the sunroom.  She seemed interested in the sunroom so I went to get it ready.

We hobbled out to the room together, she with her frail body clinging to the walker for support and me with my injured ankle and grieving heart.


When we sat down at that table, however, it was as if we entered another world.  She recognized the tablecloth immediately.  We talked of gardening, cooking, where the tablecloth came from, though she doesn't remember, and how she had walked by this sunroom many times never dreaming she would end up here.

I realized, as we ate, that it was the first time in weeks that we had been able to do anything 'normal' together.  The past few weeks had been focused on parting with her furniture, signing papers, releasing her old room, filling out more papers, getting used to a very small room, new staff and procedures. It had taken its toll on both of us in different ways.  

Now, we sat at a table together, sipping root beer floats, eating from her plates (that I inherited from her) on her tablecloth and enjoying home-grown food.

Every time she sipped the root beer float she would say "this is delicious!".  I would remind her that this was the treat she served everyone who came to visit her in her cottage.  She would put scoops of ice cream in a glass and cover it with root beer, then put it in the freezer.  When unexpected visitors came, she would simply remove the glass from the freezer, put a straw in it (the kind that flexes near the top) and serve it with some pretzels. I don't know of anyone who didn't love those root beer floats.  But she has no recollection of this tradition.  I sighed.  How can she not remember that?  It was one of her trademarks.

At one point, we ate in silence and suddenly she slid her hand across the tablecloth.  "This is a connection to the past", she said.  Gulp.  Lump in my throat.  She can't remember the root beer floats but she can remember the tablecloth?  Memory is so unpredictable.

It isn't the most ideal stage of life for her right now and I shed many hidden tears over it.  But on this day, there was no running around in circles like maniacs playing duck, duck, goose.   We just sat and enjoyed memories together.  Me on my crutches and her with her goose egg bump on her head.   It's making lemonade out of lemons they usually say, but we had root beer floats instead.

Thanks to her goose egg bruise and my crutches, we made do in our new situation and created a new game...."crutch, crutch, goose".

With or without the crutches and goose egg - we will do this again!