My Daddy died at the average age men die in the US (78 years old), from the most common disease men die from–heart disease. Yet, Daddy was anything but typical. He was a big teddy bear of a guy who made my world right again.

I was adopted at the age of four. My early years weren’t easy.

My birth mother suffered from schizophrenia (severely and eventually permanently hospitalized), and addiction to alcohol and gambling choked all the life out of my birth father. My sister and I lived with my father’s co-dependent/enabler grandmother and was abused by a boarder who lived in her house.

Not a great beginning.

I don’t share this with you to make you uncomfortable or to get sympathy points because my life didn’t stay that way. I was adopted and received layer after layer of personal healing and insights that allow me to incorporate this experience into my being.

Healing took a long, long time.

My adoptive Daddy was a big part of that. He was 54 and Mama was 50 when they adopted me. That’s taking a big chance–but it also shows what a void they had to fill.

He died when I was 23 years old. Too young for him to die–and too young for me. But he isn’t really gone.

He has become a part of me now–his songs, his stories, his gestures, his wisdom–I carry him every day.

I see him just like I did when I was six and playing baseball in the backyard–he was my “seated” lawn chair pitcher. I broke his garage window. Don’t know that he got too upset.

I remember the summer we had a contest and ate 38 watermelons. He told me vines were going to shoot out my ears. I hoped they would. Every time my nose tickled, or I hiccuped, I got excited.

I remember when I was 12 and just starting to like boys–Daddy drove me to the skating rink each Saturday night and picked me up at 11:00. I know he really didn’t want to get dressed and traipse out that late, but he did. I remember when he asked me if that boy kissed me. I lied and said, “No, Daddy.” He knew. I knew. But I couldn’t say the words–not to my dad.

I remember when I brought home countless boyfriends and the disgusting look he’d hide behind his newspaper. No one was ever good enough for his little sweety-pie.

Eventually, one was, and I married him. He loves my dad as much as I do. That’s why we’re still married. He reminds me of that honorable man who changed my life and he’s the daddy to our three girls. His face lights up when his daughters just walk into the room. His face lights up when I walk into the room.

That’s why I keep him.

The power of a great dad changes a child’s life. And it keeps changing it. Even after our dads are no longer walking on this earth. Whispered wisdom, needed advice, family traditions and that sense of security never goes away.

I never got to be my dad’s caregiver the way I did with my mom. But I promised him we would take care of her. That promise got me through some rough times.

I hope you enjoy a short excerpt from my forthcoming book, SAID CHILD.

It’s about our night time ritual and coming home after church. (Being raised in church means I have many, many memories of life on the pew). Perhaps this excerpt will spark one of your own favorite memories.

The greatest thing we can do for our dads on Father’s Day is simply to remember.

Excerpt from SAID CHILD:

Daddy slid next to us after his usher and elder duties of collecting and counting the money were complete. We’d all squeeze into the pew making room and he’d have to pull on his coat a few times to get comfortable. He’d reach in his shirt pocket and in one continuous smooth move, a gold package of Butter Rum Life Savers appeared and the fleshy underbelly of my tongue salivated. I got one, he got one and he’d wink. Mama preferred peppermint. Peppermint reminded me of the nausea of backseat card rides.

I’d roll the butter rum disk around in my mouth and hold it vertical between my teeth, my tongue reading the raised letters as if in Braille. I’d lay my head against Daddy’s arm, recognizing the texture of his different suits, and then he’d put his arm around me and poke his finger in my ear. I brush it away and he’d smile without looking at me. I snuggled up waiting for my butter rum Life Saver to dissolve so I could get another one. As the preacher’s words droned on and on, I knew we’d never make it home in time to see the Sunday night Disney movie. We never did. Missing all my favorite TV shows was the worst part to me. I’d have to run a fever or throw-up to get to stay home.

Daddy covered my legs with his jacket and patted me until the sounds and lights muffled, dimming into soft shades of gold as I watched my eyelashes fold again and again, the world faded fuzzy, then black.

I barely remembered most of the car ride home on Sunday nights and Daddy would place me between the cool sheets long after I was too big to be carried, my lanky legs scraping the bed and the quilt slid in place.

Daddy half-whispered, half-growled, “My baby done gone to sleep, Lord bless my little sweety-pie.”

He’d sing me to sleep and I’d always ask for Mr. Moon:

Oh Mr. Moon, Moon, bright and shinin’ moon,

Oh won’t you please shine down on me.

For my life’s in danger and I’m scared to run,

There’s a man behind me with me with a big shot gun,

Oh Mr. Moon, Moon, bright and shinin’ moon, oh won’t you please shine down on me. Boom, boom, boom.

***

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

Family advisor at www.Caring.com

Syndicated blog at www.OpentoHope.com

www.Kunati.com, Publishers, Winner of ForeWord Magazine's New Publisher of the Year Award

Yet another memoir writer bites the dust..........Love and Consequences,' by Margaret Jones (pseudonym) , a memoir about a foster child who ran drugs for a gang in South-Central Los Angeles, is fiction, says New York Times .

The author, Margaret Seltzer told the Times that she never lived with a foster family and never ran drugs for any gang members.

So, perhaps you're wondering about me...I'd be if I read about this, remembered James Frey, and had recently watched the movie The Hoax about Clifford Irving and his elaborate tale about Howard Hughes.       .

Mothering Mother is all true.

I didn't make it up. I didn't have to.

My mother was so vivacious, so cantankerous, so full of bravado and great one liners--that I didn't have to embellish. Which honestly, was a little upsetting. It's not what writers want to do (unless you're a hard lined journalist, I guess) Most writers want to add something to the story. It's not that I'm not perfectly capable of making Moby Dick the size of a goldfish. Trust me, I can get out of a speeding ticket with ease.

Eeverything in Mothering Mother happened--the fight about the slip, the embarrassing pedicure, Shirley, the sweet home health aide who loved my homemade pickles...even the "fight"  with hospice. All there. All true.

I was adopted at age four and my mother was a minister. She did move in with us, did have Parkinson's and Alzheimer's, and I was an only child/sandwich generationer caregiving my mother.

I wrote every day. At times, I felt like a snoop in my own life. Mother would say something mean, I'd say something sarcastic, and then i'd run write it down like a little tattletale. But, to my defense, I stayed with "me." I made me the bad guy since I can only truly know myself. I weighed every word and had no desire to smudge my mother or our relationship, but to offer an honest portrayal of the complex relationships families have.

Life is so good, so juicy, so heartbreaking and so "real" that I don't see why people need to totally fabricate something.

Go live, love, get your heart broke, take and adventure, risk something. THEN write.

Memoir in two words: Live-write.

~Carol D. O'Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

available on Amazon

www.mothering-mother.com

Kunati Publishing

Trust is the The Law of Attraction  in action.

Easier said than lived.

Iff someone had asked me if I had attracted caregiving into my life WHILE I was caregiving, I would have thrown my shoe at them for asking such an asinine question.

I have goals. I have a family. I have dreams. Believe me, this is not what I asked for....(or is it?)

I have no intention of being sidelined at the ripe old age of 39 (the age I started caregiving full-time/in my home to my 89 year old mother who had Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s).

But then, there was this question:

What if caregiving wasn’t meant to delay me/sideline me/hurt me, but was actually placed in my life to teach me/bring out the best in me/was an integral and necessary part of my journey?

What if?

I had to contemplate on that one a while.

That’s where the Law of Attraction comes in.

Recently in the movie Evan Almighty,which I thought would be totally frivolous (it is, but it still has meaning--and I like my life lessons with a side of humor), God (played by Morgan Freeman) says to Evan, (parapharased)

Crap.

I’m going to stop asking for so much. It’s just about killed me….

I’d never ever understood it that way.

We attract that which we ask for—but it doesn’t come wrapped in a bow delivered by holy angels.

It comes in the form of people who drive you bonkers, situations that will test you, nearly break you, and slowly, you gain that which asked for. You earn it. You live it.

Holy Crap.

I thought it was going to be a lot easier than that.

Oprah’s doing her share to enlighten folks—everything from health to holy-wholeness (I think those two words are synonyms)—to life’s purpose. Her new book club choice, A New World by Eckhart Tolle is about purpose, being in the now.

Yesterday, Martha Beck, author of Finding Your Own North Star (I love that book) said to simply imagine your goals (dreams with legs on them) in full technicolor, write them down and/or create them on a vision board with drawings/photos/magazine cut outs, and then TRUST that it will come to you.

Trust.

Big word.

Great meaning.

How does a caregiver trust that all the hours spent at the doctors office, hospitals, training home health aids, fighting with insurance companies, cutting up pills, spoon feeding pudding, even changing adult diapers will somehow lead them to their life’s purpose?

Trust.

Be present.

In the words of mythologist Joseph Campbell,

"No doubt, the universe is unfolding just as it should."

These are not just actions. Not when it’s a loved one.

Caregiving is ultimately about your own personal integrity, especially when your loved one doesn’t know who you are or isn’t capable of thanking you. Especially when your other family members disappear one by one, when you feel yourself being pulled down the vortex of despair.

This is what I learned in the two and a half years I cared for my mom at the end of her life. It sounds all neat and tidy, believe me, it wasn't. I wrote my memoir, Mothering Mother not to be a know it all, but to share how very challenging caregiving was--physically, emotionally, spiritually...and all I learned on my journey. Hopefully, it'll save you a bit of time (and tears) and your journey:

• Do what’s right. With no reward. (it seems)
• Take care of you. Dream. Plan. Do something small toward that goal each day. Cutting out a picture is enough. Five minutes of imagining. One Internet search. Something small.
• Look around. What’s at your fingertips? What can you do that will make your life brighter today?
• Caregiving is an ironic opportunity to find yourself. What can you do--right at home--five minutes at time--that you've always had an inkling of but have never pursued--til now?
• Nature is our ultimate healer and teacher. It's God in biology. You can always walk. Step out the front door. Watch the birds. Say thank you out loud. Smile. Even make yourself smile. Look like a goon, who cares. Slap a big old grin on your face. In church circles they call it, “Fake it til ya make it.” (Or is that about sex, I can’t remember J )
• Trust that the universe (and caregiving) is out to help you.

~Carol D. O’Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter’s Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

Available on Amazon and in most bookstores

Kunati

What is an UBER-Caregiver? (pronounced oober)--ew-ber)  

In this context, I mean "over the top, more than necessary, to excess"

If you've been caregiving awhile--

and you have to admit, you're good at it.,

You Might Be an Uber-Caregiver

See if any of these fit you:

• You take pride in the fact that you can maneuver your way around the Medicare/Medicaid site.
• You know all the medical/caregiver lingo and even use the acronyms.
• You talk like you're a pharmacist  and try to diagnose everyone else in your life.  
• Your loved one's doctors ask you've ever considered going into medicine.
• You're the unofficial leader of your local support group.
• Your loved one is always clean and matching, and people comment what good care you give.
• Your loved one's daily regime is more planned and detailed than a wartime tactical maneuver.
• You've started introducing yourself as your loved one's caregiver--not their son, daughter, spouse.
• Your friends and family say they'd like you to be their caregiver when the time comes....

I know your defenses (my defenses)

You have to get good at this. You can't help it, it comes with the territory. What else do you have to do? You might as well do it right if you're going to bother at all.

It fills you with a sense of pride. And rightly so. Only...

Somewhere deep inside you there's a small voice that says, "this isn't what/who you thought you'd be when you grew up."

You had other plans.

There are other things you're good at to.

How did this happen?

Uber-caregiving isn't all bad. Your loved one certainly benefits. They're taken care of well--whether they like it or want it or not.

It's the flip-side of Uber-Parenting and I'm guessing here, but I think it comes with perfectionist tendencies, wanting to please, and a tenacious spirit that loves to learn and be good at things.

Have you ever seen the mother who fusses with her toddler too much?

She leaps every time they take a tumble. She says they're hot and bundles them up--too much--their little cheeks are flushed and they look pudgy in their three layers. She's a know-it-all that drives all the other parents bonkers. She thinks her kid is brilliant...and therefore, by default, yours isn't...

Same thing, honey. It's irritating as hell.  

And while it's good to be good at what you do, you might have gotten carried away.

Why? For me, I think I was bored. My mind and body is active and is always searching for something to challenge it and keep it engaged--for meaning and purpose. And the only thing that seemed available at the time was caregiving. Alzheimer's, heart disease, and Parkinson's had become my life. I liked the challenge. I liked learning how to handle all this. It made me feel smart--and needed.

The only thing is, it's not all I'm meant to be. I've always been a writer/communicator/artist. That's who I am at my core.

Why is Uber-Caregiving Not So Good For You?

You might be driving your loved one nuts.

You might be driving away help.

You might be isolating yourself and not know it.

You might be running from your demons/avoiding personal soul/heart work.

It might not be as fulfilling as you try and tell yourself it is.

And one thing I know for sure.

You'll eventually be out of a job.

When I started writing Mothering Mother, I didn't realize I would become an uber-caregiver, and I certainly didn't do it all right. I wasn't a perfectionist, but at times, I was a know-it-all because caregiving was all that I felt like I was thinking, doing, being. Writing about my mother's actual passing allowed me to look beyond that point, to deal with my guilt and grief--and begin to slowly build my life again. I did because I didn't want anyone else to have to face it alone.

I ask you, look past today. Look into your own future. Who will you be? Caregiving is important, but so are you--your life, and your dreams.

We'll talk more tomorrow.

~Carol D. O'Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir, available on Amazon and in most bookstores.

Kunati Publishing

www.mothering-mother.com

I've been listening to

and one important point of this book is the difference between satisfaction and gratification.

Satisfaction has its basis in physical pleasure--enjoying dark chocolate, a hot bath...your senses are involved in being satisfied

Gratification has to do with happiness that is gained by "earning" something--learning the salsa, taking a French class, climbing a mountain--not all aspects of your journey may be psychically enjoyable. It may be hard, you may get a blister, you may get a bad grade, you might be cold...but the long term reward makes the journey worth it.

Why? A deep sense of gratification.

Gratification oftentimes has the important component of 'flow."

Flow is when you become so engaged in what you're doing that time might feel suspended. You might not be aware of your senses at all.

Writing is definitely rooted in gratification. It can be downright hard, disappointing, and believe me, it's rarely instantly gratifying since creating something of value or publishing may be years away.

The gratifying part of writing is that wonderful, elusive, unexpected 'flow" when you forget how long you've sat, how late it is, how much you need to take a potty break. You're in the zone, and even though you may be hungry, exhausted, and even challenged, you look up and realize you have a very deep sense of contentment.

I've come to realize that the things I want more than anything are things I must earn--my family's love, weight loss, health, publication, to learn to write clear, deep, thoughtful, exquisite stories that touch the soul--all must be earned.

~Carol D. O'Dell

Author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

by Kunati Publishing

Available on Amazon and in most bookstores

Over the next few weeks, I'll blog about what it's like to get published in today's competitive market.

It can feel daunting, and all writers know the sting of rejection. I'll talk to a collection of my writer friends and discussing their journey and insights on how to keep going and waiting for that day when your book is finally accepted.

Readers and writers alike will enjoy this insider's view into the publishing process.

Feel free to jump in--ask questions, and leave comments.

First: Write a damn good book.

Here's my story:

Well, that takes a good chunk of time. Learn how to write well. For most of us, talent is 10% and perseverance is 90.

It took me ten years. Not that I'm a slow learner or anything...but it's about a lot more than just writing well.

It's proving to the world you can write well. I created my own system I call "Climbing my Literary Ladder." I devised goals to achieve along the way--publishing short stories, essays, articles, excerpts,etc. This allowed me to grow as a writer and learn the business--and it also allowed my personal life to evolve. I finished raising my children, cared for my aging mother, returned to college, stepped out of my career as a school director, and moved three times. I also learned how to tell a story by writing and reading fiction. Storytelling is an essential quality--whether in memoir, fiction, or many types of nonfiction.

Could Mothering Mother have been published earlier? Perhaps--a year or two, but I trust the timing of the universe. Mothering Mother isn't the first book I finished, it's just the first book I've published. That happens for many writers.

So, I have to ask: Where are you on your writing journey? (and of course, this could apply to many types of goals)

Are you still honing your craft? Are you waiting on the timing of the universe? Have you established yourself as a writer/blogger/do you have an internet presence?

In my next blog, I'll invite some author friends to share their story and hopefully inspire readers and writers to pursue their own dreams.

~Carol D. O'Dell

author of Mothering Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

by Kunati Publishing

available on Amazon and in most bookstores

Is the word, Caregiver synonymous with Co-Dependence?

The definition of a caregiver is anyone who provides assistance to someone else who is, in some degree, incapacitated and needs help:is someone who gives care to someone who needs it.

The definition of someone who is co-dependent is someone who exhibits behaviour which controls, makes excuses for, pities, and takes other actions to perpetuate the obviously needy party's condition, because of their desire to be needed and fear of doing anything that would change the relationship.

Wow. You can see how being a caregiver can lead into being co-depedent--or vice versa. No one means for it to happen. Co-dependence is a popular psychology term that usually relates persons with addictive issues of alcohol or drugs.

Addiction is bigger and deeper than booze and cigarettes.

Families are complex and our lives and histories are tangled.

We have to be able to admit--first to ourselves--that there's a little co-dependence that seeps into caregiving whether we like it or not.

A few months ago, I spoke to a caregiver's meeting and a guy spoke up and said,

"You're still caregiving."

I couldn't think of what to say.

"You're caregiving all of us."

I have to think about that.

I'll get back to you.

Carol D. O'Dell is the author of Motheirng Mother: A Daughter's Humorous and Heartbreaking Memoir

by Kunati Publishing, available on Amazon and in most bookstores.

Recently, I had the honor to be on CNN.com–which is a video interview that’s played on their website and broadcast all over the world.

CNN.com LINK http://www.cnn.com/video//video/showbiz/2007/10/11/odell.interview.cnn

Yikes. I thought I’d be scared and jittery, but honestly, I wasn’t. That’s where all the local and regional interviews I’ve done in cities such as Jacksonville, Tampa, Orlando and others have helped.

I’ve learned that you sell one book at a time, and when you’re on TV or radio–you talk to the one person who’s interviewing you–that’s it.

The scariest part of my day was driving through downtown Atlanta and hoping I could find the place without any problems and without being snagged in one of Atlanta’s infamous and all-too-frequent traffic jams. All went well, and I parked and took a picture of the giant red (my favorite color, by the way) CNN sign on top of their building. The security guard had my name and printed me out a badge, and the producer came down and escorted me upstairs through the newsrooms, through headline news set and into the make-up room.

Now, I’ve had make-up before, but usually, they just touch you up a bit–put on a darker foundation applied with a big fluffy brush that takes all of 30 seconds.

Not at CNN, I had FULL make-up done, and it was so fascinating to be sitting next to anchors who talk on CNN and stare into their reflections in the mirrors–me–on CNN–how cool is that? Being a hick that I am, I got my picture taken with my make-up and hair artist. I couldn’t help myself.

Life is about celebrating, and this day was too monumental not to document, not to celebrate.

Honestly, I’ve never felt more together in my life. I had achieved my CNN diet (earlier blog) and they did such a good job with my hair and make-up that I was flabberghasted at how good I looked:) Even my daughters and friends called me later–in shock almost at how good I looked (which makes me wonder what I look like walking around every day).

The producer escorted me back upstairs, through all the newsrooms and the busy people rushing here and there, coffee cups in hand. I thought about all the news and events coming into this place from around the world. We went through one darkened room that had well over 100 TV screens/monitors on the walls–live feed from around the world.

I took my seat and soon, Melissa, my interviewer came over. Sharp, beautiful young woman. She didn’t “mess around” as us old geezers used to (and still do) say. She shook my hand, said we were “just going to have a conversation,” which made me feel like I was on NYPD and thought of asking if I needed a lawyer. Two seconds later, the cameras were rolling.

We did, we had the conversation. No prep, I just spoke from my heart. She had picked some great passages from my book, and in the end, I felt I did caregivers proud. I felt that my message that family and hope trumps despair, and I did it staying true to my story to the caregiving experience. No sugar coating, but poignant all the same.

A few minutes later, the producer walked me back downstairs and I felt as if I had just left an afternoon wedding–all dressed up and needing something else to do. I bought a latte in the atrium, watched all the tourists get in line for the CNN tour, took a few more pictures of the flag, the world that hangs high above, and I wrote in my journal.

I sat in the atrium of CNN and wrote because writers write. That’s how we live, remember, emote and process.

It was an amazing day–

~Carol D. O’Dell