It’s Not About the Candle
When I owned my bridal boutique, each appointment booked offered a chance to earn a sale. Moreover, it provided an opportunity to connect with another human in a precious time during her life. I loved what I did for a living and poured everything into those appointments. Prior to a bride visiting, we would ask for her favorite musical artist or genre for background tunes. We would ask for her to share her Pinterest boards with us to get an idea of the styles she was hoping to try (often pulling dresses that we felt aligned with her vision). We would learn about who was going to be visiting with her on that special day of dress shopping and prepare accordingly. We would make sure we had the spelling of her name correct, so we could have it written on our chalkboard hanging from the viewing mirror. Pre-pandemic we even prepared cucumber water and snacks. Finally, I had a custom candle made and stocked them in bulk to make sure we always had them on hand to enhance the cozy, inviting feeling we wanted to convey. I would shorten the wick and light a candle shortly before each appointment. The candles were supposed to be burned for at least an hour at a time to help them burn evenly and last longer.
One day in a business coaching session, some other entrepreneurs and I were venting about last minute cancellations or no shows. For some reason, I got outwardly upset about “wasting” the hour long burn of the candles when I was expecting a bride and she chose not to show. We all laughed over the recognition that it was not about the candle. The frustration stemmed instead from feeling as though I had poured so much preparatory time and energy into a visit only for it to be treated as though it meant nothing to the other party. I was recently reading in Katherine Morgan Schafler’s The Perfectionist’s Guide to Losing Control about how important it is to choose wisely what engagements we commit to, because we spend so much more time anticipating and reliving an event than we do participating in it. I had underestimated the weight of that anticipatory joy and subsequent let down from “reliving” an event that never happened.
Last week, I was almost home when I came to a 4-way stop in my neighborhood at maybe one second earlier than the truck directly opposite me. It was one of those instances where I felt like I was first but only by a hair, so I looked across to make sure the other driver wasn’t going. He wasn’t turning. Instead, he aggressively swiped the air like he was slapping someone in the face rather than politely suggesting “go ahead.” I took his direction and started to turn, but as I did he again aggressively started clapping the air, like “hurry up” with this nasty look on his face. Mind you, this entire interaction took all of maybe 5 seconds in his day. I was so rattled by how rude he was for no apparent reason. I recognize that he had no idea what my day entailed just as I hadn’t a clue about his. Still, the attitude seemed entirely unnecessary. As I headed down the hill to the next stop sign, I started sobbing uncontrollably. Just as in the past it was “not about the candle,” this time it was not about the asshole gesture.
I got home with my hands full and very uncharacteristically our door was locked and I didn’t have my keys with me, so I had to ring the doorbell and wait for my husband to let me in. Again, probably an extra 10 seconds out of my day, not a big deal. And again, it wasn’t about the door being locked. I looked at my husband and just said “today was hard” as I collapsed into him and wept.
I had just gotten home from touring not one, not two, but three memory care facilities in a row. I had actually met with my therapist that morning and told her I was feeling okay about the process, because it was going to give me some clarity and visualization of what was next for my mom. Instead, I felt like I had been gut punched over and over. We will not be sure until an evaluation is done by our selected community whether my mom will best be served in the assisted living or memory care unit of that particular place, but several of my conversations had us leaning towards memory care. However, that didn’t align with my view of my mom and where she is in her disease progression. She is only 70, active, very conversational, and comprehends so much, despite her confusion and need for assistance. When I asked for guidance on average resident timelines, I was told multiple times that for memory care specifically, the average is 2-3 years. That just couldn’t be right. Gut punch # 1.
On my short drives between visits, I practiced deep breathing and tried my hardest to fight back tears, not always succeeding. Hearing the way directors talked about the “AL” or assisted living resident options made it sound like country club life. However, when I asked about similar activities for the memory care residents, I was often met with “oh, that is just not feasible for them” or “if we feel they can participate without hurting their dignity, they can join.” Even though I know the boundaries are in place for their safety, learning how the memory care residents are relegated to separate living quarters, activities, and dining areas just hurt. Gut punch #2.
Actually seeing the residents in the memory care wings was gut punch # 3, I want my mom to continue to be surrounded by active, chatty adults, even if she repeats her stories to them. I want her to have a comfortable (secure) outdoor oasis where she can hear the birds sing, get her hands dirty, and feel the sun on her skin. Sitting in a recliner or wandering the halls isn’t going to cut it.
In addition to the weight of “selecting correctly” for my mom’s quality of life, I am faced with the unpleasant reality of forecasting her time remaining on this earth to make sure her dollars can stretch to cover the best possible accommodations for that time. Trying to play both the financially responsible and compassionate, optimistic daughter roles at the same time feels almost like walking through wet sand, There are options with great outdoor spaces. There are options with devoted memory care buildings and even neighborhoods that feel less like an afterthought. They of course come at a cost. Learning about communities that seem to check all the boxes but at a price exceeding what we can afford was of course gut punch # 4.
I often have a point to my stories, but today I think I just needed to share, to vent, to say this is hard. Ultimately, I will leave this post here as a reminder that when you are on the brink of anger or sadness, step back and recognize that it’s probably not about the candle. Or the sink full of dishes. Or the toilet seat left up. Or the legos on the floor. Today (or this week or month or year) may have just been hard. Big hugs to you if so.
