Acting not only option in theater

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On rainy weekend days in Brooklyn, growing up, my father, brother, and I used to read plays–dividing up the parts among us. Later, when my brother “dropped out” as an adolescent to hang out with friends, my father and I got more and more-plum parts, of course. (My mother wisely was taking naps during these “staged readings.”)

While I love theater and used to harbor dreams long ago of being a singer-dancer in stage musicals, the reality was the only people who thought I could sing well were my parents (and my shower, if you could personify it). My dancing was on a higher level, but it was still unlikely I was going to be a Broadway hoofer. I even had (embarrassing to admit it) a hard time getting cast in high-school musicals, though I sometimes did OK in plays. Guess it was my lot to write about theater, not necessarily to be in it.

Fast forward a number of years. I now have two kids, each gifted in different ways as it relates to the theater. (Forgive me if I’m repeating myself, but… ) Helena, the elder, has a very good singing voice, but was too self-conscious for the solo parts that came and could have come her way. Cynthia, the younger, was a born “performer,” when it came to words and emotions, but didn’t have the voice that would have gotten her cast in musicals. Now, as young adults, Helena is doing karaoke without much fear, but would probably still shy away from repeated, full performances. Cynthia found directing more to her liking than acting, and in general, has opted for a career in teaching/poetry rather than theater.

Still, I learned something from the years they did spend performing, and from all the productions–community and professional–I’ve watched in NYC, central Pennsylvania, and elsewhere. That is: if you love theater, if you love its collaborative efforts and audiences, there’s more than one way to be involved than acting or solo singing.

First of all, if that’s your dream, you should always try. But if you really don’t feel those are your “thing,” there are so many other “things” you can do to be involved in theater.

I’m not saying anything you don’t know. But just wanted to reiterate that there’s always the chorus, or nonverbal parts. I still remember the impression the actor playing the plumber in Little Theatre of Mechanicsburg’s production of “Barefoot in the Park” made just based on his facial expressions. And there are a ton of things to do behind the scenes, especially in community theater–lighting, sets, costumes, stage managing, assistant stage managing, maybe even directing. Not to mention playing music. Or you could do something vital to the success of a theater but a further step removed–like help with publicity, or sell tickets.

It’s not easy sometimes to convince kids to do anything, but if we can get the point across that there’s no reason not to be involved in something you love just because you’re not “the star” of a production, we would have communicated a very  important lesson. See you on stage, or behind it, or near it!

Theater and kids

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Theater and kids: A bit of a personal statement

One of the first things my husband and I did after moving to central Pennsylvania was to look for the Great White Way, well, make that local theaters. As uptown Harrisburg residents, we heard first of Open Stage, and went from there.

I remember the great shock and delight as former (forever?) New Yorkers to learn how much was going on in the area theatrically. And, as I’ve written many times, of what quality.

Our children had not yet come along, so our quest was purely for us–and purely for enjoyment and edification.

I became a theater previewer, then a reviewer, and back again, and our two children arrived.

Just as my parents had done with me, I started taking them to theater at an early age. I still remember vividly my older, very active daughter climbing over chairs while we were watching “The Secret Garden” at Theatre Harrisburg (then still Harrisburg Community Theatre). Fortunately, people were tolerant. The younger one sat still–and mesmerized.

Over the years they saw many shows–mostly here but also in New York, where their grandparents still lived. Although our family loves movies–we’re “addicted” to TCM–we all thrill to live theater. And II was thrilled when they preferred Theatre Hrrisburg’s production of “Into the Woods” over the filmed theater version, even though the latter starred Bernadette Peters. I hope they will continue to appreciate the immediacy of theater.

At some point, my kids decided they wanted to perform themselves, and oh, what an enriching experience that was. We met and befriended the late Sharon Hillegas, the mother of so much theater in the area. Sharon had her own professional venue but also directed productions at the Jewish Community Center. My kids were in the chorus of several shows, and eventually had solos: Helena, the elder, sang “Bella Notte” in a Disney revue, while Cynthia played the youngest daughter in “Fiddler on the Roof.”

They also took several classes, including at York Little Theatre, and Cynthia eventually did summer internships at Gamut Theatre Group, helping with the summer camp.

My kids still love theater, though at this point Helen performs more at karaoke than on stage. She also accompanies the hundreds of show tunes on her iPod. She loves to “test” my knowledge of where songs come from–it’s pretty good, I have to say!–and to compare performances by Mary Martin and Barbra Streisand, and the like.

Cynthia is completed her B.A. in dramatic literature and creative writing at NYU, where she helped resuscitate a theater group in which she acted once and directed three times.

Meanwhile, partly because of their inspiration, I began doing some playwriting.

Their lives have been so much richer for being audience members, and to whatever degree, for participating in performances. Theater has given them more self-confidence, enhanced their ability to work cooperatively with others, and brought them joy.

It has also connected them to previous generations of theater lovers in the family. And, hopefully, to future ones. Let’s go on with the show!

Caregiving: Effects

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Have you ever heard the expression, “Small children, small problems–big children, big problems”? I discovered, as many caregivers do, that just about all problems when dealing with older loved ones are big ones!

Caregiving makes for wear and tear on the body and mind in a way that might even outpace that of child care, especially for those doing both at the same time. Anxiety, sleeplessness, overeating or undereating, depression, sadness, anger, doubt, worry. These are just some of the emotions and behaviors you can expect. And of course, that’s assuming you don’t have any other problems or obligations in life!

What were some of the ways I dealt with the physical and psychological symptoms? Everyone has a different way to cope, and what worked for me (or didn’t) wouldn’t necessarily apply to anyone else. But then, they might.

For one thing, I walked as many morning as I could with a partner–which increased the likelihood I would actually do it. Though we rarely spoke about the issues of caregiving, which she had also gone through, just the physical exercise and the natural light were helpful.

I tried to increase my creative activities. While most of my writing is journalistic and non-fiction, I spent time I really didn’t have on writing plays–which both took me out of my world into others but also made me feel that there was much about life that was transcendent. I even wrote my first children’s musical during the grieving process for my mother. Since she had always encouraged me to be a writer, I like to think she was singing along. :)

Though I didn’t have the time, again, I joined the boards of a few organizations. It seemed helpful to be around a lot of different groups of people. Though feeling like a “butterfly,” not spending too much time with the same people was a relief; I was unlikely to vent too much. On the other hand, speaking with good friends who understood (and it was easy to ascertain who they were) brought enjoyment and satisfaction on a different level. So did listening to other people, whose problems were less severe or more severe than mine.

At the same time, I indulged in some “mindless” activities–like watching a great many old movies on TCM as background noise for my work. And I probably spent more time than necessary in thrift shops. I’ve never enjoyed department stores, but going to thrift shops is like being on a treasure hunt–an inexpensive one. It’s always been a kind of harmless drug.

Donating money to good causes was another high, as is visiting the sick in hospitals and nursing homes through a local group. Putting yourself in the place of others with problems can certainly make you appreciate what you have, and you will be appreciated.

None of these suggestions, if they’re even that, are profound or new. But they worked for me.

 

Caregiving: Finances

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If there’s probably one aspect of caregiving that people are probably most reluctant to talk about–and, I might add, where sharing information doesn’t necessarily help, because everyone’s situation is so different–it’s finances. The one generality I can make is that taking care of a loved one’s needs, especially late in life, when physical and mental deficits are more likely, will almost always cost more than you think it will.

I consider myself lucky: my father had purchased long-term-care insurance at a time when few people were doing that. Someone in the social service organization he worked for most of his career had recommended it. I was also lucky that my parents were relatively healthy most of their lives and had good health care insurance, then Medicare and AARP. My mother never used up the benefits of the long-term-care insurance, either. It wasn’t necessary for her to get Medicaid, though there is no shame in that either. It’s something many middle-class people might feel funny about, but sometimes there’s no choice.

We were also given good advice: to set up a Trust Fund that would meet the five-year lookback law in case my mother outlived the long-term-care insurance, and it was necessary to put her in a nursing home. It’s a terrible thing to contemplate any of these possibilities, but more and more people are facing them every day–and as America grays, more and more are likely to.

Finance was never one of my strong suits, but luckily, there are experts out there. In building a network to help you care for your loved one, include accountants, elder lawyers, investment counselors, bankers, people who know. I was lucky that my parents knew and had relationships with competent people in each of the categories except elder law. They were also people not out to gouge. If you don’t have those relationships, ask friends and family for recommendations. There are also many seminars out there on various aspects of aging and elder care. No one ever wants to think about finances when it comes to the people we love, but just as we make plans for our children, the day often comes when we need to do the same for our parents. It’s never too soon too think ahead.

Caretaking: Sandwiched In

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God never gives you more than you can handle. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. These and similar axioms were never very convincing to me, and certainly not in the case of caregiving. I didn’t feel the least bit stronger when the job was completed–just exhausted, sad, guilt-ridden, and angry. As for not having more than I can handle… Well, I guess it’s a matter of opinion. After all, I was standing in one piece during an after the caregiving, so one could say… On the other hand, trying to balance children, my mother’s care, the travel and managerial responsibilities involved in long-distance caregiving, and my work was really more than I could handle.

At the same time, I acknowledge that there are plenty of people who have gone through and are going through much worse situations and with much-more-difficult care receivers (or so it sounds). There are certainly people who have cared for loved ones with dementia for many, many years–who have long since forgotten who they are and suffering from incontinence and other physical challenges as well.

But that’s objective–and doesn’t mean I felt any less challenged during my caregiving years. One of the “mistakes” I made in life was marrying late, and as a result, had kids who were still teenagers when caregiving for my mother became necessary. My brother’s kids, in contrast, were independent and on their own. And need I say more about some of the trials and tribulations even the best-adjusted teenagers go through? There were days I felt I didn’t have one  minute to myself or one thought to myself that wasn’t connected to either kids or parent. My children occasionally complained that I wasn’t paying enough attention to them. No matter how much I spoke to them about respect for parents, that remained theoretical when they had a problem or needed someone to listen to them.

Another part of being in the sandwich generation is work. Being a freelancer meant considerable flexibility, compared with people who work at one job all day. On days when I didn’t have to travel to do interviews or meet clients, I could theoretically stay at home all day and not venture out. There were days, indeed–and some nights–when I spent hours upon hours making phone calls related to my mother’s care: doctors, social workers, health insurance, long-term-care insurance, aides, social workers, and on and on. There was no way I would have been able to do that had I a full-time job, especially with an inflexible boss (of which I’ve had many in the past). However, being a writer is not a mechanical thing: depression, sadness, distress, anxiety–all of these affect creativity and did. In the past i had almost never missed a deadline; while caregiving for my mother, I had to ask for extensions a number of times and missed a few assignments completely. Every minute I spent traveling on Amtrak back and forth were spent working, and occasionally catching some shut-eye. I had to refuse projects, and those I accepted and turned in were probably not on a comparable level to that of the past. So who says being a freelancer isn’t affected by caregiving? Maybe I could handle what I handled, but at what price? Which is not to say I wouldn’t do it again, simply that cliched axioms may not be quite accurate.

 

Caretaking: Support Groups?

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I’ve always been a believer in support groups–in theory. They work for many people in many guises, from AA to informal “koffee klotches,” from groups where cancer patients share information and strength to psychotherapy groups. I was in a support group years ago that made an enormous difference in my life. But when it came to support groups for caregivers… Well…

The reality is, I’ve always been a loner rather than a joiner. The song sung by Groucho Marx as the improbable college president in “Horse Feathers” kind of expressed me: “Whatever it is, I’m against it.” Shortly after joining any group, rather a support one or a planning committee or board of directors, I tend to focus on what makes me different from the other members, not what unites us. And to some degree, that’s exactly what happened when I joined–or tried to join–support groups for caregivers.

In one case, I started attending a group for Alzheimer’s patients caregivers. It would have seemed a good fit, since it was close to my home, run by my religious group, and attended by people, all of whom understood the ravages and despair of dementia. But quickly I realized that I was the only one in the group doing long-distance care, and the only one facing caregiving more or less alone–the group was composed of mothers and grown children caring for a spouse/father or mother. Besides, the leader was unable to “structure” the group so that people stayed on topic. 

The second was a phone support group. Not only did my mind wander–the same as it has done during phone writing classes-but I became hugely impatient listening to other people speaking about caregiving. I’ve always been an empathic person–I think!–and a good listener. But the group members seemed to be droning on and trying to dominate the conversation. It’s really a dilemma–it takes a caregiver to understand another caregiver, but if everyone is trying to talk at once, how can anyone understand anyone?

That said, caregivers can definitely benefit from support groups. These groups can provide encouragement, information, an opportunity to reflect and vent, and yes–support. The problem is finding a group that: a) fits into your schedule; b) matches you with people you can relate to; c) has a leader who encourages openness and mutual respect but also knows how to cut people off firmly but politely when they speak “too long” or meander; and ) isn’t, hopefully too far. This may be especially difficult in long-distance-caregiving situations, since the logical thing would be to attend such a group near the resources you’re using. That’s a tough one. But overall, given that all the above “conditions” are met, and even if you have to “compromise” on one or two, it is definitely worth at least trying out a support group. You’ll find yourself a better listener, and may even walk away with the liberating feeling that you’re not so bad off–cause others have it much worse than you do.

There are people who continue with such groups even after the care receiver has passed on. There’s nothing quite like not feeling alone in a situation that very much feels alone.

Caregiving: So Much to Do…

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Have you ever applied to a job you thought would be a good fit–even a breeze–only to be daunted by the long list of extensive job responsibilities that sounded like a month would be required to do that which was “daily” in the eyes of the employer? Of course, it could be that once you took the position (if you weren’t scared away), you find that everything is much easier and quicker than it sounds on paper (or online). Or, it could be that about 10 other responsibilities had been omitted from the list, and within a week you wish you had never seen the job notice.

You get the picture. How does this apply to caregiving? Only someone who hasn’t done it would ask the question, or need to. In the course of a visit with my mother while I supervised her care long distance, I found myself being an accountant, health-care administrator and/or advocate, volunteer coordinator, nurse’s aide, banker, telephone correspondent, housekeeper, shopper, transportation coordinator, personnel director, and on and on. That probably only scratches the surface, but I can’t think of more right now.

In the course of a week, I’d be paying the aides and sometimes struggling with them about doing their jobs, going to the bank to make deposits, dealing with the accountant, filling out forms for long-term-care insurance, buying food, trying to round out volunteers from a few different organizations and work out schedules, consulting with the care manager the long-term-care company had insisted on–whether it really added to my mother’s quality of life or not–e-mailing my mother’s internist with concerns. I wasn’t necessarily good at any of these things initially–I’m a writer, not an organizer–but it’s like being put on stage at the last minute without rehearsals and without knowing more than a few of the lines because you heard the main actor reciting them and being expected to put on a sterling performance.

What choice do you really have? There isn’t anyone else to do it, maybe, and the show must go on. Besides, if nothing else, you want your children to do for you what you are doing for your parent, and the only way to achieve that (with a dose of luck) is to model the behavior.

Caretaking: More on Grief

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A visit to my niece and nephew-in-law in New Orleans elicited more thoughts about grief, as did a conversation with a theater friend today who started reminiscing about the passing of his father around the time mine died.

On the Torah ark of the New Orleans (actually, Metarie) synagogue they had newly built after the devastation of Katrina, the words are engraved: “Many waters cannot extinguish love.” This verse, from the Song of Songs, of course relates to the power of romantic love but also the destructive waters of the hurricane.

But for me, the words resonated in a different way: The passage of time does not necessarily extinguish the pain of loss. As another friend said the other day in response to the horrible, incomprehensible shootings in Newtown, Conn.: “No one gets over that, but the truth is, with any death of a loved one, even an old person, you don’t really get over it. You simply move on and get past it.” No lessening of the nightmare the family members are going through–simply an acknowledgment that loss of a loved one is in the best of circumstances, painful. In other circumstances, like Sandy Hook, it is excruciating.

Again, though, there are so many components. One might think that a very close relationship with a loved one would mean more-intense grief, or that an indifferent one would lead to a rapid dissipation of grief. But that would not be taking into account the fact that (as in the case of my friend) someone might be “relieved” that a loved one is no longer suffering, or that a person might be overcome with guilt for what he or she didn’t do while the family member was alive. Nor does such a conclusion consider that a caregiver might react with anger and frustration despite a previously warm relationship or that, alternatively, he or she might be swept into deeper feelings for the family member because of the very act of caregiving. Sometimes the emotions follow the actions.

My friend is a case in point. He considered his father his “best friend,” yet, after his father suffered from cancer for a year, he found himself wishing that the suffering would end. He was at peace with his father’s passing because they had spent a great deal of time together during that year and had said “all I wanted to say.” They had expressed love for one another, and were together when his father passed. In contrast, many people told me that I would feel a great sense of relief after my mother had died, because of the exhausting process of caring for her from afar and her dual diagnosis of lung cancer and dementia. They also pointed out that even though she still recognized family members and aides, the time would probably come when she wouldn’t–and I should be “glad” my mother (and we) did not reach that point. The relief somehow never came; in fact, as exhausting, expensive, and terrifying as the caregiving was, I found myself missing it–being uncertain what to do with myself afterward. Perhaps, too, the anger at and fear of dementia–which some day might plague me–overcame any sense of relief.

So, as with any other emotion, it’s complicated.

Caretaking: Grief

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At some point, in a formal way, at least, caregiving ends. The loved one you have been taking care of in whatever way you have passes away. Other than completing paperwork–which, it has been estimated, could take up to a year–your obligations are over.

What is left are memories, sweet, bittersweet and bitter, and the necessity to return to the world and of living devoid of that person. But before that return takes place, the caregiver (like every other human being who has lost someone) experiences grief.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross aside, every human being undergoes the process of grief a different way. Sure, there are patterns and commonalities, but the exact shape and duration of the sadness, pain, loneliness, and sometimes depression that compose grief differ for everyone. The course is grief is influenced by personality, temperament, culture, prior experiences with loss (and other significant events), and the amount of support one receives. Plus, the outward manifestations of grief may be very different from what the person is feeling inside. There are people who “don’t cry,” or won’t cry. There are people who seek solace in frenetic activity and being around people; others “want to be alone.”

What was grief like for me? I found that it was totally different after my father’s passing than my mother’s. I was kind of quiet, almost speechless, over losing my father. From the age of 36 on, I had lost many friends–some close. Death always, to quote my kids, “sucked.” And I had watched friends lose children to many causes–suicide, terrorist attacks, illness, and accidents. Nothing could compare to that, so when I lost my father, I almost felt guilty grieving a great deal. Besides, I had my mother to take care of, and my kids were still in high school, so it seems they, who had been so close to my father (as had I) took on the outer trappings. But when my mother passed away, the grief was much more intense. Now I was fully “orphaned,” instead of just half. A mother is a mother. I had undergone another traumatic event right before her death, and perhaps, most tellingly, I had taken care of my mother for almost three years. People I know in that position, especially those caring for a loved one with dementia, seem to take death very hard. The feeling is magnified by the sorrow over watching the mental decline of a loved one, as well as the fear that the same might happen to you years from now. All that combined to make a very resistant sense of grief. I could go on analyzing, but the truth is, it’s taken a lot longer for me to get over the loss of my mother than I had expected.

I could chastise myself when I see a family member who lost a mother very suddenly, a woman younger than mine had been, bouncing back much faster. But such is life.

Getting to Know You (Part II)

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During the course of my mother’s final illness (she passed away from lung cancer, but also sufffered from Alzheimer’s), the two most-frequent questions people asked me were: Did she still recognize me, and was she “Alzheimer’s angry.”

Many people with dementia do become agitated and irritable, especially during the “sundowning” period of late afternoon-early evening.

There were such moments with my mother–and those were hard to deal with–but by and large, she was unfailingly gracious to everyone she dealt with. On November 18, which marked the anniversary of her death two years ago, her main caretaker wrote on my Facebook page about how “another angel” had been taken to Heaven. Along with her appreciative aides, both of whom came to her funeral, everyone who dealt with my mother during her final three years–the friendly visitors, physical therapists, doctors, nurses, care managers, even the hospice staff–remarked constantly about how lovely a woman she was. People would come to take care of her needs, and she would ask them immediately how they were. She knew the stories of many of their lives–often repeating them, because of the dementia. But the point is, she cared.

She also became increasingly affectionate. To the degree that the Alzheimer’s had taken its toll, she would get upset if her grandchildren–two of whom lived with her at different times–didn’t kiss her when they came in or left. This was a totally different person in terms of physical affection. Was it the lack of inhibitions that dementia sometimes brings about? Was it the realization, even if unconscious, that the end was near, and that her mind was going? Whatever it was, the hugs and kisses I hadn’t easily received during my childhood were amply available now. It was lovely getting to know that side of her.