Overcoming Another Major Organization Hurdle

My desk this morning and then...this afternoon.

By the end of November, I should have this house in fairly decent shape. I need to be more organized, because I'm juggling several balls right now -- my Etsy shop, Amazon book sales, an upcoming writing workshop, clients, and -- the main purpose behind all this activity -- my memoir.

It made perfect sense for me to tackle my desk today in light of the deadline I set for myself with clients and the book. In the photos above, you can see a cluttered desk filled with items that I needed to list on Amazon and other items I need to photograph for sale on my Etsy shop (links to both venues are listed in the right column). All those items now are in their proper places, mostly. I did make it through the books today, and they're all out the door, listed on Amazon, or on my bookcase in the bedroom. I'm limiting myself to one bookcase for books I want to keep.

The other items are sitting on the folding table behind me as I sit at my desk. My next task is to photograph those pieces, then list them on Etsy and put them away in a nice, neat box until they're sold.

I don't know if I would have found the motivation to become more organized without Caregiving.com's 30-Day Organization Challenge. I don't like to fail at anything, and making a commitment to this challenge was one of the best things I could have done for my family and for myself. I have been battling depression for the past two years since before mom's diagnosis, and my struggle seems to be worse lately. I think it's because I don't have to focus on mom's caregiving anymore, so the focus is on me and my losses. It's all part of grief and grieving. A competition to become more organized was, surprisingly, just what I needed to begin to look at my life with new perspective and with less stress.

I'm happy about seeing my desk again. I'm also happy that I've untangled the speakers and separated them for better sound since I took that second photo. During this "desk-cleaning" project I was pleased to find a bracelet I thought I had lost. Bonus!

Now, to rid myself of this paranoia. I feel like the objects lurking on that table behind me are making fun of me and just waiting for me to fail at moving forward on these tasks. Little do they know that I have them on my "organization" hit list for tomorrow.

New Post at Caregiving.com -- a Great Community for Caregivers

Dad and my husband at a market this past fall.

I have a new post up about long-distance caregiving for dad at caregiving.com. This task of caregiving for dad is not a chore at the moment, but changes have altered the scenario both here at my home and at dad's place. My footing as a caregiver for dad is totally off-balance and unsure. I don't really know what he needs right now, but I guess that unknown is alright. At least, he seems to be doing well for his age. He seems to be doing somewhat fine alone, but I think I know he's not happy.

I'm not happy. None of us are happy right now. Life is stressful, but we all keep going along, doing what we think we need to do. Some of that "knowing" has changed, though, since mom's death. I am finding support at Caregiving.com -- what a great little community with some great leadership through Denise. In fact, I can't keep up with all the blogs, the activities, the podcasts, or the events this site offers; but it's great to know I have those resources available.

Without caregiving.com, in fact, I wouldn't have had the initiative to get organized around here. Hugh, my husband, wouldn't have a studio for making his baskets. I owe all that to the short amount of time I've spent with Denise and the other caregivers at that site.

I wish dad would find a community similar to what I've found with caregiving.com. He's not computer savvy, though, so that community would have to meet in person. But again, I don't know what dad needs right now. I don't think he knows what he needs.

I'm a Caregiver, and I Matter

A birthday present to myself. Brenda Avadian leads caregivers in a simple Mirror Exercise to remind them, "I'm a Caregiver and I Matter." Caregivers experience a wide range of reactions depending on where they are along the caregiving journey.

There's No Turning Back...

My Logitch K120 keyboard, which I've owned for about three years. Note the dents, the missing letters, and possible pieces of peanut butter sandwich lodged between the keys. This is a writer's keyboard.

If I had been on the ball today, I would have written a post for Caregiving.com about caregiving my father from a distance. That topic is so muddled these days that I can't make sense of it, though, and I can't put it on paper yet. Death, when it touches someone close to us, changes us. All of us. There's no turning back.

That change goes very deep, too. I realize, in my conversations with other caregivers, that we're a breed apart in many ways. We have one portion of our lives (usually our own) that's disorganized and unimportant. The other part of our lives is insanely organized, much like Temple Grandin's Livestock Handling Systems. What goes in follows a defined path until it exits.

My life as caregiver to mom was organized. It became more organized the sicker she became. The one-time-per-day seven-day pill holder went to a two-week pill holder that held morning, noon, and night pills. The journals became real journals instead of sticky notes. The physical observation went from downright obvious to sly, so it wouldn't upset mom to know that I was becoming more concerned about her yellow skin, her swollen ankles, her swelling stomach.

My life, on the other hand, kept fading into the distance. It helped that I wasn't at home for this illusion to work. Home became a lone fragment of fog floating up and over a mountain away from my daily routines.

But I'm home now. It's real. I'm becoming more organized. You may have read about part of that organization in my previous entry about changing the spare bedroom into a basket-making studio for my husband. My office? Still the same -- I have a path that leads from the door to my chair. I have a keyboard with no letters from overuse. I have chaos.

But, I'm focused on my mission to finish this memoir. My tool is the clock. I've used it before in keeping time with mom's daily routines, and I can use it again in writing this book. I know how that time-keeping works, as do so many other caregivers. Time. That linear framework consisting of hours, minutes, and seconds is all we have to align ourselves among the realities of health, sickness, and death.

There's no turning back (except for this damnable daylight savings time bullcrap).