In honor of Mother’s Day, get out that video camera, audio recorder or pen and paper and if your mom is living and nearby, see if you can grab a story or two from her. Maybe ask her about how she used to celebrate Mother's Day when she was a girl or a story about her own mom--or what being a mom has taught her. If your mom has passed away, honor her by recording a story about her which showed something you learned directly by watching her "in action."
I'll share one about my mom who at age 91 is still going strong. One thing I used to observe when I was little is how she would handle returning something to a store. In those days, the customer wasn't always considered right and return policies were often more rigid. If she was not a satisfied customer, she was always polite but always firm in expecting a refund or fair exchange. I remember being no higher than her elbow watching the process and always seeing her succeed in getting what she wanted. She was never rude but always insistent. One time, it involved successfully returning a pair of my shoes that she thought should have lasted longer than they did. As I got older, I found myself recalling her technique before heading out to “do battle.” One funny example happened when I was an adult. She was visiting me and we had gone to the grocery store. When we got home and were putting the groceries away, she noticed that the carton of eggs we had just bought contained a broken one. Her immediate response was that we should go back to the store and exchange the carton. I smiled and told her that I knew I was letting her down but I was not going to drive 15 minutes for the sake of one broken egg. We then both had a good laugh.
Yes, example is one of the best teachers and I am so fortunate to have a mother who serves as such a positive one for me as well as the rest of my family.
--Bridget Poizner
Showing posts with label Sharing family memories and stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sharing family memories and stories. Show all posts
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Chicken Soup Isn't Always A Cure
Last week was a busy one for me. I conducted interviews in Kansas City, Louisville and Washington D.C. On my flight back to San Diego, I started feeling a cold coming on and upon my return home I made a large kettle of chicken soup in hopes of warding it off. I was very motivated because I was supposed to fly back to D.C. yesterday to attend a full honors military funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. This was for a client I had interviewed 18 months ago. He had been a p.o.w. in a German prisoner of war camp during WWII. I was so honored when he shared his experiences with me during the interview--especially since he told me when I was setting up the camera that he was not going to talk about the war.
When his widow emailed me to tell me of his death and invited me to attend the interment ceremony, I knew I would attend even though my schedule showed that I would be in D.C. the week prior. What I didn't count on was getting sick and in spite of the soup and laying low for several days I am still too ill to travel. As I write this, the ceremony is taking place at this same point in time and though I'm not there in person hearing the bugle play and the echo of the rifle volleys, I salute this gentle and courageous man. The other day, his wife told me they would be playing his interview at the reception held after the interment. It's rather nice to think that I contributed in a small way to the celebration of his life.
When his widow emailed me to tell me of his death and invited me to attend the interment ceremony, I knew I would attend even though my schedule showed that I would be in D.C. the week prior. What I didn't count on was getting sick and in spite of the soup and laying low for several days I am still too ill to travel. As I write this, the ceremony is taking place at this same point in time and though I'm not there in person hearing the bugle play and the echo of the rifle volleys, I salute this gentle and courageous man. The other day, his wife told me they would be playing his interview at the reception held after the interment. It's rather nice to think that I contributed in a small way to the celebration of his life.
--Bridget Poizner
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Get the family talking! 60 minutes of a magical transformation...
I recently had the opportunity of listening to Dr Jerald Winakur, Geriatric Physician and Author, share his experience being a caregiver to his elderly parents. I'm not really an avid fan of attending talks and presentations in general, but there were a few things that Dr Winakur spoke about that touched a chord. Because they were personal. And because of the stories he shared about his family... which reminded me of my own. As they probably did for the other 150 people in the room.
His mother was nearly blind in her old age, he said, and his father's mind had been claimed by Dementia and Alzheimer's. (If I get any of the facts wrong, I apologize... but the gist is that in their old age, his parents became very different people from who they were when he was growing up.) This is a tough transition for anyone to cope with... and there wasn't a dry eye in the room full of 'regular' people who at some stage in their life, have found themselves stepping into the role of caregiver to a spouse, parent, relative or friend.
What was remarkable about the presentation was that Dr Winakur had everyone's undivided attention and emotional involvement. And by the end of his talk, people were lauding him and members of his family as if they had known them their entire life. Whereas the truth is that just an hour earlier, nobody in the room even knew what his parents' names were or what they wore on their wedding day or what they had done on their 60th anniversary. But at the end of the 60 minutes, everyone knew all that and more. They knew they had shared a loving life together. That underneath the ravages of old age, they were still young at heart. And that they were like their own parents or relatives... they were like any other family.
How did he achieve this?
He achieved it with stories. And he achieved it with photographs. His entire presentation - and indeed his book - is about his experience of being the son of his father. A father who had Dementia. And a son who is a doctor.
In the telling of his story, it is hard to say what he achieved on a personal level. Was it the relief of 'understanding'? Was it redemption? Was it to assuage the guilt that accompanies all children looking after their parents? Was it relief that in hindsight he had been a good son to a wonderful set of parents? Was it to leave behind a realistic picture of his father to his children and their children... who had never known him before Dementia? Was it a tribute to a man he truly loved? Maybe it was all this. Maybe it was none of this.
In the act of 'listening', what was it that the members of the audience achieved? Reassurance that they were not alone in what they were feeling and experiencing? Hope that there will be good days along with the bad? A sense of community? Solidarity? Support?
Whatever it was, the stories drew everyone together. Suddenly the room was abuzz with portraits of relatives and loved ones.
'I remember...'
'She used to love to...'
'One day, he turned to me...'
'I'll miss the way she...'
Everyone was talking. And sharing. And crying. And laughing. It was a relief to realize that they remembered so much. There was a desperate need to share it. To pass on the memories. To heal and to exorcise.
That is the power of stories. And if someone hadn't opened the floodgates, those stories would have withered away unspoken. The people in the stories would have faded away unacknowledged. And nobody in the room would have turned to their neighbor to smile, or squeeze their hand or just nod in understanding. It would have continued to be a room full of strangers.
What a waste of an hour that would have been.
And what a waste of a lifetime of stories it is when no one else gets to hear them.
Aditi
His mother was nearly blind in her old age, he said, and his father's mind had been claimed by Dementia and Alzheimer's. (If I get any of the facts wrong, I apologize... but the gist is that in their old age, his parents became very different people from who they were when he was growing up.) This is a tough transition for anyone to cope with... and there wasn't a dry eye in the room full of 'regular' people who at some stage in their life, have found themselves stepping into the role of caregiver to a spouse, parent, relative or friend.
What was remarkable about the presentation was that Dr Winakur had everyone's undivided attention and emotional involvement. And by the end of his talk, people were lauding him and members of his family as if they had known them their entire life. Whereas the truth is that just an hour earlier, nobody in the room even knew what his parents' names were or what they wore on their wedding day or what they had done on their 60th anniversary. But at the end of the 60 minutes, everyone knew all that and more. They knew they had shared a loving life together. That underneath the ravages of old age, they were still young at heart. And that they were like their own parents or relatives... they were like any other family.
How did he achieve this?
He achieved it with stories. And he achieved it with photographs. His entire presentation - and indeed his book - is about his experience of being the son of his father. A father who had Dementia. And a son who is a doctor.
In the telling of his story, it is hard to say what he achieved on a personal level. Was it the relief of 'understanding'? Was it redemption? Was it to assuage the guilt that accompanies all children looking after their parents? Was it relief that in hindsight he had been a good son to a wonderful set of parents? Was it to leave behind a realistic picture of his father to his children and their children... who had never known him before Dementia? Was it a tribute to a man he truly loved? Maybe it was all this. Maybe it was none of this.
In the act of 'listening', what was it that the members of the audience achieved? Reassurance that they were not alone in what they were feeling and experiencing? Hope that there will be good days along with the bad? A sense of community? Solidarity? Support?
Whatever it was, the stories drew everyone together. Suddenly the room was abuzz with portraits of relatives and loved ones.
'I remember...'
'She used to love to...'
'One day, he turned to me...'
'I'll miss the way she...'
Everyone was talking. And sharing. And crying. And laughing. It was a relief to realize that they remembered so much. There was a desperate need to share it. To pass on the memories. To heal and to exorcise.
That is the power of stories. And if someone hadn't opened the floodgates, those stories would have withered away unspoken. The people in the stories would have faded away unacknowledged. And nobody in the room would have turned to their neighbor to smile, or squeeze their hand or just nod in understanding. It would have continued to be a room full of strangers.
What a waste of an hour that would have been.
And what a waste of a lifetime of stories it is when no one else gets to hear them.
Aditi
