I have come to hate that phrase.  A “meaningful life.”  What is that supposed to be?  And is it really important to pursue one?  And meaningful to whom?  Do we have to justify our existence somehow?

I think we forget that we are creatures just like all living things on the earth.  We, as individuals, don’t have some master plan of what must be accomplished during our lifetimes.  We do.  We interact.  We work.  We play.  That’s pretty much it.

Even people we believe have made huge contributions to our culture, society, world (Einstein?  Galileo?  Michelangelo?) were just people.  People with their own demons, problems, joys and sorrows.  They were seekers, I imagine, of some greater truth and, perhaps, having found it they were happier.  But Galileo…I doubt he felt very fulfilled after his persecution.  Michelangelo wanted to be a sculptor but had to produce paintings to make a living.  Einstein has always seemed like a guy who enjoyed life but who knows?

Or, are we supposed to devote our lives to the service of others?  Is that meaningful?  I’m certainly a believer in kindness and compassion.  Of reaching out a helping hand to others but should I be doing more?  And what would that more look like?  Is it giving money?  Time?  Something else?  And then I just get exhausted if it’s something else because, shit, I’m no kid anymore.  Do I really want to organize something?  Be responsible for yet another thing?  Not really.

For a while I’ve felt that maybe art in some form is my bag.  I really enjoy making stuff but, after a while, it becomes more of a “what am I going to do with this thing?”  I have more crap than any one human being could ever need or use (although I truly feel I’ve done my part to support the economy).  But, for me, part of making art is making it for an audience. For sharing with others.  I’m never going to be an Artist (the capital ‘A’ indicating someone who makes their living or part of their living doing art).  I’m not that good and I don’t have the energy (or, probably, talent…whatever that is) to become that good.  And, let’s face it, that’s no easy row to hoe.

After having worked myself into a state of ridiculous anxiety and now, through the wonder of modern anti-depressants, feeling much better, I have to wonder.  I spent most of the Thanksgiving weekend lolling around.  Mostly reading.  Doing some puzzles.  Just hanging out doing not much of anything.  And it was wonderful except for the gnawing guilt.

I have had (and still have) a career as a “professional.”  Lucky enough to do something I really enjoyed and am good at.  But, now, it’s just a job.  Something I do because I need the money.  I still (mostly) like what I do but after 25 years…well, everything gets old. I feel kind of adrift.  Do I need goals?  Do I need purpose?  I feel like it’s wrong somehow to just spend time doing nothing much.

But, really, I look at our pets (and, yes, I know I’m not a dog or cat) or even wild animals.  They seem to spend a lot of time doing nothing.  Sleeping.  Grooming maybe.  Hanging out with others.  Finding food.  Are we really so different?  Has all this agriculture, urbanization, technology really made things better for us?  Or is it just driving us to believe that we must be constantly engaged?  Constantly doing?

I’m taking a break from a Meaningful Life.  It’s my life. I can have goals or not.  I can do or not.  There may be consequences of course.  There always are consequences.  But I’m ready to find out.  I just want to live and enjoy living whatever that turns out to mean.

When my mother was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease 2 years ago I thought I understood what that meant.  But I didn’t.  I don’t think anyone can until you really see what it’s like.

My mother is no spring chicken.  She’s 90 now so she was 88 then.  But, looking back, I see that there were signs even years before it became so bad that it couldn’t be covered up or ignored.  I have seen my mother once a week, every week, for the last 15 years.  She started seeming increasingly forgetful.  Couldn’t remember words sometimes or people’s names.  Then she started having trouble with numbers.  She couldn’t really add them up anymore.  She was always technically challenged but I would try.  I got her a laptop so she could play solitaire  and see pictures.  She was trying to type and couldn’t figure out how to make a capital letter.  This is a woman who was a typist and secretary for 30 years.  When I told her “hold down the shift key and type the letter” she looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.

But still I thought, “she’s getting old.” Then she started getting more forgetful.  Telling me the same thing several times during a visit.  She’s always been emotionally difficult.  Crying and weeping at the drop of a hat.  But it got worse.  Finally, I said, “mom you’re memory seems to be getting worse.  I think we should talk to the doctor about it.”  She was resistant, claiming it’s all part of getting older.  So I made an appointment, picked her up and as we entered the office she looked at me and said, “why am I here?”  I said, “for your memory” and we both laughed.  No one’s laughing now.

The doctor did a mental evaluation test and determined that she had “mild to moderate” Alzheimer’s.  There’s no blood test for Alzheimer’s.  It’s more an assessment by a professional.  The doctor suggested that she try Aricept which is pretty much the only medication available for slowing the progress of Alzheimer’s.  Unfortunately, it can have significant side effects.  She spent 10 days puking at which point we gave up on that.

She continued living in her apartment in a senior living building and, after a while, I took over all her finances.  Then I increased the level of care she received so that people managed her daily medications.  She became physically more frail and could no longer walk without a cane.  She kept taking falls so I got her a walker and a power chair.  She liked the power chair and would zoom crazily down the halls.

I started getting regular hysterical phone calls that she “wants to die.  You have to bring me a pill. I can’t do this anymore.”  It was heart breaking and upsetting.  I’ve always had an odd relationship with my mother.  My therapist thinks she’s a border line personality for what’s that worth.  She’s always viewed her life as being miserable regardless of her actual circumstances.  From the earliest time I can remember I felt like it was my job to make her happy.  An impossible job but there you have it.

Last Spring she took a couple of falls and ended up breaking a couple of ribs.  That’s when the shit really hit the fan.  She ended up in the hospital.  They kept her in a room where someone stays all day to watch the patients in case they try to get up on their own or escape or something.  She was pretty disoriented.  Then I came to see her the next day and she was completely hallucinating.  She didn’t seem to really even know I was there, certainly didn’t know where she was and kept yelling to someone “open the door” and acting like she had keys and was unlocking a door.  Over and over and over again.  She was very angry and kept yelling “open the door. Open the fucking door.  I’m going to hit you if you don’t open the door.”  It was very, very disturbing.

Turned out she was dehydrated (which is common in elderly people) and it caused the hallucinations.  I spoke with the doctor who informed me that she really couldn’t live on her own anymore.  And I now felt completely overwhelmed.  I’d have to figure it all out.  Where should she go, close up her apartment, everything.  Plus the emotional aspect was huge.  I had always had a parental role with my mother but now I was making all her life choices.  Fortunately, my wonderful daughter, took two weeks off work and flew down to help.  And my son, who lives here, pitched in as well.

First, I found a nursing home near my home where she could stay while she recovered from her fall.  We identified a small company that would take all my mother’s possessions and figure out where to sell them and get the best price.  Then the arduous task of going through her apartment and packing stuff up.  For the most part it wasn’t too bad except things were stuffed in all sorts of weird places.  Kind of disturbing.  She had always been so meticulous about keeping her records and such.  Now I was finding papers from 2008 stuffed hither and yon.

Once she was in the nursing home I proceeded to try and figure out the longer term solution.  Through the nursing home I was put in touch with a lovely woman who acts as a kind of broker who helps you find placement for people.  We ended up finding a wonderful board-and-care residence not too far away and affordable.  After a couple of months in the nursing home I took my mother to her new home.  There were many upsetting details that occurred but she’s there now.

She keeps declining.  When I first heard Alzheimer’s I thought “okay…she’s forgetful…I’ll just remind her of stuff.”  But it’s not that.  They don’t call it dementia lightly.  It’s not just that she can’t remember things for more than a few minutes anymore (although there will be the odd bit or thing she’ll hold onto) she has all sorts of delusions persistent and transitory.  Often when I talk to or see her she’ll say something like “I didn’t come down to see you feeding the baby this morning.”  a) She lives in a one floor place b) the baby (as far as I can tell) is my granddaughter who c) lives with her parents.  She insists that children come into her room and fall asleep on the floor.  When I spoke with her one day and mentioned that I was tired she said “well, you just shoveled snow yesterday.”  We live in San Diego.

She barely remembers her previous residences.  Her most vivid (and I use the term loosely) concept is that she lives in Brooklyn in the house she (and I) grew up in.  She sold that house forty years ago.

My thoughts are filled with dread.  What part of her mind will crumble next?  Will she stop knowing me?  Will that be better (at least for her)?  How long can it go on? And what kind of daughter am I that I wish her a speedy end?

Here’s the thing.  If I don’t take care of myself NOW how mad am I going to be at myself later.  No one else can do it for me.  Not because they don’t care.  Not because they don’t want to.  Not because they don’t love you.  Nope.  Some things you just have to do by yourself, for yourself.

I look at my mom’s failing mind.  Failing health.  And it scares the CRAP out of me.  My thoughts are filled with death, disease, diminishment and debilitation.  The four D’s.

The only recourse is to figure out how to take care of myself as best I can now.  You can’t prevent life.  You can’t avoid it.  It will happen.  All you can do is do your best, for yourself, now.

So what the hell?!  Get the fuck up.  Go for a walk for godsakes.  Stop eating french fries.  Seriously.  They won’t make you feel better.  Stretch. Meditate.  Pay attention to every, single fucking day.  And for heaven’s sake be nice to yourself.  It’s okay.  You don’t have to lash yourself into doing.  Just do.  Or don’t.  This is IT.  THIS.  Right now.  THIS. IS. YOUR. LIFE.