Earlier this month, we celebrated Grandparents Day, which took place on Sept. 10. That date also marked the beginning of National Suicide Prevention Week. If these events seem unrelated, brace yourself for bad news.
I was helping my friend move into town recently, and for two days, we were unable to put the bed together because he had misplaced the special screws in the packing process. They were somewhere among the diverse piles of boxes. He was sure he’d stashed them in a safe place, but that fact didn’t make him feel any better during those two days of wondering and turning around and then wondering again.
“She’s just getting cranky.”
The job title of caregiver is both wonderfully accurate and incredibly imprecise. It’s accurate, of course, because it is decidedly literal: to give care. It describes, simply and exactly, the importance of the profession, and you understand instantly why so many people rely on it. To give care is to give a great gift.
Look into the eyes of an animal. Many reflect back something deeper, some strange thoughts or hidden emotions. We feel they’re almost human, as they look at us with curiosity, attention, and even (we think) some kind of distant understanding and empathy.
The voices come from across the Bay Area. Some are regulars, having called before, their trembling voices becoming familiar, their fears and loneliness becoming known. Some are voices reaching out for the first time—their pain and sadness overtaking them, they strike out in the darkness looking for something to hold onto and hoping to find someone who will listen, and who will care.
There’s a magic alchemy to the holiday season, some kind of diffuse miracle that transforms the darkest, longest, and coldest nights of the year into some of the warmest and happiest. That miracle, that warmth, is the thrill of being surrounded by the people we love and the friendly goodwill abundant on the bustling city streets.
Issa looked out her window. It was a typical San Francisco December, cold and with a persistent fog, one of those clingy ones that, Issa thought, was the only thing left. When she was younger, this kind of day thrilled her. It was exciting to walk in the fog with Harold, when you could almost imagine yourself alone in the city.
I can remember when my grandmother first began showing signs of dementia. I’d never seen anything like it before—watching someone I thought I knew become someone else. It took us a long time to adapt to relating to her in a new way, but through the experience we also learned how to love her even more. We also discovered a supportive community of families affected by dementia who understood the challenges firsthand, and how hard it could be to talk about.
Dealing with chronic pain as an older adult can be life-altering. My grandmother suffered from constant aches and pains during the latter years of her life, and it was really hard to see how much she struggled just to feel comfortable on a day-to-day basis. Because of this, she stayed home most days, only seeing people when they came to visit her.
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