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Kimmy Dec 2019
For all my friends and family i know you are all feeling
frustrated, helpless, and ready
to give up. It’s not your fault. You are not the cause of our suffering.

You may find that difficult to believe, since we may lash out at you, switch from being loving and kind to non-trusting and cruel on a dime, and we may even straight up blame you. But it’s not your fault. You deserve to understand more about this condition and what we wish we could say but may not be ready.

It is possible that something that you said or did “triggered” us. A trigger is something that sets off in our minds a past traumatic event or causes us to have distressing thoughts. While you can attempt to be sensitive with the things you say and do, that’s not always possible, and it’s not always clear why something sets off a trigger.

The mind is very complex. A certain song, sound, smell, or words can quickly fire off neurological connections that bring us back to a place where we didn’t feel safe
, and we might respond in the now with a similar reaction (think of military persons who fight in combat — a simple backfiring of a car can send them into flashbacks. This is known as PTSD, and it happens to a lot of us, too.)

But please know that at the very same time that we are pushing you away with our words or behavior, we also desperately hope that you will not leave us or abandon us in our time of despair and desperation.

This extreme, black or white thinking and experience of totally opposite desires is known as a dialectic. Early on in our diagnosis and before really digging in deep with DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), we don’t have the proper tools to tell you this or ask for your support in healthy ways.

We may do very dramatic things, such as harming ourselves in some way (or threatening to do so), going to the hospital, or something similar. While these cries for help should be taken seriously, we understand that you may experience “burn out” from worrying about us and the repeated behavior.

Please trust that, with professional help, and despite what you may have heard or come to believe, we CAN and DO get better.

These episodes can get farther and fewer between, and we can experience long periods of stability and regulation of our emotions. Sometimes the best thing to do, if you can muster up the strength in all of your frustration and hurt, is to grab us, hug us, and tell us that you love us, care, and are not leaving.

One of the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is an intense fear of being abandoned, and we therefore (often unconsciously) sometimes behave in extreme, frantic ways to avoid this from happening. Even our perception that abandonment is imminent can cause us to become frantic.

Another thing that you may find confusing is our apparent inability to maintain relationships. We may jump from one friend to another, going from loving and idolizing them to despising them – deleting them from our cell phones and unfriending them on Facebook. We may avoid you, not answer calls, and decline invitations to be around you — and other times, all we want to do is be around you.

This is called splitting, and it’s part of the disorder. Sometimes we take a preemptive strike by disowning people before they can reject or abandon us. We’re not saying it’s “right.” We can work through this destructive pattern and learn how to be healthier in the context of relationships. It just doesn’t come naturally to us. It will take time and a lot of effort.

It’s difficult, after all, to relate to others properly when you don’t have a solid understanding of yourself and who you are, apart from everyone else around you.

In Borderline Personality Disorder, many of us experience identity disturbance issues. We may take on the attributes of those around us, never really knowing who WE are.  You remember in high school those kids who went from liking rock music to pop to goth, all to fit in with a group – dressing like them, styling their hair like them, using the same mannerisms? It’s as if we haven’t outgrown that.

Sometimes we even take on the mannerisms of other people (we are one way at work, another at home, another at church), which is part of how we’ve gotten our nickname of “chameleons.” Sure, people act differently at home and at work, but you might not recognize us by the way we behave at work versus at home. It’s that extreme.

For some of us, we had childhoods during which, unfortunately, we had parents or caregivers who could quickly switch from loving and normal to abusive. We had to behave in ways that would please the caregiver at any given moment in order to stay safe and survive. We haven’t outgrown this.

Because of all of this pain, we often experience feelings of emptiness. We can’t imagine how helpless you must feel to witness this. Perhaps you have tried so many things to ease the pain, but nothing has worked. Again – this is NOT your fault.

The best thing we can do during these times is remind ourselves that “this too shall pass” and practice DBT skills – especially self-soothing – things that helps us to feel a little better despite the numbness. Boredom is often dangerous for us, as it can lead to the feelings of emptiness.  It’s smart for us to stay busy and distract ourselves when boredom starts to come on.

On the other side of the coin, we may have outburst of anger that can be scary. It’s important that we stay safe and not hurt you or ourselves. This is just another manifestation of BPD.

We are highly emotionally sensitive and have extreme difficulty regulating/modulating our emotions. Dr. Marsha Linehan, founder of DBT, likens us to 3rd degree emotional burn victims.

Through Dialectical Behavior Therapy, we can learn how to regulate our emotions so that we do not become out of control.  We can learn how to stop sabotaging our lives and circumstances…and we can learn to behave in ways that are less hurtful and frightening to you.

Another thing you may have noticed is that spaced out look on our faces. This is called dissociation. Our brains literally disconnect, and our thoughts go somewhere else, as our brains are trying to protect us from additional emotional trauma. We can learn grounding exercises and apply our skills to help during these episodes, and they may become less frequent as we get better.

But, what about you?

If you have decided to tap into your strength and stand by your loved one with BPD, you probably need support too.  Here are some ideas:

Remind yourself that the person’s behavior isn’t your fault

Tap into your compassion for the person’s suffering while understanding that their behavior is probably an intense reaction to that suffering

Do things to take care of YOU. On the resources page of this blog, there is a wealth of information on books, workbooks, CDs, movies, etc. for you to understand this disorder and take care of yourself. Be sure to check it out!

In addition to learning more about BPD and how to self-care around it, be sure to do things that you enjoy and that soothe you, such as getting out for a walk, seeing a funny movie, eating a good meal, taking a warm bath — whatever you like to do to care for yourself and feel comforted.

Ask questions. There is a lot of misconception out there about BPD.

Remember that your words, love, and support go a long way in helping your loved one to heal, even if the results are not immediately evident

Not all of the situations I described apply to all people with Borderline Personality Disorder. One must only have 5 symptoms out of 9 to qualify for a diagnosis, and the combinations of those 5-9 are seemingly endless.  This post is just to give you an idea of the typical suffering and thoughts those of us with BPD have.

This is my second year in DBT. A year ago, I could not have written this letter, but it represents much of what was in my heart but could not yet be realized or expressed.

My hope is that you will gain new insight into your loved one’s condition and grow in compassion and understand for both your loved one AND yourself, as this is not an easy road.

I can tell you, from personal experience, that working on this illness through DBT is worth the fight. Hope can be returned. A normal life can be had. You can see glimpses and more and more of who that person really is over time, if you don’t give up.  I wish you peace.
CK Baker Feb 2018
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
amid voices from the past

finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views

clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the night watch
Joel M Frye Jun 2018
There are no more bad days.
There are moments
          of ingratitude
          of rage
          of self-pity
          of hatred.
Those do not last.
There are
          friends
          family
          caregivers
          kind strangers.
These are evergreens.
Bad moments need not
become bad days.
The song of life
plays on between them.
The cancer has returned.  I will begin treatment later this month.  Thank you to my many friends here for your continued support.
Taylor St Onge Apr 2015
They don’t put dead bodies in the wall anymore.  They put them in those walk-in coolers that they use in food service and they stay in there until the funeral home or the autopsy people come in and wheel them out and do whatever it is that they do.  But what happens if the cooler fills up and another patient dies—where do they go?  Outside of the cooler?  In the hall outside the morgue?  Left in the hospital room until there is an open space for them in the walk-in?  Or are they just not allowed to die in the first place?

Place a check mark next to the option that makes you the most uncomfortable:
• when dead bodies are still warm and growing lukewarm
• when dead bodies are ice cold.

You can survive two weeks on a ventilator before there is an increased risk of illness.  

Eula Biss writes that she does not believe that absolutely no pain is possible, that the zero on the pain scale is null and void.  I would like to say that I agree with her, but I have this stupid sliver of hope where I believe that towards the end of it all, everything will be everything and everything will be nothing at all.  I guess what I’m saying is that I would like to believe that when you are dying, you are a zero on the pain scale, but by that point in time, I supposed it doesn’t really matter anyway.

There is a strange, numb void that occurs when someone you love dies, but I am not sure if this could be rated as a zero or a ten on the pain scale.  Getting ****** into a black hole could either hurt very much or not at all.

The medulla oblongata, located as a portion of the brainstem, is the part of the nervous system that controls both cardiac and respiratory mechanisms.  If severe damage occurs to this center, death is imminent.  

After one minute of not breathing brain cells begin to die.
After three minutes of not breathing, serious brain damage is likely.
Ten minutes: many brain cells will be dead, full patient recovery is unlikely.
Fifteen minutes: patient recovery is virtually impossible.

A “thunderclap headache.”  A cerebral aneurysm that has ruptured.  A subarachnoid hemorrhage pushing blood and fluid down on my mother’s brain.  Grade five: deep coma, rigid decerebration, 10% chance of survival.  

In some hospitals, if a loved one has passed, the caregivers cut off several small locks of the patient’s hair, tie them up with a ribbon, and put them in little pink mesh bags for each member of the family as some sort of morbid memento.  They take the dead person’s hand, place it on an ink pad, and then stamp it to a piece of paper that has some sort of sappy and sorry poem typed up on it.  I do not know where we put the paper, but my little mesh bag is still on my bedside table.  Somewhere.  

They put dead bodies in white body bags.
I was asked to write a poem somewhat in the style of Maggie Nelson for my poetry class.
Katie J Jul 2012
Parents:
Overbearing,
too
controlling,
always
out
of
line,
demand­ing,
embarassing.
Cruelty
undefined,
liars,
protectors,
lovers,
homewreckers,
caring, kind, considerate,
bossy,
loving,
sweet,
caregivers.
And definitively
Mine. <3
the electronic dispenser is out of order yet the automated voice keeps repeating it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem…



i hint to Mom maybe the nightly sleeping pills might contribute to her forgetfulness she replies what? i didn’t hear what you said i repeat maybe the nightly sleeping pills might add to your forgetfulness she answers what? i can’t hear you i say Mom you’ve been using sleeping pills since i was little maybe they’re a source of your fogginess she snaps what? what are you saying i can’t hear you



Tucson 2001 in the heat of disagreement Mom accuses i am the cause for her need to rely on sleeping pills do you understand what that means Mom you’ve been taking sleeping pills as far back as i can remember miltown seconal nebutal placidal ambient (when i was young i took some from your medicine cabinet then sold them to friends) was it always because of me your off-beat weird troubled kid or were there other reasons thank you Mom for all you have given me i am grateful appreciative truth is none of us trust each other these defenses we’ve created will someday turn on us



2010 it is difficult to write about Mom so many conflicted feelings our struggles contentious exchanges expectations criticisms blame all the money she and Dad poured into me hoping i would turn out successfully employed married with children instead her difficult child chose painting writing punk rock yoga Mom will be 90 in October she caught viral pneumonia last month concerned for her i flew to Chicago to see her my beautiful glamorous Mom who lives high up in tall high-rise doorman deskman elegantly decorated 3 bedroom apartment along lakefront my little Mom who’s once lovely figure shrunk in size morphed in shape with arthritic painfully twisted fingers hair color light ash skin spotted with dark purple brown splotches estate dwindled to crumbs my clever shrewd Mom still so talented socially telephone constantly ringing lunch dinner engagements accompanied by frantic loony sister both dressed to the nines shopping returning hairdresser appointments manicures yet memory rapidly disintegrating my poor sweet Mom who now needs my loving protection it is time for me to step up to the plate shield her from caregivers poised to pilfer my vulnerable Mom leaves her wallet in cab loses her glasses forgets events 2 hours ago furious at pharmacy for neglecting to include her sleeping pills i know i cannot change her whirlwind 24/7 world of gossip scandal denial it is i who will need to change sacrifice my simple sparse existence quiet desperation scrambling for pay gardening gazing up at the moon stars adapt to her dizzy drama driven life style in order to look after her



i’ve written about this before a defining moment that haunts me Bayli and i are staying at Toby Martin’s spacious loft near corner of Bleeker and Broadway 1973 Toby offers me job building stretchers canvases for Warhol he tells me lots of nyc women will model for me if i want to keep drawing vaginas he advises me to drop out of art school like he did assures me i will become famous it is October Sunday i am wearing white turtleneck wheat colored corduroy Levis jeans taupe suede clogs Bayle is dressed almost exactly as me except powder blue clingy top we are just art students Toby takes us up to Rauschenberg’s loft on Lafayette Street Rauschenberg is in the Bahamas the kitchen is all industrial size stainless steel coffee stained glass Chemex drip coffeemaker on stove  upstairs on roof many currently trendy painters edgy artists a sculptor who uses dynamite to blow up quarries in Vermont they scrutinize Bayli and Odysseus with voracious glares the men eye Bayli several women send flirtatious looks at Odysseus he feels fright protection for Bayli it is all too much too complex too threatening and in that moment he drops the ball creeped out fearful he takes her hand and they flee back to Hartford Art School but maybe he was wrong possibly Bayli could have handled those depths heights perhaps she would have blossomed i’ve thought about that moment many times torturing myself with my cowardice insecurity adoration for Bayli our love remaining pure never corrupted



a boy/man makes love with a girl/woman once twice in bed then falls blissfully asleep wakes up makes love all night in secluded room in sheltered house on quiet street in sleepy New England town in the morning with Velvet Underground turned up real loud they dance wild then make more love



perhaps my fears insecurities shyness are about a diminutive ***** or concave ***** at center of chest or all my weird physical psychological inhibitions idiosyncrasies not wanting the world to ever find out know a secret between Bayli and me possibly Bayli never noticed but probably she realized my desire longing to be recognized acclaimed yet remain unrecognizable live in quiet privacy i don’t know sometimes i wonder if Bayli loved me like i love her if there was only one twinkling star in her sky like there is in mine Mom says it’s wrong to limit my skies to one star she says Bayli separated from me and married someone else she asks has Bayli ever made an attempt to contact you since her 2nd marriage i answer you don’t understand Bayli is entirely devoted she would never look up or away from her man Mom says open your eyes there are lots of special stars meant just for you in the sky



at some point it becomes obvious the latest is instantly embarrassingly obsolete why would anyone want the latest



let them come these winds of change blowing sands garbage leaves twisting branches bending trees up the coast down the hole displacing erasing everything oceans rising currents colliding mountains crumbling fiery red skies there was a time once but that time is gone there was a girl once but that girl is gone a street a house  a room  a bed once but that street house room bed are gone hunter buried under hill sailor lost at sea he who steps courageous mindful compassionate will pass beyond the terror
Michael LoMonaco Oct 2016
When I was lost on the street of life,
My parents took my hand when I was confused.

Whenever I did something dumb due to being young,
My caregivers helped me turn a wrong into a right.

Every time I was living in misery,
They inspired me to rise up from the anguish.

My mother and father guided me through all the mazes,
Encouraging me to become the man I always wanted to be.

They will always be that inspiration that saved my soul,
And no deed is too powerful to express the thanks that I owe them.
SE Reimer Oct 2014
(A message to you
Inspired by the THR Family)

You came to us sick, frightened, confused
What happened next became international news.
We saw you so ill, with everything to lose
Our goal was to help you because that’s what we do.
Alone in a dark ICU room
We fought for your life, our team and you.
We cared for you kindly
No matter our fear
You thanked us each time that we came near.
As each day pressed on, you fought so hard
To beat the virus that dealt every card.
No matter how sick or contagious you were
We held your hand, wiped your tears, and continued our care.
Your family was close, but only in spirit
They couldn't come in; we just couldn't risk it.
Then the day came we saw you in there
We wiped tears from your eyes,
knowing the end was drawing near.
Then it was time, but we never gave up
Until the good lord told us he had taken you up.
Our dear Mr. Duncan, the man that we knew
Though you lost the fight, we never gave up on you.
All of us here; at Presby and beyond
Lift our hats off to you, now that you’re gone.
You touched us in ways that no one will know
We thank you kind sir for this chance to grow.
May you find peace in heaven above
And know that we cared with nothing but love.



~  postscript.

this poem is not mine; it was penned by a nurse who wishes to remain anonymous. it spoke to me of the passion with which so many, many caregivers serve, so i wanted to share it with you, and in so doing salute each of those who serve us all in the medical community.  

the following was published by ABC News on 10/20/14:

"The last nurse to leave the hospital room where Thomas Eric Duncan died has written a poem about the Ebola patient, penned during the sleepless days after Duncan's death, a source told ABC News.The Associated Press. The source provided the poem to ABC News, noting that the nurse who wrote it asked to remain anonymous. Duncan, the first person in the United States to be diagnosed with Ebola, died at the Dallas hospital on Oct. 8. Two of the nurses who cared for Duncan -- Nina Pham, 26, and Amber Vinson, 29, have been diagnosed with Ebola.(Editor's note: THR refers to Texas Health Resources, the company that owns Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital.)"
Michael Perry Dec 2020
A CAREGIVERS PRAYER

the lines from my face explain
all the loss each  time  and place, as i
step forward and face it head on, my story
is your story, each in our own way, made of
strength and endurance, beyond the pale, some say
we are brave, still i am scared, we do not ask for much
we just do our part, without complaint least of all, we
will never let you down, so don't let us down our
lives are intertwined, in this moment so close;  as we
all make ready to contemplate what the coming year
will bring, so i pray for a little respite from all that
we've been through, that is not a lot to ask for now, is it?

by Michael Perry
brandon nagley Jul 2015
She feeleth and thinketh she hast none worth,
If only I couldst showeth her the truth.....
That there is no Ruby
Nor gem,
Nor diamond,
Nor any brick of  laden gold,
Nor any treasure chest,
Nor any amount of the worthless dollar bill,
That couldst buyeth who she is
Physically,
Spiritually,
Mentally,
Emotionally,
In all way's.....
No other reserve of this carnal world shalt showeth her the worth she hath....
She is an upper galaxy divine messenger,
Not to just me
But to others;
As her worth isn't measured by earth-like standard.....
No material canst measure up to her merit........
She cometh from her luna,
The one wherein the seraph's wander.....
And art caregivers
And helper's
And they art the true hopeless romantic's of the blue orb air....
She is worth more, than anything to God,
Yet,
She doesn't quite fully understand yet......
But to me,
She's worth living for.
She's worth dying for,
She's worth this life.
As the next
   And the next
      And the next
         And the next
            And the next
                                   Then the next
                                      Then the next
                                         Then the next
                                            Then the next
                                               Then the next.........
As she's worth it so much to me I shalt wait a million more next's just for her to be with me.....as she's worth more than anything!!!!





©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Diane Aug 2013
in the course of a year
i experience 6-10 people dying
people who intrigue me and
whose walks and voices are
known to my remembrance.  
one of these people said to me
when her husband died
after the hospital caregivers
dropped him on his head
“Diane, there is no tomorrow”
Truth.
time is elusive
wasted energies on wasted minutes
can never be done over
and when I have no more time to
share philosophies or
look into another’s eyes
i don’t want to be caught wishing
to have those three days back
that I wasted on some
******* plastic ride
at Disney world.
Oxygen deprived kiss
A reflection that don't exist
Mouthfuls of toxins infesting my frame
Pierced with defects
Extracting a slice of me
Restricting strength
Bruised by a caregivers hand
Those who are tired and ready to be free of pain.  So many slipping away, to this awful disease. Violating the soul. Thinking of my brother and several others. May peace be within you all.
aurora kastanias Oct 2017
I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.
On political correctness
Phyllis Hand Oct 2021
Knight of the night
Fearfully incising the hearts
Of those you pass
With pasts
Of unreliable mothers
Fathers
And caregivers

Knight of the night
I try to look
At your presence
As a gift
But in the midst
Of your silken touch
And unsuspecting kisses
Pressing heavier
You've made your impact

Knight of the night
I wonder of your return
Do you feel shame
In your silence
Of naming this sweetness
A forbidden fruit

It will not swallow you,
I promise
I will not let it
For if there is a day
You feel you cannot leave
I will lead you to the garden
And leave you there
So you can grow

Someday I will return
To enjoy the fruits
Of which we loved and labored
Abundant

These,
Gifts of two worlds
Please, realize
You need not be chained

Gifts
Of our worlds
Are to be celebrated
Unshackled
From self-imposed narratives
Free
Ann Marie Soulier (ne´e Hyland) passed away peacefully at her home in Wolcott on Saturday, Nov. 28th, surrounded by loving members of her family. She was 86. The second daughter of the late Frank and Delena Hyland, and sister of the late James and William Hyland, Ann is survived by her two sisters, Elizabeth Parenti and Mary Dudzinski, as well as her brother-in-law, Harry Dudzinski, and sisters-in-law, Gloria and Evelyn Hyland, all of Bristol. She also leaves behind her beloved children: Marie Barrett and her husband, Mike, James Soulier and his wife, Beth, Elizabeth Thisdale and her husband, Joe, Carol Roy and her husband, Doug, Leona Chamberlain and her husband, Dave, and Mario Vitale. Ann was affectionately known as "Nanny" to her 14 grandchildren: Paul, Avery, Shane, Kylie, Matthew, Bobby, Cory, Christopher, Marty, Todd, Michael, Tyler, Michelle, and Jimmy; and to her beloved 14 great-grandchildren: She also has many surviving cousins, nieces, nephews, in-laws and friends whom she loved dearly. The family would like to extend their gratitude to her special caregivers, Alicia and Eliana, who made a difference in the quality of her life and became like family members to her. Ann had an impactful presence. She loved Jesus, family vacations at Hampton Beach and Black Point, coffee, music, painting, doll-collecting, and her best friend of over 80 years, Nancy (Nan). She retired in 1999 from Superior Electric, where she was a cherished coworker for nearly 30 years. As mechanically adept as she was in the workplace, Ann was equally adept in making her house a home. She ran a tight ship during those years doubling as a homemaker, where she kept her loved ones well-fed, raising them to be resilient and to always have a sense of humor and a love of family. She believed in prayer and loved her son Mario's poetry. She also loved videography and was known to document family events using a camcorder starting in the 1980s. Always with a keen eye to see one step ahead, she kept copies of these moments on VHS for all of her loved ones to watch in the years to come. She will be sorely missed here on earth as she joins her parents, her brothers, and her grandson, Shane, in heaven. Friends and family are invited to attend a Mass of Christian Burial for Ann on Thursday, Dec. 3, 2020, at 10 a.m. directly at St. Matthew's Church in Forestville. Burial will immediately follow at St. Joseph Cemetery in Plainville. There will be no calling hours. The family also plans on having a celebration of life ceremony for Ann sometime in the summer of 2021. In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made in Ann's honor to the Wolcott Volunteer Ambulance Association, 48 Todd Road, Wolcott, CT 06716. To leave an online message of condolence, share a memory or a photo, visit Ann's memorial
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Carla Marie Mar 2012
It appears that I am now
At that age…

The age at which
The older folks of my youth
Shook their heads and talked softly together and
Pat-hugged each other and held hands with sad eyes... and
From the corner of my young ear
Without full comprehension or understanding~
“If there is anything I can do…”
Or
“I’m so sorry for your loss…”
Or
“Bless your heart…”

Then time got away … and
Here we are… and
Somehow surprised to be…

At the age at which
Every other body’s
Mom or Dad or Parents
Are merely needful
Or dying
Or dead… and
We are now the
Caregivers… or
Caretakers… whether
Primary or In Addition To…
Enthusiastically or Reluctantly… it is now
Our turn…
With
Every other body
To shake our heads and talk softly together and
Pat-hug each other and hold hands with sad direct eyes and
Complete and Profound understanding~
“If there is anything I can do…”
Or
“I’m so sorry for your loss…”
Or
“Bless your heart…”

For sadly
We are now
At
That Age
Brother Jimmy Apr 2021
She has chains
Around her chest
Slowly tightening
Give her rest

She’s in danger
Every day
She can’t continue to
Work this way

She’s saving lives
And skirting death
Ushers joy
Or one’s last breath

This blight has taken
A toll on her
On ALL of us
It has, for sure

But on the caregivers
So much worse
On every doctor
Every nurse
AJ Feb 2014
I pretend that I hate nebraska
because that's what teenagers do
we b i t c h
and we w h i n e
c o m p l a i n
about our home towns
our home states
our home countries
we justify our desire to be
g o n e
a w a y
o u t of this place
with made up facts
about our ****** up hometowns
we never stop
to think
there must be a reason my parents chose to live
h e r e
honestly I have nothing against nebraska
my resentment comes from the desire to be
f r e e
which is just one letter away from
h e r e
so freedom can't be too far in the distance
the truth is nebraska can be pretty great sometimes
there's an honesty
an energy
an optimism that could only be found
in a state where even the city kids
know about the country life
and even though summers bring
90 degree weather
and humid humid h u m i d air
while winters bring
subzero temperatures
and
1
2
3
4
5
6
inches of snow
we don't complain too much about the weather
and a "nice day" could be
30 degrees and snow
50 degrees and rain
80 degrees and heat
we take what we can get
because nebraskans are not
g r e e d y
we made this state our own
but still we get lumped together with
iowakansasmissouricoloradoohioillinois
but we are not k a n s a s
we are not m i s s o u r i
we are not o h i o
and we are not
i o w a
don't even suggest that
we are
N e b r a s k a
and nothing else
we take pride in our state
though there's not much to be proud of
but we are p r o u d anyways
and I think that's beautiful
other places are about
c o m p e t i t i o n
biggerbetterbiggerbetter
but in nebraska we are all each other's neighbors
friends
caregivers
nebraskans stick together
no matter what
and that's why
when your car is barreling across that bridge that links
nebraska and iowa
across that **** river
you will see a rusted green sign
welcoming you to this state that always has nice days
takes pride in every moment
and sticks together
you will see words painted in white spelling out
"the good life"
because sure no matter where you go
life *****
but at least here the people are
g o o d
and some times that's enough
this is not the good life
this is the extraordinary life
Anayo Oleru Apr 2016
MOTHERS
The cycle of life would have ceased to exist,
If there were no mothers.
Hard working they are,
Good discipliners they are,
Doctors and caregivers they are.
Praises I give to all mothers
Through all their days,
They’ve raised and fed the world always.
Light they are to the darkness of life,
To husbands they’ve become good wives.
All mothers should be honored,
and venerated,
For these days they have been daunted.
Husband or Wife?
Yes!!  You can get another,
But you can’t get another mother.
So let’s know and show our gratitude,
And let their very reward be in multitude.
Sweet mother, we'll never exist without them. Though seen as weaker, they are the strongest gender I've ever seen. Due to the bad treatment been given to women in some cultures, due to how they are viewed- this poem is penned down to change the naive thinking.Women got flesh and blood, eat and drink, sleep and wake, like everyone of us. They deserve the great amount of care and respect.
Tania Crocker Jan 2016
Doctors.


What are doctors? Doctors are people who make the most important decision of their lives to truly choose to dedicate themselves to the care of others. A humble and honest creature that knows in this world full of love it is up to them to recognize that love.  Doctors are not Gods nor healers. They are care givers willing to spare an unbearable amount of time to help solve ones heath problems by finding solutions that will truly be able to help a person in need. However, to finding solution, to finding cures and bearing the pain that they see in every patient that they meet, they find a remarkable vast amount of joy. So what make them choose to become caregivers??
It's simply because they know that their job brings sheer of benefit and transformation to genuinely shaping their own life as they find the true meaning of life when they help others get better from a deadly disease or from a fractured bone to removing a malignant tumor from a brain. That is why they do this. They do this because they want not to be acknowledge when finding a cure but, they understand that, giving makes them feel like they're living and that every human's life is worth the same and worth saving.
james nordlund Mar 2021
Would ne'er play in a patriarchal,
'men only', anything, except for it's
theme's the 24 th International
Women's Day, on 3-8-21, sadly,
it may be my last one, here, in
your poetry contest, thanx kindly.

This year's main theme's women's
leadership, especially during this
covided year, only the latest, at
least, purposely not prevented
unnatural disaster, not counting
climate crisis' natural ones,

hoisted on humanity by the fossil
fuel headed global oligarchy,
through it's spearhead, the united
**** of assassin's republican
organized crime conspiracy, as it's
latest tool exterminating humanity

to it's extinction.  Like the yoke,
that's no joke, almost defacto-slavery,
put on all newborn neck by the corp.  
structure, it's convolution, and Man,
which can only end by abolishing
fossil fuel use, "there's a beacon

in the sky meant to catch your eye",
Happy Rhodes.  It's a hopeful sign
that Kamala Harris is the first Vice
President of US whose a woman,
and President Biden's doing a great
job.  Solemn lowering of # of, and

remembering the tens of millions of
premeditatedly exterminated, in their
global class war against the lower-
middle-class to poor, targeting men,
is our duty to those martyrs, and
women are at the forefront of this,

as they are in so many vital fields
of endeavor.  Whereas the % of
mass-murdered by pandemic who
are men is more, women are more
effected in totality, specifically they
make up the largest group of front-

line health + family caregivers, and
are at higher risk, suffering the horrid
death toll from that too.  If vlad-the-
impaler, the patriarchy's, la machine's
tres facile global conspiracy didn't
illegally install Utin's **** into The

BlackHouse, a President Hillary
would have stopped the death toll
here at ten thousand, instead of the
**** of Utin's million murdered.
Joe's righting of our Ship of State
the S.S. Tea Party tugged into rocks,

may not be enough to prevent Man's
extinction, it gives US a shot though.
Tragically, in the future kids, women
will be little more than a food source
if we don't mothball NASA, stop their
Mars Colony 'exit strategy', their

'final solution', extinction of humanity
on Earth, necessitates.  Trillions spent
on it come from destroying the Earth
through fossil fuel use, when if it were
left in the ground, instead, humanity
wouldn't be extinct on Earth, awaken.
International Women’s Day 2021 - UN & UN Women Present #IWD2021: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyOOQ_6L-2I   .  Mahatma Gandhi said, "Be the change you wish to see in the world", "abhaya, fearlessness, is most important for an individual and a nation", "the root of all oppression lies in (supposed) science".  You know why they put a female child in charge of the global climate crisis movement, so it will only fail; don't you let it- or her legitimize supposed science, the premeditated mass-****** of 8 billion humanes.  Write on.  Have a pleasant day   :)   reality
Charles Sturies Jan 2017
I'm looking forward
to getting more CD's
cozy, nice Christmas gifts,
Illinois basketball is blooming
a batch of my poetry
typed up by one of my caregivers for me to read
Rejoicing in the social aspects of Christmas
as some Muslims do
Reading a couple of easy read books
Enjoying the cold weather
(I like it cold rather than hot)
Doing some rewarding activities here in the hospital
Sending out Christmas cards to old friends
Pertinent emails to and from family
Timely phone calls from them and back
and the signing of Illinois football recruits
and the Yankee hot glove league
December is my favorite month
mainly because that's when
Illinois can win some ballgames in basketball,
mainly non-conference
Charles Sturies Mar 2017
I like to read
and write
and contemplate drinking an
extra glass of water since
I get so thirsty on liquid restriction
Sometimes I do drink one
but just one cup
I also like to daydream about
smoking again- I thought
it was so much fun.
If I'm going off grounds
with one of my caregivers
I like to buy
a juicy CD or two,
pick up a Hip Hop Weekly,
and go to a really action movie
like Vin Diesel or
Liam Neeson stuff
or else go to a nice
restaurant in my opinion
and have a nice
full meal for me.
In spite of being
a bit portly I'm
only a nibbler.
If it's Saturday
I like to get back on
the ward to watch
Fredrick Whitfield on CNN
and an Illinois basketball
or football game or a Yankee game
If it's a weekday
and since I don't
particularly like
weekday daytime TV
except for the Harry Connick Jr
show a little and the
musical segment on
Ellen DeGeneres
I'll listen to the "fresh"
CD or CDs,
Change into more comfortable clothes
(I do this usually after I go out)
and relax for snack time
I like to do things on a
lazy day just for what I
find as a peaceful contrast
otherwise it's napping,
listening to CDs and
watching CNN with sound
off as I can hear CDs
and watch pro football
if it's a fall Sunday

*Charles Sturies
Diana Jul 2021
I hope that one day
you will no longer be imprisoned
by the limitations of your poor communication
that you were conditioned into
by your caregivers and society
may you be freed by cycles of mental trauma
Language is so powerful and it is so sad to see how poor most people's communication is. I wish this was something that public schools incorporated more of: emotional vocabulary/regulation, communication skills, de-escalation, etc.
Moonsocket Oct 2016
Tooth grinding rhythms
spun dizzy by solitary kings
Watch the dollars climb

Enamel lost for moments like these
sanity on the counter top
No conclusion in it's beginning

Swollen mouths slowly splattered
spill mad plans at dawn
******* for organisms
sleep with procrastination
No walls broken
no justice served

Familiar biology is the culprits crutch

Written word is the madman's haven

See through it all in these strange silences

Hollow glances for the caregivers
who paint these spaces gray  

Knowing nods for the wallflowers
Who melt into plaster backdrops

A sound subconscious falls short
Collect the notions for motion

But haste makes for unresolved sunsets

Lost time on a sideway
a good find for the straggler
Dusted off and put to good use

A path well trotted
A ride well worth it

No time for cruel gazes
no time for criminal persuasions
Master plan lost in red blue cruelty

Crumpled mass underneath the arches
resigned and malnourished
Hoping for a sane tomorrow

Wish it luck

Knowing no soul deserves indifference

Life rides come random in these moments and this passenger was car sick

Taking moments for consolidation helps make time tolerable

No sense for the creator who builds castles without walls

No sense for the observer who watches world's die
Insomnia makes for strange days
everly Jun 2017
Baby Girl
ever so innocent
yet surrounded by
never-ending anger
caregivers were seperated
malice neighborhood
her world collapsing
beneath her
So she grew up to
what she was taught
to wear
coats of anger
and to never
strip them off
no matter how hard
she tries to change
her coats of anger to
jackets of peace
it still sticks like a
second skin
Will Feb 2018
A haunting voice echoes into the void.
Light is engulfed by the darkness of the oncoming night.
Many try to shout out in terror, yet only whispers escape their mouths.
Dogs whimper as they hide with their caregivers.
Birds cease their frantic chirping.
The land has been enveloped by the night.
Yet the haunted voice sings on.
An aria for the darnkess.
David Scaggs Feb 2021
This one goes out, to the few good ones left.
Who refuse to stop fighting, even when blind, numb and deaf.
Your heart's become the strongest, through fights tough as nails.
Learning from the wins, and even more from the fails.
Being one of your kind, is a worth more than priceless.
Though the weight, knowledge and experience we bear, is what we suffice with.
We're saviors and unsung heroes, never rewarded with medals.
In the field of humanity, we're thanked in portions the size of rose petals.
We're the grease in your gears, the **** in your pistons.
No matter the resident's severity, we're here to assist them.
Most won't appreciate, until our shoes been tried on.
Still we're caring for them, even when gone.
Someday there may just come a time, you'll need our care too.
So appreciate the ones always pressin on, filling those big shoes.

D. Scaggs
Aditya Roy Aug 2019
We swirl like the dragons
Free from dungeons and darkness
In eternal salvation like salamanders
Although we aren't lizards hanging from trees
Hung up on life and disease
Breathing the air of autumn leaves
Dancing with the breeze, and ceasing to exist
Sending you our energies in the form of soft lullabies
If you can add to the good, you can keep away the evil
You can bring peace to yourself, and others in desperate need of quiet
You can be free from the peace of mind
Understand freedom in a nutshell, hanging like frescoed paintings
On top of a shelf of porridge and crimson red cherries, pears tresses
The parchment of each other, writing well within the textual framework of partridges in a pear tree
We can pray together, or remain silent forever
In vow of silence, and make lonesome Lumos shine bright like the kites running after in eros
Of the atmosphere, silenced forever, we sing lullabies for the ones to hear in their peace
A man with a peace of mind can understand silence and hold his tongue in the palm of murmurs
The sound swirls through the dungeon-like darkness, hunger for a touch of soil in the cold icy winters
We moon over these things, and it dawned on me that silence can last forever
And it isn't always good or bad
Sometimes it is evil to press and good to release yourself
Expand your mind, and be shapeless like water crashing against troughs flowing streams of fruit
Rivers could ripen, feel the song yonder deepen your soul
We wash these tears, from the eyes of agreeable people and disagreements come to me in a dream
These dreams are made of arguments and debates, I reason with myself unable to ever wake up in the morning
Howl from the depths of hell, and arrive on thin lands watching us with thin eyes like mirrors on cars, add what is specifically your own
Arrive in heaven, better to reign in hell
I'm lost in paradise on this ruin of thy moon and stars
Looking away from the fingers pointing at me like apples and bumps
Words are for the lugging carriage, to carry out their travels in their worlds from battered broken places
Wry comments from the crowd, and some cages of parakeets singing in kisses
Snakes in the grains of rice, stopping us from hissing from our caregivers and calling them unforgiving
Without food, I do not think I could live on
Without a mirror, I do not think I could live ignorantly with this hubris
Ran from the house at the age, I don't think I could live in such a cold climate
Raising my glass to my birthday invitees, they look at me blowing the birthday candles out, I'm in the seventh circle of Hell
Knells and bell tolls, ceramic steel galoshes, bitumen, and hydrophobic gum puts these dharma bums chewing grass together in apple streets full of cosmic debris
That look young and pretty, and pestering me with a limerick for some hypnosis and mirages in this solipsism
Aging like a dragon that used to burn out the flame of Hell, saving the morning again and again

If you're so cosmic, why don't you explain life to us from the Beezlebub spell, little dragon
Ameliorate May 2021
Opposite side
of the street
From where I sat
Yesterday
Pubescent victory
Two days
in a row
It’s different
here
since
you left me
Though
your talent
unprecedented
Marked
egotistical
a youth of misunderstandings
Caregivers absent
Childhood demanded
Look at you now
In your glass house
Surrounding yourself
With self doubt
Layered toxic masculinity
Existing to fornicate
Tempt fate
A love story just beginning
Meet me where you first told me
About your mother
And your brother
Star crossed
lovers
May will always
Haunt you

@RhetoricalCuriosity
There's a hollowness in me.
It spreads out from within my heart.
It bends the mind and breaks free.
And causes my relationships to break apart.

There's an emptiness in me.
It's the touch of holding hands.
It's my head resting on your shoulder in relief.
And the loving embrace that holds till the last.

There's a missing piece of my mind.
That knows how to ask for a kiss.
That discovered love when he was blind.
And he asked for help when his life was amiss.

There's a missing piece of my soul.
That couldn't tell you how I felt.
And I fell apart when I thought about that hole.
And think suicide is kinder than my hand I was dealt.

There are mistakes I continue to make.
They affect me the whole day through.
And on my life, I do stake.
That to myself, and of you I was always true.

There are people who are gone.
And whenever they hope I am happy.
I can't help but feel my mental scars on me adorn.
And think "They cut me off and act so gladly."

There are many fights that I'd avoid.
And avoided with everything I could.
As push me a little more, I'd crumble, destroyed.
And fall, so much more easily than I should.

There is an age that I would reach.
And as time moves on I would move further again.
Every year, I'd thought there would be an intimacy I'd beseech.
And when they tell me "Hold on" I say "Till when?".

And there are people who hurt me.
And more people who think it just.
That I fall from my high horse, free.
And crumble beneath them like dust.

And as my life continues on.
I hope it not draw to a close.
Before this missing piece comes to me thereupon.
My life moves on from this morose.

There is an empty man who cannot see your charms.
As he never knew how love functioned in the first place.
So please, before you see my indifference or carelessness as weapons-of-arms.
Know I can't help it, as I have no parental love to trace.

I have no lovers hold to remember.
I have no emblazoned kiss to my name.
I feel the absence of any caregivers love, so tender.
I feel myself fail again, just the same.
The story of partly, why i am what i am. Why I struggle with attraction and physical touch. Why this thing called love and *** make me uncomfortable. And why the whole love ordeal I struggle so much to understand. I have no template. None.
awaiting commercial sponsors to become...
what else...,but hand over fist money makers?
(http://www.holidays-and-
observances.com/february-15.html)

Excess Valentine's surplus sweet treats
and assorted paraphernalia
need not go to waste
said sappy accouterments
can be repurposed

quickly without haste
less pronounced celebrated fetes faced
overwhelming stiff as an arrow baste
in love potion, understandable
no satiny frills laced,
or some other eye catching

emoji, persona, symbol...
awaits deft ploy of marksman/
woman to lift from obscurity,
whose ontological, mythological,
historical...basis replaced
essence mined to the Maximus,

and references to FACTS erased
with brilliance craftily distilling
entrepreneurial finesse aced
to broker psychological seduction,
(albeit subtle) synchronicity braced,
sans free market capitalism crux

linkedin at optimal nexus enterprize prefaced
with salient mania to generate profit raced
to the forefront of popular media
adulterated and of course embraced
by president of United States with
many commercial donning merchandise,

quoting P. T. Barnum,
there's a sucker chased
and born every minute, and
trumpeting how to make

a stack of money
(held together by
toothpicks and paste)
tall as the Taj Mahal,

which occasion aced
with fanfare including
handing out signed "FAKE"
copies of 'The Art Of

The Deal' amazingly graced
on podium along with
candies, gewgaws, tsatskes...
toting, praising, lauding...merits of:

Angelman Syndrome Day
Annoy Squidward Day
(Sponge Bob Square Pants)
International Angelman Day
International Childhood Cancer Awareness Day
Lupercalia
National Caregivers Day -

February 15, 2019
(Third Friday in February)
National Gumdrop Day
National Hippo Day
Nirvana Day – (Buddhist)

Remember the Maine Day
Susan B. Anthony Day
World Information Architecture Day -
February 15, 2019
(Third Friday in February).
Lauren Jun 2020
like foxes in the henhouse
no sanity to be found
neither residents nor caregivers
in this broken asylum
#gradschool

— The End —