I am tired. I think I am suffering from compassion fatigue. I became a parent in 1972 and through 1998 continued to have children or foster children at home. 1989-90 was the height of parenting when we had 5 teenagers plus a 12 year old in our home. 3 of the teen-agers were developmentally disabled. 2 of them were bedwetters so there was all of their bedding to be washed each night. Grocery shopping was a nightmare as I filled 2 grocery carts each week to say nothing of the dentist/doctor visits, IEP and other school meetings, parent-teacher conferences and meetings with social workers and working with the mother of the foster children!! Although, I was and am married, Arden did little or none of the caregiving. He didn’t wash clothes, or shop for groceries, or take children to appointments or go to school appointments or write reports or prepare meals. It wasn't his fault, I didn't ask him to help me as I thought it was my duty to do it all. He was a good financial provider and was inciteful in providing council to the kids.
In addition to all of the kids and those responsibilities, I held a very demanding job that required compassion, decision making, conflict resolution and problem solving. WHEW!! No wonder after nearly 40 years, I am tired. Added to all of that is this difficult placement in an extremely rural area of high poverty with many, many struggles. The area is not going to change, but I think that I must make a change, sooner rather than later to save my sanity. I am showing many of the signs of compassion fatigue.
I came across some notes from a workshop on "Surviving Compassion Fatigue". In the people business there are certain givens:1. You're going to feel overworked2. You're going to feel under-appreciated3. There are going to be communication glitches4. Burn out is a daily event so daily we must do something (selfish) daily to fill our tanks5. Don't let circumstances steal your joy--do not take offense
What is compassion? Dacher Keltner, a psychologist who leads the Greater Good Science Center, defines compassion as “concern to enhance the welfare of another who suffers or is in need.” This is different from empathy, which is the “mirroring or understanding of another’s emotion.” So empathy is feeling; compassion is action.
Why is compassion so universal, not just in individuals but through social networks and institutions? It was thought for a long time that compassion was the exception, selfishness the rule. After Charles Darwin made his case for evolution, many Europeans interpreted the survival of the fittest to mean that only the fittest should survive. Europeans even invented an ideology called Social Darwinism, the belief that alleged intellectual and behavioral differences between people with different skin pigmentations were rooted in biology, making some races fit to rule and some fit to serve.
But that was all wrong right from the start, because Darwin’s theory of evolution suggested that the good in human beings was just as adaptive as the bad. In other words, we have compassion because compassion helps our species to survive. Compassionate acts, Darwin wrote in Descent of Man, “appear to be the simple result of the greater strength of the social and maternal instincts than that of any other instinct or motive; for they are performed too instantaneously for reflection, or for pleasure or pain to be felt at the time; though, if prevented by any cause, distress or even misery might be felt.”
In other words, our evolved instinct to help other people is a reflex, like smiling back at someone who smiles at us or flinching at the sound of a gunshot. When we are prevented from acting on the compassionate instinct, it hurts; we feel miserable. The effect can be deadening.
So we are literally wired for compassion; we experience compassion in both our minds and our bodies, and the experience makes minds and bodies healthier. This explains why the absence of compassion is so painful.
But I believe that when we’re confronted with evil, we cannot respond in kind. I don’t believe in fighting fire with fire. Instead, I’d argue, we must aim to reestablish the connection between us as human beings; this is the definition of goodness. In the face of cruelty and stupidity, we have to respond with empathy and imagination. We have to leave the confines of our own minds, and travel that biological and social bridge of emotion, and try to help those who have hurt us, and try to imagine what drove them to hurt us. We must make their pains our own. Not for their benefit, but for the sake of our own potential.
But human beings are not, as we know, robots, and there is a great deal of research suggesting that somatic empathy — that is, the involuntary, unconscious empathy we feel in our guts—is a major factor driving compassion fatigue, a state of mind in which we become less and less able to help others, for fear of being hurt ourselves. We’re talking about natural processes—namely, compassion and empathy —being put to use over and over again in highly repetitive, artificial situations.
That kind of work will wear down even the strongest person, especially during times like these, when budgets are being cut and resources, including human resources, are being stretched to the limit, and distressed people are counting more than ever on infrastructures of care. It’s in historical moments like this one that compassion fatigue becomes a real threat, not just to professions like nursing but to our entire society.
Charles Garfield is an advisor to Greater Good magazine, clinical professor of psychology at the UC School of Medicine, founder of the Shanti Project, one of the first HIV/AIDS community organizations in the world, and an expert on compassion and compassion fatigue. In his book Sometimes My Heart Goes Numb, Charlie describes the symptoms and consequences of compassion fatigue: depression, anxiety, hypochondria, combativeness, the sensation of being on fast-forward, an inability to concentrate.
Caregivers, he writes, “describe greater and greater difficulty in processing their emotions. They are anxiety-ridden or distressed. Fellini-esque images intrude on their days and nights, painful memories flood their world outside the caregiving arena.”
So what we can you do? First of all, take care of yourself. Use your weekends and your time off to do things you enjoy, eat healthy foods, read novels, go for long walks. If you’re struggling with darkness, look for light wherever you can find it. Show compassion for yourself—recognize suffering in yourself and act to alleviate the suffering. That’s different from self-pity, when we see suffering in ourselves and we don’t do anything about it. We just feel sorry for ourselves. With self-compassion, we don’t allow the suffering to define us. Instead, we are defined by our resistance to suffering.
What is in italics was taken from http://greatergood.berkeley.edu/greatergoodscience/?p=404
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Always go to the funeral
As an administrator of a nursing home for nearly 30 years, I feel it is important to attend the funerals of the residents in my care. I am representing the facility and the rest of the staff when I do this. In addition, I conduct regular memorial services in the center for staff and residents to attend because they can't always get to the funeral. This is a neat way to sing and cry and laugh and remember the residents who have died. The Good Samaritan Society also has bedside memorial services at the bedside of the resident when they die. It is a meaningful thing to do at the time of death and helps us to provide comfort to each other. Tomorrow, I will attend another funeral of a resident who died last week.
I heard this piece on NPR radio and wanted to share it with you.
ALWAYS GO TO THE FUNERAL by Deidre Sullivan on NPR
Deirdre Sullivan grew up in Syracuse, N.Y., and traveled the world working odd jobs before attending law school at Northwestern University. She's now a freelance attorney living in Brooklyn. Sullivan says her father's greatest gift to her and her family was how he ushered them through the process of his death.
August 8, 2005
I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.
The first time he said it directly to me, I was 16 and trying to get out of going to calling hours for Miss Emerson, my old fifth grade math teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. "Dee," he said, "you're going. Always go to the funeral. Do it for the family."
So my dad waited outside while I went in. It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there. When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson's shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, "Sorry about all this," and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered 20 years ago, Miss Emerson's mother still remembers my name and always says hello with tearing eyes.
That was the first time I went un-chaperoned, but my parents had been taking us kids to funerals and calling hours as a matter of course for years. By the time I was 16, I had been to five or six funerals. I remember two things from the funeral circuit: bottomless dishes of free mints and my father saying on the ride home, "You can't come in without going out, kids. Always go to the funeral."
Sounds simple -- when someone dies, get in your car and go to calling hours or the funeral. That, I can do. But I think a personal philosophy of going to funerals means more than that.
"Always go to the funeral" means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don't feel like it. I have to remind myself of it when I could make some small gesture, but I don't really have to and I definitely don't want to. I'm talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully under-attended birthday party. The hospital visit during happy hour. The Shiva call for one of my ex's uncles. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn't been good versus evil. It's hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.
In going to funerals, I've come to believe that while I wait to make a grand heroic gesture, I should just stick to the small inconveniences that let me share in life's inevitable, occasional calamity.
On a cold April night three years ago, my father died a quiet death from cancer. His funeral was on a Wednesday, middle of the workweek. I had been numb for days when, for some reason, during the funeral, I turned and looked back at the folks in the church. The memory of it still takes my breath away. The most human, powerful and humbling thing I've ever seen was a church at 3:00 on a Wednesday full of inconvenienced people who believe in going to the funeral.
Deirdre Sullivan grew up in Syracuse, N.Y., and traveled the world working odd jobs before attending law school at Northwestern University. She's now a freelance attorney living in Brooklyn. Sullivan says her father's greatest gift to her and her family was how he ushered them through the process of his death.
August 8, 2005
I believe in always going to the funeral. My father taught me that.
The first time he said it directly to me, I was 16 and trying to get out of going to calling hours for Miss Emerson, my old fifth grade math teacher. I did not want to go. My father was unequivocal. "Dee," he said, "you're going. Always go to the funeral. Do it for the family."
So my dad waited outside while I went in. It was worse than I thought it would be: I was the only kid there. When the condolence line deposited me in front of Miss Emerson's shell-shocked parents, I stammered out, "Sorry about all this," and stalked away. But, for that deeply weird expression of sympathy delivered 20 years ago, Miss Emerson's mother still remembers my name and always says hello with tearing eyes.
That was the first time I went un-chaperoned, but my parents had been taking us kids to funerals and calling hours as a matter of course for years. By the time I was 16, I had been to five or six funerals. I remember two things from the funeral circuit: bottomless dishes of free mints and my father saying on the ride home, "You can't come in without going out, kids. Always go to the funeral."
Sounds simple -- when someone dies, get in your car and go to calling hours or the funeral. That, I can do. But I think a personal philosophy of going to funerals means more than that.
"Always go to the funeral" means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don't feel like it. I have to remind myself of it when I could make some small gesture, but I don't really have to and I definitely don't want to. I'm talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully under-attended birthday party. The hospital visit during happy hour. The Shiva call for one of my ex's uncles. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn't been good versus evil. It's hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.
In going to funerals, I've come to believe that while I wait to make a grand heroic gesture, I should just stick to the small inconveniences that let me share in life's inevitable, occasional calamity.
On a cold April night three years ago, my father died a quiet death from cancer. His funeral was on a Wednesday, middle of the workweek. I had been numb for days when, for some reason, during the funeral, I turned and looked back at the folks in the church. The memory of it still takes my breath away. The most human, powerful and humbling thing I've ever seen was a church at 3:00 on a Wednesday full of inconvenienced people who believe in going to the funeral.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
My siblings and I moved our parents for the third time in ten years last weekend. In order for the process to be done in a weekend, we have to make pretty quick decisions about what to keep and what to throw or give away. When we moved them off the farm about ten years ago, we all took boxes home and our homes were filled. In addition, we have all of the stuff we've accumulate in our 50-60 years of life. In some cases we are also housing boxes of stuff from our kids who may not be settled yet!! UFFDA!!
I am determined to at least make some sense of all the stuff and to organize it or to scrapbook it. We hope that we are building a new house in this next year and it's not going to be huge so I really want to keep only the best and most important stuff.
I like the "minimalist" look because it is so clean. I love organization because it makes everything so efficient. But on the other hand, I love the memories created by seeing some of the stuff. I have an old chipped bowl that my mother always kept salt in. She would just reach in for a pinch and put it into whatever she was cooking or baking. How can I get rid of the patriotic beanie baby bear that was given to my father in law when he was battling cancer? How about the giant birthday card that Tyler made me from poster paper? So now you see the conflict. As in many things, the key is balance. I don't want to become a hoarder and not able to get rid of anything but I also do not want a sterile and impersonal environment. Kinda reminds me of the following song.
Who's Gonna Know?
Written by Jon Vesner and performed by Kathy Mattea on "Walking Away A Winner"
On the top of my desk mid the clutter and dustsits an old 5x8 black and white
It's one of my favorite pictures of us
I'll carry with me all my life
I must have been a-bout five or six
Mom's hair was still brown and Dad's was still thick
But to look at it now some-times I get scared
To think that some-day they might not be there
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall those small mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
Down in the cellar under the steps
Sits an old box of junk that I've saved
Newspaper clippings, letters and cards
Even some code-a-phone tapes
Slices of life I can hold in my hand
And show to my kids so they might under-stand
In those years to come when they ask me some night
What Grandma and Grandpa used to be like
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall those small mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
If life were a video I could rewind
I'd go back and slow down each moment in time
Then I'd disconnect the fast forward button
So I'd have for-ever to tell 'em I love 'em
The older I get, I can't get enough of 'em
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall all those mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
Who's gonna know but me?
I am determined to at least make some sense of all the stuff and to organize it or to scrapbook it. We hope that we are building a new house in this next year and it's not going to be huge so I really want to keep only the best and most important stuff.
I like the "minimalist" look because it is so clean. I love organization because it makes everything so efficient. But on the other hand, I love the memories created by seeing some of the stuff. I have an old chipped bowl that my mother always kept salt in. She would just reach in for a pinch and put it into whatever she was cooking or baking. How can I get rid of the patriotic beanie baby bear that was given to my father in law when he was battling cancer? How about the giant birthday card that Tyler made me from poster paper? So now you see the conflict. As in many things, the key is balance. I don't want to become a hoarder and not able to get rid of anything but I also do not want a sterile and impersonal environment. Kinda reminds me of the following song.
Who's Gonna Know?
Written by Jon Vesner and performed by Kathy Mattea on "Walking Away A Winner"
On the top of my desk mid the clutter and dustsits an old 5x8 black and white
It's one of my favorite pictures of us
I'll carry with me all my life
I must have been a-bout five or six
Mom's hair was still brown and Dad's was still thick
But to look at it now some-times I get scared
To think that some-day they might not be there
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall those small mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
Down in the cellar under the steps
Sits an old box of junk that I've saved
Newspaper clippings, letters and cards
Even some code-a-phone tapes
Slices of life I can hold in my hand
And show to my kids so they might under-stand
In those years to come when they ask me some night
What Grandma and Grandpa used to be like
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall those small mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
If life were a video I could rewind
I'd go back and slow down each moment in time
Then I'd disconnect the fast forward button
So I'd have for-ever to tell 'em I love 'em
The older I get, I can't get enough of 'em
'Cause who's gonna know but me
Who'll help me recall all those mem-o-ries
I'm all that's left of this family of three
Who's gonna know but me?
Who's gonna know but me?
Friday, January 22, 2010
What love is
When I was in college I read the sappy novel "Love Story" and cried over it. The infamous line in it that says "love means never having to say you're sorry" truly IS sappy. True love DOES indeed say that you are sorry for your wrongs and sometimes even when you are not wrong. If the other person loves you back, they will forgive you and forget the wrong that was done.
Other thoughts on love:
Andrew Carnegie wrote these wise words:
"You develop people just like you mine gold,
When you mine gold, you don't go into the mountain looking for dirt.
You look for gold, no matter how small or how much dirt you have to push aside."
We can all learn better how to mine gold in those we love and even in those whom we don't know so well.
By the way, I told Arden some time ago that he could just get up every morning and say "I'm sorry". That should just about cover all of the mistakes he might make that day. LOL!!
Other thoughts on love:
Love is:
- being able to tell someone that their hair is sticking up, "just a little" in the back.
- being able to tell someone that they need a breath mint or that their zipper is down
- being able to discuss the hard things in a sane, quiet way without accusations and name calling
- not belittling others but building them up
- coming back to those hard conversations until they are resolved
- learning to laugh when things get tense
- believing the best, not the worst in others
Andrew Carnegie wrote these wise words:
"You develop people just like you mine gold,
When you mine gold, you don't go into the mountain looking for dirt.
You look for gold, no matter how small or how much dirt you have to push aside."
We can all learn better how to mine gold in those we love and even in those whom we don't know so well.
By the way, I told Arden some time ago that he could just get up every morning and say "I'm sorry". That should just about cover all of the mistakes he might make that day. LOL!!
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