About Dad and Mom

I wrote these poems for my parents many years ago and just retyped them for one of my sisters--

I thought I would share them on my blog too.  :o)

About Dad
By Cindy Haugen 

Dad diapered and bathed us
when Mom worked at night
Then it wasn’t “macho,”
but he felt it was right.

When it thundered
he always found room in his bed
for three little girls
to lay their scared heads.

He taught his three girls
to ride bikes and to play ball,
to be good sportswomen,
to get up when we’d fall.

Dad always taught us
to pursue our dreams,
to be our own person,
to have high self-esteem.

He worked very hard
to make dreams come true,
funding our educations,
and helping us move.

He spared no expense
when his three daughters wed.
He was known to work hard;
“Not a risk,” the bank said.

Now Dad’s a fine Grandpa--
six grandson’s in all!
He’ll share with them wisdom
and how to play ball.

So the lessons in life
Dad taught us were clear;
be independent, work hard,
and get a career.

Take care of those you love,
stand up and be honest,
and my Dad’s special trait—
is to be very modest. 

After 39 busy years,
my Dad just retired.
Thanks for my dreams Dad.
You’re truly admired.


About Mom
By Cindy Haugen 

Mom’s done so much for her three girls,
there’s so much to recall.
She stayed home to take good care of us
from the time we were just small. 

Whenever we weren’t doing well
and feeling under the weather,
she’d cook for us—our favorite foods
to make us feel all better. 

Mom taught us we could do anything.
We were proud that we were “girls.”
She ensured we had lego and cars
and played ball despite our curls. 

When I was at an awkward age,
Mom drove the extra mile
to get my acne treated,
to improve my buck-toothed smile. 

She would sew a special outfit,
or create a new hair style
to help us hold our heads up high,
to make us feel worthwhile. 

Mom taught her girls to work real hard
yet make the time for fun,
to be good cooks and gardeners,
to get out—enjoy the sun! 

When I faced my hardest time
I saw behind her tears
the desire to just take my place,
to quiet all my fears. 

She’s been there on my darkest days
helping me to cope,
to stand up on my two feet,
to manage and have hope. 

But most of all, the greatest thing
Mom taught us, now we know,
is how to be a loving mom,
to help our boys to grow. 

Now Mom’s a loving “Granny”
to six wild little boys.
She’s busy playing “chase” with them
and spoiling them with toys. 

Mom, thanks for being our best friend,
for showing how you care,
for listening,
 for your good advice
and for always being there.

The Song I Remember

The thunder rumbles

and the raindrops tap

a familiar refrain

on my window pane...

the song I remember.

 

 

Happy Birthday young man.

Born still August 27, 1995

Love you babe.

 

 

Death Walk

It hurts to watch

the silent death walk,

skin spread loosely over bones.

"I'm eating," she claims.

Please don't lie

as you casually kill yourself.
It's like hearing screeching nails on a chalkboard.

The truth will set you free

and reflect light into your empty eyes,

to behold the beauty I see.

 

The Simple Beauty of the Human Spirit

On the hospital unit I work on we had a lovely elderly lady who was, unfortunately, very confused.  She was on our unit waiting for a bed to become available in a long term care facility. Often she would talk to someone we could not see.  And at other times she would be incredibly frightened, curling up into a little ball and cringing at whatever she perceived was clawing at her.  It broke my heart to see her so terrified. 

Amazingly, she responded well to touch--the gentle stroking of her hair, or caressing of her hand, covering her in a warm blanket, and telling her it would be okay.  Her faded grey eyes would light up, she would smile and sometimes say, "I wondered when you would come."  We sat her near the nursing station in a reclining chair, so staff could keep a close eye on her and give her the comforting attention she needed.

Another patient on our unit was recovering from a severe stroke and also waiting placement.  The stroke left this elderly man wheelchair bound, but he became very good at shuffling his feet to move his wheelchair around.  His face was permanently contorted into a mask; open droopy mouth, tongue swollen and protruding, drooling, and speech mostly incomprehensible.  Regardless, the kindness and wit in his sparkling blue eyes was remarkable.

On a hectic Friday afternoon, unknown to staff, our elderly lady was having one of her terrifying hallucinations.  When the buzz settled down I looked up and saw our gentleman holding her hand, looking into her eyes and nodding reassuringly.  She smiled contentedly at him and grasped his hand in both of hers.  He stayed with her until supper came.  We were all moved by the sight, and thanked our patient for being a true gentleman.  Some joked about love being found on the unit.  But it really wasn't that.  Rather, it was two lonely souls touching each other at a very raw, uncertain time. 

Looking back on that afternoon, I am not sure who was most blessed that day:  the confused, panic-stricken lady who was instantly comforted, the elderly man who felt needed despite his frustrating disability, or the staff, who were reminded of the simple beauty of the human spirit. 

Some days at work can be very draining.  But afternoons like this make it all worth while. 

In the end, only kindness matters.

~From "These Hands" by Jewel~

__________


Too often we underestimate the power of a touch,

a smile,

a kind word,

a listening ear,

an honest compliment,

or the smallest act of caring,

all of which have the potential to turn a life around. 

~Leo Buscaglia~

Shrouded in Haze

"Not everyone is meant to stay in your life forever."

I guess that's true--but it's a hard pill to swallow.

Some losses are succinct, and cut to the bone: someone you care deeply about moves away, or (heaven forbid) dies. 

Other losses are shrouded in haze: you lose a friend because they are not who you really thought they were.  When they suspect you know they are not a person of integrity, and they are fairly certain you will address concerns with them, suddenly they pull away.  They dodge out of Dodge, so to speak.  Cowardly, but understandable, given the circumstances...they run for cover.

But rejection cuts no matter how you slice it...even though you realize you are far better off without chameleons in your life and need to surround yourself with light.

Still, you grieve a loss like this as you would any other.  But what you really miss is what you thought you had--a loving friendship with a sincere, forthright person.  Truthfully, you miss a fictional character.  For me, this experience has certainly made me appreciate my true friends so much more deeply, and for this I am grateful.

And so I will be gentle with myself as I ebb and flow through waves of sadness--as my heart cleanses, and heals and makes way for a new friendship to fill an empty space.  A real one. ♥

Christmas Thoughts

When I was a little girl I loved playing with the cats at my grandparents farm.  I enjoyed rubbing their bellies and listening to their gentle, rhythmic purring.  I would pick them up and wrap them around my neck and carry them into the house, where grandma didn't want them!  By the end of our play time I would have an itchy, red rash around my neck and my eyes would be bloodshot and watering.  Grandma would say, "Cindy!  Stay away from those damn cats!  You are allergic to them."  I would tell her, "No I'm not, Grandma--I'm allergic to the chickens."  I hated the chickens--always clucking loudly and fluttering violently around in the chicken coop.  And they would chase me all the way to the farm house--I'd be out of breath and crying, terrified to death!  I couldn't understand how I could be allergic to something that brought me so much joy.

At Christmas we were often the first house to have lights on on our block.  I remember when I was in grade three my two sisters and I were up even before the crack of dawn and ready to open our stockings.  We waited patiently for mom and dad to get up.  When their bedroom door finally opened, out strolled a little black kitten with a tiny diamond of white on her chest, looking like she owned the place.  I said, "Is that for me???"  And mom and dad said she was.  I was so excited!  I never dreamed I would ever have a kitten with my allergies!  It was my most memorable Christmas ever!

Thankfully, over time I seemed to develop a tolerance to my kitty.  I didn't rash up and my eyes no longer watered.  "Taina" was the most wonderful pet.  She would sleep with us under the covers and make you so warm you'd have to throw off the blankets--my own personal heating pad.  There is nothing quite like the unconditional love of a pet.  Through my temperamental teenage years she would lick away my tears.  And when I was fifteen and (although unknown at the time) I had a cyst on my ovary, she knew I was sick and would sleep on the side with the pain.  She lived many, many years.  I was married with one child before she passed away.  Taina was such a blessing to our family and my life.

Now that I'm a parent I chuckle to myself and sometimes wonder what on earth my parents were thinking??!  What if it hadn't turned out so well?  What if I developed asthma and became really sick?  Regardless, I am so grateful they took the chance.  Mom often says it was the best $10.00 she ever spent when they picked Taina up from the SPCA.  This act of love for me gave me many, many moments of unbridled happiness and entertainment which I will forever cherish.  Thanks Mom and Dad for making my Christmas dreams come true!

Merry Christmas everyone!

Life is a Circle

Several months ago I was placed part-time on a very busy medicine unit at the hospital, to assist a coworker with her heavy caseload.  As we started to become more familiar with each other, we shared the reasons we were drawn into social work.  I indicated that I chose this profession because when I was a little girl, our family fostered a little boy from the reserve.  This four year old boy came to our home with a soiled diaper, matted hair and cigarette burns.  He was developmentally delayed and not toilet-trained.  Although I was only about six at the time, I vividly remember he was terrified of the vacuum cleaner, and he loved it when my grandpa rolled him back and forth on the floor.  He experienced his very first haircut while he was with us, exposing his big brown eyes.  Even though he wasn't with us for very long, it was hard to say good-bye, and his memory led me to want to go into the helping profession.  In fact, I wrote about him in an essay for my University application.

With my coworker on the unit full time, and myself half-time, we soon developed an easy method of dividing our caseload.  I simply asked her to pass me the files she would like me to assist her with at random, since she knew the unit best.  One day she gave me the case of an adult male.  I went into his room and as I began my assessment and we started chatting, it was clear to me this man was cognitively delayed, even though there was no indication on the chart.  I could sense something strangely familiar--just a "gut feeling."  And it dawned on me that his first name matched the first name of my former foster brother.  

I told my coworker I thought it might be him, and at her urging I phoned my mom that night to ask his last name.  It was this patient!  I informed my manager of the situation.  I wanted the very best for this patient but at the same time didn't want to do anything unethical; he was my client.  My coworker was reassigned the case and I knew she would take good care of his needs.  He desperately did not want to return to the reserve, and he eventually ended up living away in an assisted living facility, away from his extended family and in our region.

As the weeks passed after his discharge, I felt a calling to be involved in my former foster brother's life.  I couldn't believe the coincidence--of all the hospitals he could go to in the province, out of all the hospitals in the city, out of all the units in our hospital, and of the cases my coworker could randomly pass to me--it was truly a miracle.  And I believe things happen for a reason.  

I called the Alberta College of Social Workers to discuss this dilemma and asked if it was okay to disclose my previous relationship to the patient and become part of his life, especially since he was estranged from his biological family.  They agreed and confirmed the hospital staff, myself included, conducted ourselves ethically.  I went to this man and told him who I was.  He asked why I hadn't told him sooner, and I explained to him that I didn't want to influence his decision on where he wanted to live--I wanted him to do what was best for him without my influence.  

Over the last little while, we have shared some laughs and some short memories from when he was with us.  I can't believe he remembers!--but the details he shared were undeniable.  I spoke about this with another coworker who has extensive experience working in child welfare, and he said we can never underestimate the positive impact a healthy home has on a child, even if he was only there for a short while.

My former foster brother has the most infectious giggle and gentle spirit.  I have helped him pick out winter boots, coat and mitts, we've gone for coffee, and he came for supper with my family to watch the Grey Cup.  He calls regularly and we have forged a new friendship.  Things happen for a reason, and I feel my life has gone a full circle--I am helping the person who has helped me become a social worker.  I am truly blessed.

"Everything the power of the world does is done in a circle.

The sky is round and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball and so are the stars.

The wind, in its greatest power, whirls.

Birds make their nest in circles, 

for theirs is the same religion as ours.

The sun comes forth and goes down again in a circle.

The moon does the same and both are round.

Even the seasons form a great circle in their changing 

and always come back again to where they were.

The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood,

and so is everything where power moves."

~Black Elk, Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux~

(1863-1950)