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    Recovering The Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) -- Aging and the Elderly
    Recovering The Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) -- Aging and the Elderly
    Recovering The Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) -- Aging and the Elderly
    Ebook224 pages2 hours

    Recovering The Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) -- Aging and the Elderly

    By Ernest Dempsey and Victor R. Volkman

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Recovering the Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) July 2012
    Recovering The Self is a quarterly journal which explores the themes of recovery and healing through the lenses of poetry, memoir, opinion, essays, fiction, humor, art, media reviews and psychoeducation. Contributors to RTS Journal come from around the globe to deliver unique perspectives you won't find anywhere else!
    The theme of Volume IV, Number 3 is "Aging and the Elderly". Inside, we explore physical, spiritual, and mental aspects of this and several other areas of concern including: Alzheimer's and dementia Age discrimination Stories of fathers and mothers Aging and disabilities Hospice Narcissism and aging Health aging Aging as adventure Grief and bereavement ... and much more!
    This issue's contributors include: Linda G. White, Karen Phelps, Carolyn Agee, Janet Riehl, Valerie Benko, Arlene Krauss, Trisha Faye, Robert Edward Littlefield, Pamela Hobart Carter, Maureen J. Andrade, Fred D. Greenblatt, Larry Hayes, Holli Kenley, Bonnie Spence, Sam Vaknin, Steve Taylor, Patricia Wellingham-Jones, Kat Fasano-Nicotera, Bernie Siegel, Laura Gardner, Ken La Salle, Maureen Minnehan Jones, Huey-Min Chuang, Dirk Chase Eldredge, and others.
    "I highly recommend a subscription to this journal, Recovering the Self, for professionals who are in the counseling profession or who deal with crisis situations. Readers involved with the healing process will also really enjoy this journal and feel inspired to continue on. The topics covered in the first journal alone, will motivate you to continue reading books on the subject matter presented. Guaranteed." --Paige Lovitt for Reader Views
    PSY043000 Psychology : Developmental - Adulthood & Aging
    SEL005000 Self-Help : Aging
    FAM017000 Family & Relationships : Eldercare

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLoving Healing Press
    Release dateJul 1, 2012
    ISBN9781615998708
    Recovering The Self: A Journal of Hope and Healing (Vol. IV, No. 3) -- Aging and the Elderly

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    Reviews for Recovering The Self

    3.5/5

    4 ratings7 reviews

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    • 2/5
      Slightly bemused by this journal. Outwardly it looks as though it will interesting and provide beneficial advice as to healing. Instead it is a hotchpotch of essays, fiction, poetry and reviews. It seems to have no 'audience', it doesn't truly cover healing (unless you find true life stories insightful), but neither is it aimed at an academical level. I was disappointed, but others may find this type of journal useful.
    • 3/5
      Interesting book with some good tips. Took no time to read once I settled down and started it.
    • 4/5
      I love the open source/open space concept of this journal, which the editor expects to publish quarterly. It encompasses all the areas I think need more traffic in the public dialogue: recovery, transformation, hope, healing, forgiveness, awareness, perspective, inclusiveness, community, and love. In that it was assembled using the contributions of a cross-section of our neighbors, it has an uneven quality, but that's to be expected. It's a good attempt, a good collaboration.
    • 4/5
      This is not a book, but the first issue of a journal. As one would expect, the various entries are of various quality. Some items are scholarly in tone, while others are much more personal. The poetry and fiction are generally good, though there was nothing in those pages that are likely to be award winners. The number closes with a series of reviews of books and movies. These seemed generally well done, though since I haven't read or seen the works under review, I cannot really comment on how well they reviewed the works.The journal itself is professional looking. The cover is glossy with a full color painting on the front. Interior pages are printed on nice paper. There are few pictures or illustrations, and adding more might be a way of strengthening future numbers and volumes. Overall, it is a journal that shows some promise.
    • 2/5
      I made the mistake of reading the other reviews while I was waiting for it to arrive. But I agree it was not what I was expecting when i signed up for it. Nor is it clear what sort of a target audience it is aimed at. While a book of short articles by people who have recovered themselves, could be inspiring, I'm not sure it works as a journal, with repeated issues. I see there is now Vol. II, No 1 (strange numbering) issued in January 2010. It seems to me that there is a limit to the number of stories you can read at a time, even if dipped into now and then.My copy also came with "Love Each Day" billed "40 true inspirational stories". I could only read a few before the inspiration got lost on me.However, there have been times of my life, when life was more of a struggle for me, when I would have valued these stories more. And the recommendation of writing your own story is definitely a good one.
    • 4/5
      Recovering the Self is a collection of articles, poetry and other forms of short writing. The journal focused on personal tragedy and how different individuals dealt with problems. Some turned to God, some to friends and family and others sought comfort in medicinal form. There were a couple of pieces that I was truly amazed at! I wondered how they coped so well. If I were there shoes how would I have dealt? In one story a man loses his wife and almost his children to Genocide. Another article deals with forgiveness of someone who ended a loved ones life. The pieces covered almost every coping mechanism for stress such as anger, substance abuse, grief (depression) and hope. I didn’t remember if denial appeared in any piece.I enjoyed reading this journal. I wished some of the articles were longer because it seems just I really got into it the piece was done. Many times I was left wondering ok how does the story end what happened next? I don’t usually read journals but this wasn’t a bad one to get into. I don’t know if I would read the next volume simply because it is not my favorite genre. Even though it isn’t my normal reading preference it was worth reading! Several times I was on the verge of crying. Some stories made me grateful for the life I have. I would recommend this journal to anyone suffering a tragedy. Maybe they would become inspired by a piece. The journal might also give them ideas how to deal with the circumstance at hand.
    • 5/5
      This journal encompasses themes full of hope, suffering, forgiveness, and peace; all subconsciously demonstrative in execution toward the development of a new substantial self- there are no self- help steps here. I must preface by stating that I came across Recovering the Self for the sheer purpose of reviewing it only to be face to face with my own self awareness that self victimization is as acute as any other oppression. I was feeling more or less self-assured before reading this journal when I started reading a story about forgiveness aloud to my mother and found myself choked up unable to confidently finish. This journal mainly addresses the severity of life difficulty with such encumbrances as the loss of a child, suffering from breast or prostate cancer, homosexuality; not the everyday woes of “normalcy” (and I say that in a truly literal manner). What I love about these journals is the compilation of multiple genres: non-fiction, poetry, fiction, film (in the 2012 edition) etc. making it easy for readers of many followings to connect and recover their own self even if by surprise.

    Book preview

    Recovering The Self - Ernest Dempsey

    Heard Without Words

    Maureen J. Andrade

    While working towards a certified nursing assistant license, I trained at an adult care facility a few years ago. It was a nice place, with tiers of care, so residents could choose the level they needed. The building I worked in was for adults with some dementia, but who were alert and oriented enough to enjoy a small apartment and some independence. It was here I met Gladys, a sweet older lady suffering with aphasia, the inability to speak, caused by a stroke. Also, she was wheelchair bound, as many of the elders were. What I learned from her was the healing power of being acknowledged, even when you cannot speak for yourself.

    Gladys was not actually my patient, but lived on the same floor as the elders I cared for. The elders I cared for were quite vocal in their demands. Though they didn’t know what day it was, their desires they were sure of, and they weren’t afraid to ask for anything. Getting admonished or even yelled at was part of my job; but I didn’t take it personally.

    Gladys’s beaming face and gentle manner was calming to me, as I flitted around the facility, trying to learn a challenging job. A quick passing in the hall, when I spied her reassuring eyes, kept me going another day. Wondering who this lovely woman was, I asked the staff about her; they said she was Gladys, and she was the best.

    It was during the elders’ exercise class I met Gladys. As a student, I often had time to help the staff with their load, and so I offered to help with Gladys during fitness, after my elders were positioned and ready. I collected necessary equipment for her, holding up different weights and large elastic bands used for stretching, and waited for her to nod or shake her head to let me know her selection. It wasn’t hard to see what she wanted, though she lacked the voice to speak it.

    On the last day of training, my elders were in their rooms and didn’t want to be bothered. One was tired and disoriented, and the other was raging with grief at the news that her daughter had just died. They needed to be alone, and so I wandered to the activity room to see if I could help the staff. After exercise class, I offered to wheel Gladys back to her room. Her face lit up with happiness at the offer, and the staff person was glad for the help.

    Following Gladys’s pointing finger, I pushed her wheelchair through the halls. Staff and other residents stopped to greet her, and ask how her day was. She smiled, nodded and opened her mouth to speak… but words didn’t come.

    At Gladys’s door, I asked if she’d like me to come in, and she nodded. I wasn’t sure what her level of cognition was; it seems thought quality is nearly always judged by language, and since she lacked any, I didn’t know for certain. To be speechless must be nearly unbearable… to not be able to connect with others directly. Gladys’s grace in the situation was incredible; she was serene.

    Inside, I saw the room was clean, orderly, and warm. Photos of her family hung on every wall and fiber crafts she displayed in frames. I began to chat about what I saw, and asked her ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions. Interacting with facial expressions and hand gestures, Gladys had something like a conversation with me.

    By looking at what people were wearing in the photos, and guessing at the approximate years the photos were taken, I was able to create a loose narrative about her family; always I looked into her eyes to see if I’d got the story right. The story was close enough, as she nodded her head vigorously, and even clapped. Fixing her eyes onto mine, we communicated, and I understood her heart.

    Gladys’s family was everything to her—her three children and four grandchildren. Their activities and accomplishments filled her with pride. Every soccer game, graduation, and wedding, she held inside her, like an ember of love.

    After twenty minutes, I needed to collect my elders for lunch, and she looked at the clock on her wall and knew I needed to be somewhere else. We smiled at each other, both nodding, and I thanked her for sharing her beautiful family with me. Her eyes shined with tears of what may have been joy, or gratitude. She’d been acknowledged, and appreciated. I’d heard her without words. In the gentle circle of giving, I was able to reciprocate to her the grace she’d given me during my week of training.

    It’s been three years since that experience, but I recall it when I need to tune in to another person, and feel what they mean, if not understand what their words are saying. The gift of the lesson Gladys gave me continues to reward. Though she may have passed away by now, her spirit continues, as love always does.

    About the Author

    Maureen J. Andrade is a writer and artist from the Pacific Northwest. Themes of her essays, short stories, and long fiction are of trauma and recovery: loss and the illuminating path of healing. At Open Salon, she keeps a regular blog about mothering, divorce, and news of the day. Her paintings and photos can be viewed at her art blog: www.maureenandradeart.blogspot.com. The greatest gifts in her life are her children, family, and friends, with whom she shares the journey of discovery.

    The Privilege of Growing Old

    Valerie Benko

    My heels clicked off of the tile floors and echoed down the corridor. It was late and this wing of the hospital was eerily silent. Fluorescent lights illuminated my path and I ticked off the room numbers as I went seeking a very specific one.

    Doors were open, giving me glances into the various patients’ rooms. With each passing entry way, I saw elderly person after elderly person. I grimaced. The very reason I despised hospitals was for the elderly. We all get old. Many of us get sick before we die, but I didn’t need reminded of it every time I visited a hospital.

    I can’t say that I’m very good with the elderly. I speak too softly to be heard and then get frustrated that they can’t hear me. I don’t like the smell of decay that seems to cling to them. I walk too fast and they drive too slow. What a curse to grow old!

    I glanced into the next room as I was passing and saw yet another elderly man. He was almost bald with liver spots covering his face and hands. The tape holding his IV in place reflected the light as he waved his hands around. He was telling something to a much younger woman, probably his granddaughter. She was watching him intently hanging on every word.

    I paused for a moment. There was a man who was loved, by this young woman and probably by many more people. He could have been sick, or healing, or dying. For a moment, I didn’t see him as just another old man; I saw him as someone who mattered. Someone who was important and required good care so he could get better and go home. Was someone waiting for him there?

    A few rooms away was the one I sought. I stood outside the open doorway, looking in. The television was on and I could hear a sports announcer relaying hockey scores. Sitting in a chair with an oxygen tube connected to his nose and an IV in his hand was an elderly man. I took in his hospital gown and the fuzzy white hair sticking up on his mostly bald head.

    It was then that I realized my step-dad was elderly and that I was at the hospital to see an elderly man. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. I was at his 80th birthday last year. He was still active hunting and fishing most days of the week. He gardened in the summer, ice-fished in the winter and threw parties with the best of them. Now he looked so frail. He had surgery to remove cancer from his stomach and abdomen.

    I entered the room and sat on the couch by the chair he occupied. We talked and he told stories that made me laugh. He regaled crazy tales of the things he had done in the past, like the time his fishing boat floated into Canadian waters and he gave a fake name to the official that tried to fine him for not having a Canadian fishing license. I listened to stories about how the beer in Alaska is eight times better than the beer he sold in his bar in Pennsylvania because in Alaska it costs eight times more. He told me about his recent trip to the NASCAR track in Daytona.

    I hung on every word, much like the woman down the hall. This wasn’t an elderly man to me. This was my step-dad; someone whom I very much wanted to get better and come home. He was someone who had lived a storied life worth hearing about. He was full of experience in so many different faucets of life. He was someone who mattered, to me, and to others.

    I left the hospital with a new appreciation of the elderly and the realization that it’s not a curse to grow old—it is a privilege. Not everyone gets to live to be 80 or have a full life. Not everyone gets to share their stories with a much younger generation.

    I’m a little more patient now. I speak a little bit louder. I walk a little bit slower so they can keep up. They are our past. We are their future. While they may seem delusional the older they get, they used to be wiser than us and many still are. We can learn from each other. And we need them just a little bit more than they need us.

    About the Author

    Valerie D. Benko writes from western Pennsylvania where she works as a Communications Specialist for a major utility company. Her stories have been included in many anthologies including Patchwork Path and Chicken Soup for the Soul, where she is a frequent contributor. You can visit her online at http://valeriebenko.weebly.com.

    When the Flowers Stopped Coming

    Holli Kenley

    When I married my husband Dan, my father-in-law was a youthful 71 years old. Although his name was James Virgil Kenley, almost everyone called him Brick. For years, I thought that the reason for this well-suited diminutive was because he was built as solidly as a brick building and was equally as strong. I remember when I learned that his pet name was actually a legacy from childhood; Brick’s red hair had robbed him of any chance of retaining his legal name. I preferred to cling to my reasoning. After all, by 71, his red locks were long gone, replaced by a large balding scalp framed with long bushy greyish-white sideburns that grew into the canals of his ears. Dan lovingly referred to him as You old Hippie!

    In his younger years, Brick held several positions in labor as well as management at an agricultural feed factory. At 71, Brick continued to work every weekday and some Saturdays at a local gas station where he serviced vehicles for over 30 years. His strength and stamina were only surpassed by his stubbornness. A child of the Great Depression, Brick’s commitment to his work ethic as well as his uncompromising belief in routine served him well—physically, emotionally, and to a modest but comfortable degree, financially. Never a man of extravagance, Brick’s only form of self-indulgence came in the form of an occasional trip to the nearby casinos where he would risk small sums in the hopes of hitting it big, or he would play his numbers in the weekly lottery game. Other than the limited gambling outings, Brick didn’t see the need for spending on frivolous things or really on anything than the necessities. His philosophy centered around two beliefs: the older the better (things just aren’t made like they used to be) and if something breaks, fix it. And so, it was quite a surprise to me on the first Mother’s Day after Dan and I were married that I received a beautiful bouquet of flowers from Brick. The card neatly snuggled into the arrangement simply read, Happy Mother’s Day! Love, your old Father-in-Law.

    The next dozen years of Brick’s life were filled with loss and injury, but also with companionship and contentment. The rather sudden passing of Brick’s beloved wife, Ruth, left him alone for the first time in over 50 years. And as the result of over-radiation to a form of skin cancer, an open wound on his lower left calf constantly festered and warranted ongoing medical attention. As was Brick’s nature, he let neither emotional nor physical pain slow him down. After a respectful time of grieving and remembrance to his Ruth, Brick remarried. His energetic, opinionated, and overly cantankerous 69 year-old Edith eradicated all semblance of loneliness and left Brick longing often for a morsel of peace and quiet. But he and Edith managed to carve out a routine that, despite their differences, brought them both a comfortable level of friendship and of fun. Their favorite shared past-time—trips to local and far-away Casinos—brought them both immeasurable joy, even if their losses outweighed their winnings. Brick continued to work for some time at the gas station that was like his second home, but as time went on, his strength for such work lessened while his desire to rest his aching bones increased.

    During these years, for the most part, Dan and I lived in the mountains about an hour’s drive from Brick’s little house in Hemet, CA, but we both worked in the desert areas an additional hour or so away. Although Dan was extremely busy with his job in education and I was teaching as well as counseling, we managed to see Brick and Edith on an occasional basis. As the years went by, there were times when Brick seemed more fragile than I had remembered; and then on holiday dinners or celebrations, his spirit was strong and

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