Category Archives: Willow Cove

Grandma Faye

Posted October 4, 2018

by Sarah Kern

In September, we lost our Grandma Faye. I say “our” because she was as much a part of this school as any of the teachers or any of the children. Perhaps she was more so “ours” because we loved her — and she us — for many years. We built Grandma Faye into our curriculum, from her weekly visit to read to the children to our spontaneous visits to her apartment — a favorite place to visit with her old doll carriage, polar bear figurines, and view of the playground. “Can you see us play, Grandma Faye?” “Oh yes, I love to watch you.”

I first met Grandma Faye in the pines. I was being trained in for my new teaching position in the Autumn Room on a beautiful fall day. Grandma Faye was out for a walk. She immediately filled me with a feeling of warmth that only a Grandma can. She had a simplicity and a sincerity about her.

Faye loved the children. She adored them. She brought small gifts around holidays. She shared her handmade puppet who had on one side a smile and on the other a frown and brought favorite books. She asked questions and remembered favorite students. Faye invited struggling children onto the couch to sit next to her as she read. She loved to  make the children laugh. She loved to hug them. She loved to be with them.

Faye loved us teachers, too. She remembered details about my life I’d forgotten I’d shared, asked after my husband, and delighted in my pregnancy. I will always cherish the memory of her holding my baby girl when we came to visit. She sent me two cards after my baby was born. I know each of us teachers has treasured memories of Faye.

It became clear early this fall that we may not have much time left with Faye. Her wish was to see the children as much as possible. We brought them to her every chance we could in her last days. They sang with her, hugged her, held her hands, asked her questions. Though Faye was declining, she was ever herself. She lit up when she saw the children. I will never forget the tenderness they showed her, somehow grasping what teachers failed to explain– don’t step on the tube that goes into her nose, be quiet, be gentle, sing clearly. One morning, a group gathered flowers for her and brought them to her. As she held them, they shared a book with her. Though Faye could no longer read to us, we could read to her. Faye died the next morning.

There is a melancholy to loving anyone. We know they are not ours to keep or change, only ours to hold close to us for a time. For some, we are blessed with a long time. For others, it’s much shorter. When we grow to love the seniors, we know in our hearts we will have a short time. We know Inver Glen will likely be their final earthly home. Sometimes it is with fear and a bit of sadness that we begin to care for these people — We don’t know how long we will have. But it is impossible not to know and love them. With Grandma Faye, we were blessed with many years and many happy memories. We are grateful.

 

Grandma Faye’s obituary

 

 

A Story for Caregivers…

Posted September 22, 2014

The children are back, and it feels so great to have them here!  The children are getting accustomed to the rhythms of our days.  Most know what to do when they arrive at school, though may need reminders.  Those who initially resisted our beginning-of-the-day duties are reluctantly participating.  “I don’t want to wash my hands… go potty… put on my jacket…”  “That’s just what we do at school” is usually a satisfactory answer.

Our morning routine of visiting the grandmas and grandpas will soon become second nature.  Already, most of the children walk into Willow Cove (the name for memory care) and begin making their way around the circle to shake hands.  It is so touching to see these little ones greeting and receiving such warm welcomes from the grandmas and grandpas.  For some children, shaking hands and making eye contact comes very naturally.  For others, it is truly a brand new skill that is no different than zipping jackets and will require a lot of repetition.

Speaking of repetition and at the risk of sounding trite, there is a story called The Butterfly’s Struggle that many of you know, but is worth re-reading.  As a parent and an educator, my natural inclination is to help.  Helping is at the core of who I am and at the core of what I have done professionally for over twenty years.

Last week, as Sarah played a game called “Who’s Missing” with the children, one little boy got stuck guessing which of his friends was hiding out of sight.  After a few moments of silence, I couldn’t stand it any longer and gave him a big clue.  Sarah said, “Thank you, Amy, for figuring that out for us.”  I catch myself (or my colleagues catch me) doing this several times each week.  All I know is that I can’t stand to watch anyone struggle with anything for long.  As this story illustrates so beautifully, sometimes standing back and allowing the struggle to occur is the only way for one to make it successfully to the next stage.

 

A man found a cocoon of a butterfly.  One day a small opening appeared.  He sat and watched the butterfly for several hours as it struggled to squeeze its body through the tiny hole.  Then it stopped, as though it was unable to go any further.

The man decided to help the butterfly.  He took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining bits of cocoon.  The butterfly emerged easily, but its body was swollen and wings were shriveled.

The man continued to watch it, expecting that any minute the wings would enlarge and expand enough to support the body.  Neither happened.  In face, the butterfly spend the rest of its life crawling around.  It was never able to fly.

What the man, in his kindness and haste, did not understand was that the struggle required by the butterfly to get through the opening was a way of forcing the fluid from its body into the wings so that it would be ready for flight.

 

Sometimes struggles are exactly what we need in our lives.  Going through life with no obstacles cripples us.  We will never be as strong as we could have been without struggle.  Without struggle, we can never fly.