In a text yesterday, with a friend who is going through his own dementia journey caring for his wife, I used the word “coping.” It was the right word used in the right context but, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that word since yesterday.
When you hear the word coping, what comes to mind?
Probably not something fun. You’re not “coping with a vacation” or “coping with a surprise inheritance.” Coping is almost always tied to something hard—grief, stress, illness, change. It usually signals that someone is just barely keeping their head above water.
But here’s the twist: coping has another meaning. One that’s actually kind of…crafty.
If you’ve ever done any woodworking or home improvement (or wandered into a hardware store with confidence you didn’t earn), you may have come across a coping saw. It’s a thin, flexible saw used to make detailed cuts—especially when you need one piece of wood to fit snugly against another at some weird angle. It’s not about hacking something apart. It’s about precision. Fitting. Shaping.
Now hang with me, because this got me thinking.
Isn’t that a better way to think about coping in the emotional sense, too?
Coping isn’t just about surviving the storm. It’s about figuring out how to shape yourself around a new reality. Maybe life took a sharp turn, and now you are trimming off some old expectations or reshaping the edges of what used to be familiar. It’s slow work. It takes patience. And honestly, some days you might feel like you’re using the wrong end of the saw.
The root of the word cope actually comes from old languages meaning “to strike” or “to contend.” In other words, to deal with something head-on. It wasn’t originally about quietly suffering—it was about showing up and doing what needed to be done, whether that meant going to battle or learning to live with a new normal.
So maybe we should stop treating coping like it’s something sad and pitiful. It’s not weakness. It’s craftsmanship. It’s adaptive, creative, even a little gritty.
“If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?” ― T.S. Eliot
We’re not falling apart—we’re just figuring out how to fit into a new corner of life. One careful cut at a time.
I know that caregiving is hard but, health-wise, I thought I was doing okay. Not great, but okay. I got up in the morning, I ate food, I made it through most days without collapsing. That used to be enough. But then, one day, an ad asked me:
“Do you feel tired around 3 PM?”
Yes. Yes, I do.
It was then I discovered I wasn’t tired. I was toxic.
Apparently, I had adrenal fatigue. My cortisol was way too high. My dopamine was out of control. My liver needed support. My gut was leaking. My blood sugar was doing things it shouldn’t. My hormones were confused. And, if that wasn't enough, I was operating on about 3% of my full mitochondrial potential.
None of this was mentioned at my last checkup in 2011, but that’s probably because my doctor wasn’t on TikTok. (Actually, I don't think TikTok existed in 2011.)
One minute I'm Googling “easy lasagna recipes,” and the next, I'm elbows deep in an article titled “13 Hidden Symptoms That Mean You’re Probably Dying.”
I had no less than 8 of them.
My scalp tingled once. My big toe went numb in 2018. I sometimes felt weirdly melancholic when it rained at the same time the sun was still shining. Clearly, my serotonin is in retrograde.
This is the genius of modern advertising. It doesn’t just sell you a product. It finds you a problem you didn’t know you had—and then sells you twelve products to fix it.
By the end of the hour, I had a plan:
A $49.99 Gut Reset Protocol (PDF format, but loaded with cool diagrams)
A Chair Yoga Exercise Program for "Guys Over 60 Born in September that Want to Look 50" A Cortisol-Calming Ashwagandha Coffee Creamer A Magnesium Body Spray (because apparently spraying yourself with minerals is a thing now?) And a $299 bundle called “The Total Nervous System Reboot”, which includes a candle and a tuning fork... gotta get back to 440.
I also signed up for three email lists. One of them sent me a free “Which Kind of Burnout Are You?” quiz. Turns out I’m the kind of burnout who shops online at 11 at night because he read somewhere that screens reduce inflammation if they’re on “Night Mode.”
I did try meditation, but just briefly. Right as I was getting into it, a pop-up from the meditation app informed me that I could unlock deeper tranquility for just $5.99/month.
So I did. I’m not sure I’m calmer, but I am being charged monthly, which makes it feels like a deeper commitment.
In all honesty, now I miss not knowing. I used to think I was just a little tired, a little distracted, maybe in need of more vegetables and less phone time. But now I know the truth:
I’m inflamed.
I’m over-caffeinated and under-electrolyzed.
I have sluggish lymph and excessive mitochondrial stagnation whatever the heck that is.
And I only discovered all this because I once clicked on a Facebook ad that said:
“What Your Tongue Says About Your Liver Might Shock You.”
Thank goodness for all the helpful advertising. Without it, I would have skipped along, thinking I was maybe just getting older. But now I know:
My gut is crying for help My cortisol is stressing me out (or is it vice versa?)
I'm chasing dopamine like it stole something My detox pathways are gridlocked
So if you’re feeling mostly fine, be careful. You might just be ignoring several invisible, unverified, and possibly made-up medical emergencies.
And there’s an algorithm out there, waiting to save you. Be careful where you click.
Maybe I need a break from social media.
I'll just go back to searching on WebMD because that's worked so well in the past.
If you are one of the 19 people that consistently reads my blog, you know that I’ve been caregiving full-time for my wife, Carol for quite a while. It’s not a job I was trained for. There’s no manual, no certification. Just love, patience, leaning on God, and trying to recall how Carol handled things... and trying to do what she would have done.
But it's an unusual kind of exhausting. Not split a cord of firewood exhausting, not carrying your wife's shopping bags at the outlets exhausting, not taking off those post-workout yoga pants exhausting, no—the emotional and mental kind. For a long time, I didn’t even notice how depleted I had become. I was getting through each day like an iPhone 6S that only charges to 12% no matter how long it’s plugged in. Running on fumes, on my last leg, [insert favorite idiom here.]
Almost a year ago, I finally did something that felt almost radical: I hired someone to help me. Her name's Joanne. She comes three days a week. Six hours a day. 18 hours out of the week's 168. That’s it. But those three days give me back pieces of myself. Time to walk. Read. Think. Breathe. Write. Enjoy a $7 coffee. Remember that I’m still in here.
I started to feel like… me again.
And it got me thinking about energy. Not the caffeinated kind, but the deeper kind. The kind we all carry quietly—the stuff we call potential.
So Here’s Where the Battery Comes In
For almost 33 years I worked for a company that, among other things, produced a lot of battery-powered vehicles. So I know a bit about storage batteries. I promise this isn’t going to be a science lesson. But stick with me: a lead-acid battery (like the one in most non-EV cars) contains something called potential energy. It’s the power stored inside, just waiting to be used. Not buzzing. Not active. Just… ready.
A fully charged battery isn't a box of electricity though. It actually is a box of chemical potential energy. When a demand/ load is wired to it, there is a chemical reaction that immediately starts to occur (I'll spare you those details) that converts the chemical energy into electrical energy. But, as that chemical reaction occurs, the battery ingredients do start to lose some of the potential for energy. The lead materials convert to different forms of lead with lower potential energy. The dilute sulfuric acid changes and starts to move towards the chemical direction of water. But, even with repeated use, the battery still has potential.
That’s what I think we lose track of when life gets hard—especially when we’re feeling depleted from responsibilities, loss/grief, working too much, or simply surviving. We forget that even when we’re worn down, we still have energy inside us. It’s still there. It didn’t vanish. It’s just been slowly depleted by life.
Maybe you’re like I was—still functioning, still doing all the stuff, but forgetting what it feels like to be plugged into something that starts getting you back to full charge.
But, You Don’t Have to Always Be Fully Charged
Enough about me and my car battery. The truth? You don’t need to be at 100% to make a difference. A battery at 55% can still light up a room. You can still write, connect, smile, make someone’s day, or still tell people why you think about the Roman Empire.
We think potential has to look Instagram ready and strong. But often it looks like getting out of bed, getting dressed and walking around the block. Or calling a friend back. Or sitting with a quiet thought long enough to hear yourself think again. Or talking to God (that's a whole other power source conversation.)
The point is to keep the current flowing. Use the potential.
Recharge Without Guilt
Rest isn’t laziness. It’s physics. Help asked (or hired) isn't weakness. Took me some time to accept this. Today is Saturday. For many folks this is a recharge day. I have a friend who is celebrating a birthday today. I texted her Happy Birthday and asked her how she was spending her birthday. She said she was hanging out with her family. Recharge. I have another friend who is about to leave for the beach for their annual summer beach trip. Recharge.
Even the most powerful batteries need downtime. Recharging, especially after caregiving or loss or burnout, isn’t selfish—it’s how you make sure your light can last. It's the process that puts the energy potential back to it's optimum state. A battery that stays in an ongoing state of discharge eventually breaks down.
But, the beautiful part? Every little recharge you allow yourself gives you more to give. I'm a better caregiver when I keep the battery healthy.
Energy Vampires
I have an old Ford Taurus that has something that isn't obvious that constantly but slowly drains its battery. Mechanics call it a parasitic drain. Something less obvious that is draining energy. Even a good battery can get drained fast if it has somehow gotten connected to the wrong stuff. Be mindful of people, habits, or expectations that leave you feeling more drained than you ought to be. We have enough in our life that are the necessary energy consumers. We don't need the parasitic kind.
Boundaries are insulation. Use them. I've had to use them a lot given our circumstance.
I think I've learned some things as Carol and I have navigated this dementia journey. One is that I'm no good to Carol or anybody if I waste my potential. So that requires some battery maintenance. Rest, Relax, Recharge, Respite.
Given my current situation, which most people that have been reading my blog know, this action on my part might seem a bit odd. And maybe it is. I haven't needed a passport since Carol, our son, and I went to Korea exactly 13 years ago to visit our daughter and her husband, who was stationed over there.
she had a blast
Two months after Carol's dementia diagnosis in 2016, I took her to Niagara Falls (on her bucket list) and New England. We did walk over into Canada one of the days we were there but it didn't require a passport going in either direction. (This was before Canada was our 51st state.) I've not left the country in almost 9 years. It's an accomplishment now if I leave the house.
Rainbow Bridge US-Canada
You may have noticed the title of this blog does not say "I renewed my passport." That's because you only have up to 5 years after your 10 year passport expires to renew it. I've waited too long. I had to walk into a Post Office like I was getting my very first passport. (My expired passport was adequate proof of my citizenship though... my birth certificate was unnecessary.) By the way, why do so many cities' main US Post Office buildings feel like you are stepping back in time to 1979 when you enter? Except for the computers and electronic payment stuff they have at each station and no FBI pictures of the Unabomber on the wall, it still looks and feels like a bygone era in there. That said, the guy that handled my application could not have been any nicer. It was a painless experience.
So, sometime before college football season resumes, I should see a new passport come in the mail.
So then what?
I don't know.
I'm not sure that I can really articulate this. For me, the passport represents something. Sure, it documents that I am a citizen of the United States of America. And that's a pretty big deal. But, it is more than that. A valid US passport represents the freedom to travel to foreign lands and to be welcomed back on return. It says, no matter where I go, I can return home.
But, even more important than that, it is the idea of being able to go in the first place that is invigorating to my soul. (cue Mel Gibson shouting, "FREEDOM!")
The season that I am in right now is not a season of "go." It's not a season of getting out into the world and enjoying what it has to offer. This current season says, "stay." And it is with genuine cheerfulness and a profound sense of purpose that I do that because it is the right and necessary thing to do. And I do it because of love. I do confess though that I have to instruct the wanderlust creature inside of me to settle down... and wait. But it's often like I have a pestering back seat passenger nagging me with refrains of, "are we there yet?" I'm truly confessing here.
There will be a new season one day and I really don't know what that season will look like. I mean, how could I? I simultaneously yearn for it and absolutely dread the thought of it. That's an acutely strange place to be.
I don't know what tomorrow holds so I surely don't know what the next season does. My hands are full with today. But, whatever comes next, I probably shouldn't stagger into it as if I'm a deer staring into headlights. That's why I need my precious blue and gold permission slip that whispers, "it's OK... if you feel you need to go... then go."
My leg started itching the other day. Left leg, outside calf, halfway down. My immediate thought was, "great, another ant or mosquito bite." But, when I looked down I saw nothing and it wasn't itchy in any one specific spot. Hmmm. Dry skin maybe. That's the problem. I need to either start drinking 6 gallons a day or apply more lotion to my old man legs. (And where did all that hair that used to furnish my legs disappear to, by the way?) Of course, I scratched the itchy spot on my leg. And if scratching is wrong, I don't want to be right. But, table that remark for a bit.
Scratching the itch. That term represents more than one thing. One version is the one I just described. We have a physical sensation of itch and we scratch it. The other is more metaphoric.... the idiom- "scratch the itch." The itch can, among other things, represent a craving, desire, or long-held need. The "scratch" is our effort to fulfill it. Some itches are good things we are willing to share in polite conversation.
Some... not so much.
I did a little research on the first, literal meaning because it is important for you to understand this. "You've got a lot of nerve Mike Toomey!" Yes, that's exactly what's going on. Nerves. First, in order to justify the exorbitant expense of nursing and medical school, they make sure that words that we regular people use every day have scientific sounding alternatives for those in the medical community. No, not itchis maximus. That's made up. "Pruritus" is the medical term for itch. (Am I the only one having difficulty making the "prur" sound?) I wanted to know exactly what occurs when we experience the itch sensation and why scratching it feels good. Confess. You've wondered about this too.
There are specific nerve fibers in our skin that detect something in/on our skin we will perceive as itch. The nerve fibers send a signal through our spinal cord to our brain. These signals run on specific train tracks (my non-medical term) called c fibers. C fibers are not the largest nor fastest trains on the lines. Our instinct is to relieve the itch sensation. So we scratch. For much of my life I've wondered why scratching an itch feels good. Because a scratch doesn't always feel good. My boyhood was filled with non-itch related scratch moments. I don't recall them feeling so good. So, why does scratching an itch feel good? (It's all about distraction.)
Think about what is actually going on. If you could zoom in on your fingernails scraping against your skin or scalp you could see that you are mildly traumatizing the skin (also known as epidermis by the people still paying off their med school loans.) Our fingernails are causing tiny grooves and micro-tears and abrasions in the skin surface. Well, that damage activates some more nerve endings and it introduces something different. It introduces pain signals. So this mild pain signal hops on the A-beta fiber train (and the A-delta sharp pain train if we scratch it with a brass bristle grill cleaning brush.) This pain signal inhibits the itch signals that ride the much slower c-fiber train. (Some pain signals also ride the c fiber trains.) We can replace the itch sensation by introducing mild pain in that same skin area. Strangely, this provides our brain with a rush of relief and even pleasure. Serotonin, come on down!
There is a term called "Gate Control Theory." One aspect of this helps explain why scratching relieves an itch. A couple of really smart guys proposed back in 1965 that there is a "gate" mechanism in our spinal cord that decides when to allow signals through and when not. When the itch signal arrives at the gate on the c fibers, the gate opens allowing the signal to continue on to the brain. Our brain registers itch. But, mild scratching activates mild pain signals from the larger and faster A-beta fibers. These signals can "close the gate" to the slower, smaller itchy c fiber signals. We now have a reduced perception of itch. This is an example of where self-injury (albeit mild) can be masked as satisfaction. Hurts so good.
Let's talk metaphorically. Back to the idiom of "scratching the itch." Your itch may be to travel (one of my itches.) So you book vacations and trips to scratch the itch. Maybe for years you've been wanting a specific vehicle and you finally break down and purchase that Jeep Wrangler. These itches can be harmless (although they could be expensive to scratch!)
But, what if your metaphoric itch is not vacations or Jeeps but rather, it's the itch of serious emotional pain or the burden of years-old trauma? I think what we sometimes see happen is similar to the skin example. We see people do things in an attempt to replace or mask the itch with something else. But often the "scratch" of temporary relief inflicts serious damage and often it's ultimately more lasting damage than what the "itch" was doing. And, like the skin's vicious itch-scratch-more itch-more scratch-even more itch-even more scratch cycle that can lead to serious infection, our attempts at scratching can produce a similar but much more serious cycle of un-wellness or sickness. We see drug and alcohol abuse attempting to scratch the itch of emotional hurt or mental health torment. We see dangerous or unhealthy behaviors trying to scratch the itch of childhood trauma or rejection. You can certainly imagine so many other examples.
Sometimes, scratching, while providing some perceived immediate (but only temporary) relief, is not the right relief for the itch. Sometimes our itch needs attention that we are not going to be able to provide by our efforts alone.
The truth is that the source of the itch is what needs the attention.
Like my grandmother used to tell me, "if you keep scratching it, you're just going to make it worse."
Don't scratch the unhealthy, metaphorical itch. Get some help with what's underlying the itch in the first place. You can't scratch it away.
It’s now 11:39 am on Saturday. I can see by my Kasa app, which shows views from the 3 different cameras I have pointed at the hospital bed occupying our bedroom, that Carol is still asleep. It’s not unusual for her to still be sleeping after 14 hours… sometimes she sleeps until early afternoon.
Earlier this morning I decided that I should write some. Maybe try to describe some things I have been feeling. Just this week, a good friend encouraged me to keep writing. And some recent posts by Sean Dietrich* (Sean of the South) have prompted me to maybe bare a bit more of my soul. Why not. As I have mentioned before... it is good therapy for me I think.
The dictionary defines exile this way:
exile
noun
: the state or a period of forced absence from one's country or home
Caring for a spouse with dementia is described as a labor of love, but rarely is it acknowledged for the real sense of exile it can bring. This exile isn’t marked by distance or borders, but by an invisible barrier that grows between the caregiver and the world to which they once belonged. As a caregiver, I remain physically present in my community—shopping at the same stores, walking the same streets, even spending much cherished snippets of time with friends and people I know—but emotionally and socially, right or wrong, I feel like a stranger in a place that no longer recognizes me.
The first signs of this exile appeared quietly (and none of what I am saying is criticism… it is just reality.) People stopped calling as frequently, unsure of what to say or how to offer support. Invitations dwindled, conversations grew awkward, and I began to sense that our presence—mine and Carol’s—was a reminder of something uncomfortable, something folks would rather not confront. Dementia is not just a disease of memory; it is a slow, painful unraveling of identity, and with it, the social fabric that once connected us to others, began to fray.
Daily life becomes a series of negotiations—managing moods, repeating answers, calming fears—and through it all, I find myself both overexposed and invisible. People may recognize the effort, but few truly understand the isolation. The emotional burden is heavy, compounded by grief that comes not in a single moment, but in a thousand small losses. Carol is still here, yet gone in so many ways. And, in losing her bit by bit, I also lose the future we imagined, the roles we once played, and the shared life that anchored me to my “community.”
Support groups (via a few online FB groups) offer some solace—a reminder that I am not alone in this exile—but they also reinforce the truth that this is a separate world, one outsiders seldom enter. While others make plans, chase goals, and talk about their next vacations, I measure time in medication schedules, hospice nurse visits, and quiet moments of lucidity.
I’m pretty sure being a caregiver has indelibly changed me. I think it has taught me some patience and compassion, yes, but also a hard-earned resilience… but mostly forged in solitude. Just me and God. I don’t seek pity, but I do wish for recognition—not as a hero, but as someone who, while caring for another, has quietly lost his place in the world I once called home. In that quiet loss is a truth many caregivers carry: that love, even when constant, can be a lonely road.
Sorry if this was hard to read. Imagine how hard it was to write.
*if you are not familiar with Sean, you really should check him out. He writes via Substack
Back in 1973, they stated that Jean and Mike (not me, another Mike) were the most dependable. Nathaniel and Beulah were the wittiest. Amelia and Art were considered to be the most creative. They said that David and Stephanie had the best personalities. It was agreed that Yasmin and Mark were the most athletic. Victor and Debra were voted the most attractive. And, finally, everyone was sure that Deborah and Ronnie were going to be the most successful. Almost every high school has (or at least had) a (somewhat strange) tradition wherein graduating seniors vote to decide which of their fellow soon-to-be graduates are considered to be superlative in various categories important to 17 year olds. The names above are from my graduating class. I had no disagreement with our choices. These classmates of mine were well-deserving.
Carol (we graduated from different high schools) wasn't voted by her senior classmates as having had any superlative attributes that are yearbook worthy. Part of the reason was because she didn't stick around long enough to actually become a high school senior... she graduated early after her junior year. Given my recollection of what high school was like back in the 1900s, as well as Carol's somewhat in-the-background public persona, I doubt she would have been a winner of any parts of the popularity contest. And that would have suited her just fine.
We don't remain 17 or 22 forever. I've known more than a few folks that continued to live out the glory days of their high school or college years well past the time when those achievements should have been filed under fond memories. It's like the 40-something guy in the bar bragging for the umpteenth time about the winning touchdown pass he threw in the region championship game (he fails to recount how they lost in the state title game.) Most of us don't rest on our teenage laurels.
So, how do you measure success in life? How do you really know if you have done it right and made a difference? Some of the things we do as a consequence of our careers or other endeavors come with accolades, recognition, awards, and rewards. But, for most of us, we just live our lives as best we can not seeking or expecting trophies.
So here's my superlative declaration:
Carol Williams Toomey is the best person I have ever known.
"What is your criteria for saying that other than the fact that you feel you need to because she is your wife?" you may ask. I actually don't feel obligated to make that statement because she is my wife.
I don't think you have to believe or say that the person you married is the most attractive person you've ever met. I don't believe that your spouse must be the smartest person or have the best personality. Your spouse doesn't necessarily have to be your best friend in the world (although she is mine.) I mean, let's be pragmatic for a second. There are 340 million people in the United States alone. I know and have met people that are more physically beautiful, or intelligent, or creative, or successful, or funny, or talented, or several dozen other qualities that we often consider the most important. Make no mistake, my wife has all of the qualities I've just listed. But nobody would vote her as being "the most" on any of them.
But there are qualities that I have not listed that are far more important to me. The apostle Paul itemizes some of these important things in his letter to the Galatians- Chapter 5:22-23- being loving, joyful, peaceful, patient, kind, a desire to do good, faithful, gentle, and not impulsive. He describes those as "fruits of the Spirit" (that would be the Holy Spirit.) I know Carol to have an abundance of all those qualities.
The Carol I have known for almost 43 years is a woman that loves profusely, is full of humility, is never attention seeking, is giving, caring, kind, compassionate, loyal, polite, friendly, gifted, fun-loving, clever, spicy, smart, hard-working, tender, beautiful, devoted...
and has shown great patience with me.
When I met Carol I was a pretty broken person on the inside trying to maintain a facade that suggested otherwise. Once married, I don't think it took too long for Carol to figure out that I was going to be a work-in-process. She probably didn't intend to sign up for that but, she took on that unspoken assignment with patience and love.**
But this is the most important part. Carol was my first best glimpse of Jesus. Oh, I had grown up as a child going to church and even attended parochial school early on. But I was as lost out in left field as a person could be and had remained so well into adulthood. I honestly didn't know any better. Until I witnessed and experienced better.
And her example pointed me to the One that changed my life.
Carol is the best person I have ever known. For a hundred reasons.
Most importantly, she reminds me of Jesus.
** For the last 9 years, her dementia diagnosis has given me the unexpected opportunity to give back to her in many of the ways that she has given to me in the first 33 years of our marriage. So I don't consider caring for her over these last few years a burden at all. I consider it a great privilege.
I like to think that, in being an amazing role model, she taught me well.
The things Carol was most looking forward to were growing our own crops, making our own hemp clothing, living in a commune-like environment, becoming uber-fundamentalist, and having kids with such impaired social skills that people would think that we were raising a couple of dullards.
So, we obviously chose to homeschool.
Jessica could do 19th-century primary school work while wearing the prairie dress she had made in seamstress class. Michael could study animal husbandry while taking care of our two pigs, Copernicus and Amelia (he named her after Amelia Earhart with the confident hope that, one day, pigs could fly.)
OK, so nearly none of the above is true. But you wouldn't necessarily know that based on people's assumptions about homeschool families 30 years ago when we embarked on, what would turn out to be, a 9-year odyssey. It was as late as 1992 before homeschooling was even legal in all 50 states. Imagine that. In America. Up until the mid-1800s, most children were taught or tutored at home. We began in 1995... Jessica's 4th grade year and Michael's 1st grade year.
Our migration to homeschooling was almost entirely for pedagogical reasons. Our school system was making a radical curriculum change in the next school year to include, among other changes, a "whole language," top-down method to teach reading (as opposed to the familiar bottom-up, phonics foundation method) with little real assurance that it was a successful method to teach language arts. We felt it was sorta important for our kids to be able to capably read, comprehend, spell, write, etc. and weren't looking to experiment. The more we learned about it, the more we were not interested in this new, "innovative" method focused on immersive, individual discovery, language as a social activity, and diverse literary events that used some of the techniques found in English-as-a-second-language (ESL) and English-as-a-foreign-language (EFL) classrooms. To us, it also smacked of a teaching philosophy that was somewhat ideology driven rather than results driven. At least, that's how we saw it.
The more questions we asked during the multiple town hall curriculum meetings, the more our questions were evaded and the more we were gaslighted and lied to.
By the way, the reading wars persist and whole language has fallen out of favor in many systems while the education experts continue to wrestle with the shameful problem of why so many kids continue to read below grade-level. Terms like "the science of reading," and "three-cueing" (which is now banned by law in as many as 19 states,) and "balanced approach to reading" are tossed around by teachers, university education professors, education standards authors, and curriculum providers. We were in the camp that believed that learning to read does not come naturally, particularly with the English language. Reading requires a structured and protracted process.
So, the Toomeys decided we needed to make a change. Our options were to move to a different county, private school, or, as we later discovered, homeschool. After much research and consternation (and no small amount of prayer,) we chose to teach our kids ourselves. [Current Georgia Homeschool Requirements]
Carol didn't want to homeschool two kids at the kitchen table though. She wanted a dedicated schoolroom space. As I peered into our backyard at the building formerly known as my workshop, I realized that I had some remodeling work in front of me. Carol said if we were going to do this we needed to do it in a way she thought was both appropriate and in a way in which she could feel confident. (I'm not suggesting kids cannot be taught at the kitchen table but, that wasn't for us.)
my remodeling supervisors
I gutted our 10' x 20' backyard building and installed new flooring, additional windows, new door, wiring, insulation, sheetrock, trim, paint, and acoustical tile ceiling with recessed lighting. We bought a window air conditioner, heaters, three desks and chairs, corkboards, real slate chalkboard (later covered with white markerboard,) copier, file cabinet, mini-fridge, bookshelves, educational posters and other media, computer, TV monitors/VHS players, headphones, etc., etc., etc.. When it was finished it sorta looked like a mini-version of a real classroom... but a homemade version.
40 days into the 95-96 school year (Michael's 1st grade)
We had chosen and invested (no small inve$tment) in a video-based curriculum that allowed both kids to individually watch and listen to actual classroom instruction following along with their textbooks. We utilized the provided quizzes and tests, teacher keys, and all the collateral material needed for instruction. In our early years, the lessons were on VHS tape but later changed over to DVD (big improvement...higher quality and easier searching.) Both kids had a bible class which sometimes they wanted us all to watch after I got home from work because the classes were excellent and were so well taught.
You know what they say about '80s and '90's Christian parents... (see video)
In the earlier years, Carol handled 99% of the instruction but, as Jessica got into more advanced math and science subjects, I stepped in to help as needed. After 7th grade, Michael asked to attend public school as he was not, after 7 years, as enthusiastic about homeschool and also wanted to play team sports. We had told both kids that they had a say in whether we continued homeschooling them. We had a one-year-commitment-at-a-time attitude. Jessica chose to continue all the way through to graduation.
Jessica 9th grade, Michael 6th
In high school, Jessica eventually got to analytic geometry (aka coordinate or Cartesian geometry.) She initially hit a wall as did I because I had never taken analytic geometry. I studied Euclidean plane geometry in 9th grade but this was different... sorta like a combination of algebra and geometry. I contacted a high school math and physics teacher friend (Masters in Mathematics) but he too had no real experience with it. While searching for a tutor, Jessica told me, "I'm going to back up to the beginning of the course and see if I can figure this out" (an advantage of home school.) To her credit, she did, in fact, figure it out as proven by her performance on the subsequent quizzes and tests.
Carol was in her element in that classroom and loved going through elementary school, middle school and high school all over again (maybe more so than her first time through.) Watching your own kids learn academically every day is not something most moms get to do. Carol was determined that we were going to provide our kids with a quality, well-rounded education to include out-of-classroom learning. (We even required them to learn to diagram sentences because, we figured if their parents had to endure it in school, they should too.) They frequented our public libraries and took weekly PE classes that were held at the local Y. Organized sports were through church and the Y, piano lessons for Jessica, and guitar lessons for Michael helped round out their education. Both were active in youth choir at church. Jessica was joint enrolled her senior year taking classes at Augusta University. That said, we knew that what we were doing was considered by some to be weirdly unorthodox. We heard some passive aggressive criticism in the beginning.
checking out new materials at the '99 Curriculum Expo
Homeschool provided significant flexibility for our family. Ten days of educational field trips were necessary each year since our curriculum intentionally included only 170 days of course work. We were also not constrained with taking family vacations when everyone else did. We were in control of our calendar. We could vacation to places like Disney and other major attractions during times when it wasn't super crowded with other school-age kids. Like Jessica's geometry experience, we also had the ability to speed up or slow down the course work as each might need. We could specifically tailor the learning to what was needed. And school lunches were home-cooked.
(One blog is woefully inadequate to even minimally summarize what 9 years of homeschooling was like. But this will have to suffice.)
Regarding the "lack of socialization" that is often a weak criticism of homeschooled kids, anyone that knows Jessica or Michael can likely testify that they did just fine in that regard given all the sports, arts, and church activities in which they were involved along with having so many friends. And most kids' healthy socialization comes from the loving, caring adults around them anyway.
You know what one of the toughest parts of homeschooling was for Carol?
It was the initial breaking of the news to her parents that we were pulling our kids out of public school. We did not know how they would react. You may remember from a previous blog that they were both career school teachers... mostly in public schools.
So, the day we went over to their house in the summer of 1995 to nervously tell them that we were going to go off the traditional rails and teach the kids ourselves, you know what they said?
"Thank God."
That was all Carol needed to hear and she marched on and never wavered or looked back.
She had work to do... she needed to go produce some weirdos.
Jessica graduated homeschool with honors
P.S. Jessica was accepted to all 3 colleges to which she applied (Berry College, Mercer University, and Georgia College & State University...the one she ultimately chose)
Michael, who graduated from Westside HS, followed in his sister's footsteps and also attended GCSU, the only school to which he applied.
(Colleges like homeschooled students)
Carol did a great job. No surprise there. (And both our kids are excellent readers... and are refreshingly weird.)
Our sad little school house- 21 years after graduation and 17 years after we moved... in disrepair from neglect and fallen tree damage
I think it was in the early 90s when Dr. Kevin Leman did a special event at our church one night to talk about "The Birth Order Book," which he authored in 1982. Leman is a Christian psychologist who embraced the idea of birth order having an effect on the personality, character, and development of children. This "birth order theory" originated back in the 1920s when it was proposed by Alfred Adler, an Austrian psychotherapist.
Alfred Adler
It is not suggested that there are genetic or physiological underpinnings to the birth order attributes; it is more driven by the way parents treat and perceive their children based on birth order. In many cases these personality attributes come about based on how the children see themselves in the family dynamic even if their perceptions might not be entirely accurate (after all, they are children.) But, first-born children are often parented differently than "middles," and the youngest (see video below.) Gender can certainly play into this as well... such as, the second child may be the first daughter. It was a fun night because he presented the material with plenty of humor and spouses were poking each other with each new revelation he presented that struck a chord.
Leman suggests that there are some well-defined differences between first-born and middle children (and only-children and youngest children.) He describes first-born kids as: "the guinea pigs of the family. Mom and Dad practiced on them. They're held to a higher standard than the rest of us. They're reliable, conscientious, list-makers. They don't like surprises. They are natural leaders." He goes on to say, "Of the first 23 astronauts to blast off into space, 21 were first-born children. The other two were only-children." Coincidence? I think not. You first-born children reading this are not at all surprised by that statistic.
According to Leman, last-born children are "the babies of the family... they're manipulative, social, outgoing, never met a stranger, good with people- least likely to become an astronaut someday. Also least likely ending up being the President of the United States." (About 52% of US Presidents were/ are "middles.")
Only-children are like first-born kids but on steroids. Take all the attributes of first-born and add "very" in front of it. Leman says, "Only-children are often sensitive and get their feelings easily hurt. They're little adults by age seven."
So, my Carol is a middle child. You may be familiar with a term, "middle child syndrome." It even has a Wikipedia page (then again, what doesn't?) Firstly, no two families are alike. But it can be true that in families of 3 or more children, the experience of first born, last born (the baby) and all the ones bookended by them can be different. First borns are the ones where new parents experience most of the exciting "firsts..." first steps, first toilet training, first talking and walking, first tooth, first lost tooth, first first day of school, first t-ball/ballet/soccer/piano recital (you get it.) By the time middle child/children do their versions of it, it has lost a bit of the luster... and all the while the oldest is still doing "new firsts" that still get most of the attention. And the last borns (sometimes the "oops" children) are the newest attention grabbing babies of the family (and some can get spoiled.) Middles can get lost in the fray and can feel a bit out of place and overlooked... not so for the oldest or the baby. Most middles seem to handle it well and can thrive despite (or even because of) feeling "unequal." Some can struggle with it though even into adulthood. Parents don't usually mean to treat the birth order differently. But the reality is that they do.
So, what do we think we know about middle children?
Here are some of the supposed attributes of a middle child:
easygoing... they know how to compromise and are good negotiators and mediators
adaptable and flexible
can be secretive
peacemakers- they want everyone to get along. They can serve as the go-between.
more independent- maybe felt overlooked as children, often leaving home the soonest, self-reliant, may have a hard time asking for help
competitive- feeling like a #2 sometimes can cause middle kids to be very competitive
exceptionally strong friendships (sometimes as a fill-in for inattentive family)
people pleasing tendencies
loyal- faithful in their relationships which are often long-lasting. Skillful at forging connection
seek fairness in situations
tend to not be perfectionists
hardworking and self-motivated
successful
well-adjusted
resilient- typically can handle tough things that come along
While there are always exceptions when it comes to these types of descriptors, I think these describe Carol pretty closely (she's the middle of three girls.)
(L-R) Carol, Susan, Debbie
In fact, I think that Carol could even be described as a "prototypical middle child." Now, these kinds of attribute or personality comparisons aren't intended to imply that any birth order type is "better than" another. It just acknowledges that there can be observable differences.
I'm reluctant to add many more glowing things to what I've already written about middle children because it feels like it could be a bit self-promoting.
You see, Carol married a middle child... yep, I'm one too. (Btw, middle and middle is believed to be one of the less successful marriage combinations.)
Well, we must have figured out how to make it work.
After all... we're hard-working and resilient.
* Kevin Leman italicized quotes are taken from birthorderguy.com
It was mild at the beginning. I learned of it as early as our very first date when I took her to see Rocky III. Over the years, especially after our daughter was born, it got progressively more pronounced.
I remember she had gone to our pediatrician's office for a check up for Jessica. When she came home she told me what the pediatrician had said to her. She was still a bit in shock when she told me. Her revelation started out with a simple question, "do you know what Dr. Allen told me?" I immediately thought she was going to tell me about the results of Jessica's check-up or that something was wrong.... "no, what did he say... what's wrong?" I anxiously asked.
Then she told me. "Dr. David told me that he and Kathy go to two movies on their date nights!"
"Wait, what?" I said. "Yes, he said that they figured it made sense, since they were already paying for a babysitter, that they should make best use of that time... so they go to two movies on the same night!"
"That's crazy!" I said. She agreed but she also said that it makes perfect sense. Both of them love movies and try to maximize the cinema experience when they go out.
Btw, the word cinephilia comes from "cinema" and "philia"- one of the 4 ancient Greek words for love.
I remember the first Friday night (our regular date night) we decided to try it. There were movies that began around 6:45- 7pm and the next showings were usually 9:00pm or just after.
The immediate dilemma was do we go ahead and buy both sets of tickets or do we watch movie #1, leave the theater, buy tickets for movie #2, and re-enter the theater?
We chose poorly. We bought both sets of tickets. Being rookies at this, we discovered that, after watching movie #1, we were too tired to stay and watch movie #2. No refunds allowed. We gave the tickets to another couple.
We quickly learned that, although we were open to seeing two movies, it wasn't always practical. Sometimes there weren't two movies we wanted to see. Sometimes we were satisfied with our cinema experience after one movie or just wanted to do something else after the movie. And then there is that truism, "a mind can only absorb what the butt can endure." That said, I think we ended up going to two movies over 50% of the time when we went to the movies on date nights. (This gives you some idea of the volume of movies that Hollywood was putting out in the 80s and 90s.)
When we told our friends what we were doing you know what the most frequent question was?
"So, after the first movie do you just sneak into the second movie without paying?"
It was then we realized that either we needed to find less sketchy friends... or maybe our friends thought we were the sketchy ones. Hmmm.
Carol loved going to the movies and just watching movies in general (romcoms are her favorite.) Call her a cinephile, movie junkie, film buff, or whatever. Movie watching has been one of her most favorite forms of entertainment for the 42 years I've known her.
Back in the VHS days we regularly rented videos from all the outlets in Augusta that rented them... grocery stores, Blockbuster, Phar-Mor (remember that discount drug store chain?) Sadly, Phar-Mor turned out to be the sketchy ones. The CEO and CFO were defrauding investors, hiding and falsifying financial information, and both were convicted and sentenced to prison. We also purchased many VHS movies when the pricing became less prohibitive (VHS tapes were expensive in the early days.) After a few years, the higher quality DVD era began. All the VHS tapes we bought eventually were just given away in yard sales. Nobody owned VHS players anymore.
Slowly but surely, Carol began acquiring DVD movies. And I had joined this new upstart named Netflix for movie rentals.
DVD mailers
They allowed you to check out DVD movies and they were delivered to you in the mail. The number of movies you could have checked out at one time was based on the membership level you had joined.
Today, we must have between 500-600 movies on DVD. I actually tried to sell off our entire collection at a yard sale about 7 years ago but, I got no takers even at the very discounted box-load price. The DVD (and Blu-Ray) era was over, I guess.
this ain't even the half of it
When COVID hit, I was thankful that we had all those movies because, you know, not every movie is available on the streaming services. And, for many years after Carol's dementia diagnosis, movie watching was still her favorite thing to do. She'd watch a couple most every day. Sadly, the interest and her ability to remain focused has waned over the last 18 months or so as it has become harder and harder for her to even follow along with the movie's dialog. I'm not sure how much of it she can even understand anymore.
The other day I put in the DVD of "Pride and Prejudice" (the Keira Knightley version) to watch with her. It was always one of her favorite movies since its release 20 years ago but, the longer it played, the more it seemed to just agitate her. So I hit stop and ejected it. I used to earn pretty significant brownie points if together we watched the chemistry unfold between Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. (I never told her that I actually do like that movie.)
I could be wrong on this. But, my guess is that ever since Carol was a little girl, she had a desire to be a teacher one day. Both of her parents were career teachers. Her older sister had gotten her degree and became a special education teacher. Since I've known her, I could see that she had a true love for teaching. She did attend Augusta College (now Augusta University) after HS graduation but, as you may have read from a prior post (link), she ended up becoming a Master Barber instead of finishing her degree.
About 4-5 years after we joined First Baptist Augusta, Carol began teaching in the children's Sunday School department. A couple years later, I began teaching 7th grade boys' Sunday School, worked with our mid-week high school group's Bible study, and was a counselor for our summer Youth Camp.
After a few years, I (and several others,) began encouraging Carol to consider teaching in the youth area. Our daughter was soon to become a 6th grader, moving from children's SS to youth SS. So, Carol began co-teaching the 7th grade girls' class. I was thrilled when this happened because it allowed us to collaborate on lesson preparation every week and to talk about common issues teaching and mentoring that age group. I became the middle school boys' Bible study teacher at our summer Youth Camp and Carol did the same with the middle school girls.
I was a youth camp counselor for 17 years. There was only one camp in 2000 where I had to bow out with short notice due to a back injury. I had already prepared all the lessons for the MS boys' Bible study so, I asked another counselor to teach those lessons while I stayed home nursing my back pain. I was also supposed to be the counselor staying in the cabin with the 12th grade guys (I had eventually moved up to teaching 12th grade SS.)
After the first day of camp, our minister to students called me to ask if there was any way possible I could come to camp. I thought his request was strange because the guy that was handling my Bible study was fully capable. He said that wasn't the issue. Apparently the "adult" that was staying in the 12th grade boys' cabin was not up to the task and that the boys were "out of control" and disrupting the entire camp. He was hoping I could come and help that situation. (For the record, the guys did redeem themselves.)
Camp Bob Cooper typical cabin
Camp Cooper's blob
So, I packed a bag, popped some extra pain pills, and made the 2.5 hour drive.
The next day, when it was time for Bible study, I decided that, since my friend was handling my Bible study, I would sit in on Carol's. I had actually never heard her teach before. So, I sat in the back and listened as she taught those middle school girls. I'll be honest. I was blown away. I always thought I was a pretty effective teacher. Then I experienced Carol's teaching. For an hour, I listened in awe as she brought the scripture passages to life. I watched while she mesmerized those girls with interesting historical perspectives and then seamlessly pivoted to give them applications for their young lives today... all the while exuding love; moving them from laughter to tears as she shared her personal experiences and her love for Jesus.
I was dumbfounded. Carol taught like a maestro bringing out the most beautiful notes from the musical score. But this was more than just good teaching, it was something extra special. Something you can't really put your finger on.
I attended all her remaining lessons that week.
Carol and some of "her girls"
Carol genuinely loved those 12-year old girls that came through her Sunday School class over the 12 or so years she taught. And those girls knew it. There must have been over 200 of them. The oldest ones are now almost 40 years old. She remained close to so many of them throughout their teen and college years and beyond. I'm pretty confident those girls have warm memories of Mrs. Toomey.
After we became empty nesters, Carol went to work at Grovetown Middle School in the media center where she was able, once again, to spend time helping middle school students. She had to resign one year shy of retirement due to her dementia related challenges affecting her ability to do her job..
I should also mention that in 1995 we decided to homeschool our kids and Carol taught Jessica from 4th grade through HS graduation and taught Michael from 1st grade through 7th.
That might be a blog for another day.
But boy, could she teach. She became a teacher after all. And a really good one.
P.S. Jessica earned her Early Childhood Education degree and became a teacher.
I spent most of my childhood years in New England. Being a military brat, we did move around a lot (11 schools from K-12) including to North and South Carolina... and then back to New Hampshire before ending up in Georgia. New England will always feel a bit like home. Every self-respecting New England kid learns at least 2 things: how to ice skate and how to snow ski. My first time skiing (other than on nearby Barrett's Hill) was in 1968 at the now defunct and abandoned Fitzwilliam Ski Area in Fitzwilliam, NH, about 20 min from where we lived. Massive vertical drop of 240 ft. You nearly had to push with your poles to go downhill. First time down though I crashed through the snow fence at the bottom. According to Newton, a body in motion will remain in motion... if you're not good at stopping.
Tyrolia cable binding
Ski equipment was pretty crude back then. The ski bindings we are familiar with today were not available in the 1960s. I recall the skis had a toe "release" binding that would turn left or right if enough lateral force was applied, releasing your boot (hopefully requiring less force than what would tear up your knee ligaments.) But, for the rear, your boot had a groove in the back of the heel that accommodated a cable that would pull your boot tightly forward when you latched the cable binding at the front. More like an old cross-country configuration than what we use today for downhill skiing. Lots of injuries back then.
Fitzwilliam had only 2 ways to get you up the slope: a rope tow and a poma lift (also known as a button lift.) Each of these "surface lifts" has its challenges. In both cases, you literally have to ski up the mountain while either being pulled by a rope or, if using the poma lift, putting the "button" between your legs and getting yanked up the hill (see video.) For my very first time on the poma lift I tried to sit on it (which you cannot do,) it and I went to the ground, and I landed on and put a huge bend in one of my ski poles (you cannot unbend them.) Fun skiing with 1 pole.
Fast forward to 1982. I start dating Carol. If you have read my previous blogs: "Things about my Carol" (link,) you already know that she was a bit fiesty and that she was also a bit adventurous (she was a certified scuba diver.) Well, she was also a snow skier. She had even skied in Austria before we met! After several weeks of dating, she informed me that she had already booked a trip out west to go skiing and, that I could either go with her (provided I knew how to ski) or I could wave goodbye from the airport because she was not going to cancel her trip just because she had started dating me. No boyfriend was going to cramp her style I guess. I told her I did, in fact, know how to ski since I was a New Hampshire native (but I hadn't skied in over 10 years.)
She said, "OK, prove it."
I said, "prove what?"
She said, "that you actually know how to ski."
I said, "you think I'm making that up just to impress you?"
She said, "well, if you know how to ski then you should have no problem proving it."
Good grief! Fiesty gal.
So, one Saturday we made a day trip up to Maggie Valley, NC to spend the day skiing at Cataloochee Ski Area.
Cataloochee trail map
Since I hadn't skied since Nixon was in the White House, I had to borrow ski apparel/ gloves/ goggles from one of Carol's friends. I had no insulated undergarments so, under the ski bibs, I actually wore panty hose with the feet cut off of them (it does keep your legs warm.)
T-bar
@ Cataloochee
Carol had her own skis and boots but I had to rent my gear. Once we were all set to start, we were heading to the lift (it was a T-bar... another surface "pull you up the mountain" type lift) She stopped and said, "ok, show me what you've got." I said, "you're not going up with me?" She said, "no... I want to wait and see if you can actually get up and back down this bunny slope without falling... I don't want you to embarass me."
By now, relationship red flags were flying all over the place. But, I kinda admired her spunkiness. I felt up to the challenge.
@ Cataloochee
So, the T-bar pulled me up the slope while I prayed, "Lord don't let me get my skis crossed or catch an edge going up this little slope." The good news is that I made it up and proceeded to ski right down without embarassing myself at all. The kid still had it.
She said, "OK, we can ski now." We spent the rest of the day skiing and having a great time.
Oh, by the way, Carol canceled her ski trip to Jackson Hole, WY because she fell in love with this transplanted Yankee. (Also, I couldn't get off work to go nor could I really afford it at that time.)
And she didn't want to go without me. Awwwww.
Over the years we made multiple trips skiing up in West Virginia and out in Colorado. Breckenridge was our favorite.
