Health & Wellness

One-to-One

admin — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 18:00:00 -0600

I'm part of the supportive care program at St. Vincent's Hospital here in New York City. It's a kind of buddy system created by Sister Patrice Murphy to make sure people with AIDS get the help and care they need outside the hospital. I volunteered for the program through my church.

6-Year-Old Becomes an Advocate for Preemies

batch — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 04:05:07 -0600

When little Joshua Hoffman was born more than four months before he was due, his family was terrified for his health and his future.

He weighed 1 pound, 11 ounces, and most of his organs were underdeveloped.

"My husband Lee and I couldn't be more terrified, and I was positive that after just 24 hours I had no tears left," Melanie Hoffman says, recalling the first hours after Joshua was born.

Saying Thank You, Gracefully

admin — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 14:45:13 -0600

It's hard to explain the conflicting emotions I felt when my husband, Kevin, received an invitation in May 1988 to attend his 25th class reunion at College of the Holy Cross in Worcester, Massachusetts.

"This is great!" Kevin exclaimed. "It says meals will be in the dining hall and we'll be sleeping in our old dorms. Just like the old days! And there'll be a dinner-dance...and a five-mile race up and down the Hill! I can hardly wait!"

At His Side

admin — Wed, 01 Oct 2008 07:48:00 -0500

Since the Iraq war began five years ago, more than 30,000 American servicemen and women—including my husband, Kenny, a Marine master sergeant—have been wounded. In one sense, that's actually a hopeful number. Battlefield medics these days are so skilled they're saving soldiers who, in any other war, would've died.

Everyone Plays

admin — Sat, 01 Sep 2007 08:40:00 -0500

Diane Alford goes to a lot of little league games near her hometown of Smyrna, Georgia. But she doesn't care who wins or loses. She doesn't have a favorite team and she doesn't argue with the ump.

All that really matters to her is that the players have fun, stay happy, and above all, that they feel just like any other kid.

Our Bond

admin — Mon, 27 Oct 2008 13:45:49 -0500

Diane: I'll never forget that night. I was 22 years old. It was a Monday night football game in 1971, a matchup between my team, the Green Bay Packers, and the Detroit Lions.

A typical November night in Wisconsin—cold, wet and miserable. Still, it was a full house at Milwaukee County Stadium. I hunched in the stands wearing a Hefty bag to keep out the rain.

How to Be a Friend to a Caregiver

admin — Fri, 01 Jun 2007 10:05:00 -0500

During the time my husband Bob was incapacitated, I learned some important lessons about how to behave and how I hoped others would behave toward me.

What to Say
It's okay to say, "This stinks," and to acknowledge a person's pain. Try not to make big philosophical judgments like, "God doesn't give you more than you can handle" or "Things happen for a reason." That's too hard for a caregiver to hear.

Cyclist Doesn't Let Parkinson's Stop Him

batch — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 04:05:08 -0500

When 81-year-old Bob Wilson of Hillsboro, Oregon was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease, he was initially determined not to let his illness stop him from practicing the sport he loved: cycling.

From 1992 to 1996, Wilson rode nearly 1,000 miles per year on his bike, but in subsequent years his physical capabilities diminished, and he wasn't sure he would be able to continue.

The Making of a Caregiver

admin — Thu, 01 Feb 2007 10:44:00 -0600

My days in retirement had started to blur together. Oh, they were pleasant enough-summer days spent lolling away up at our lake house, puttering on the boat, visiting with our kids and grandkids. But lately I'd felt this grinding sameness. I was growing bored. And to think I'd looked forward to retirement.

A Closer Bond

admin — Thu, 01 Jun 2006 08:14:00 -0500

Mom's eyesight was deteriorating, but I didn't know just how bad it had gotten until I saw her stooped in the one-bedroom in-law apartment attached to our house, reaching to pick up something off the floor.

She grabbed at it, then studied her empty thumb and forefinger with a puzzled expression. Again she tried to pinch the glimmering spot on her living-room rug. Nothing.

Frowning, she turned to me. Behind the thick lens of her glasses her blue-green eyes clouded with concern. "Mom," I said, "it's just a patch of sunlight."