The Cookie Jar 2

In Episode 2 of The Cookie Jar, Marla Jewell is slowly finding her footing after the end of her caregiving season—until a certified letter, a hidden key, and an unexpected visitor reveal that her Aunt Judy was keeping far more than recipes in that gingerbread jar. As Marla uncovers a secret caregiving past, an abandoned respite center, and a “caretaker’s promise” meant just for her, she’s forced to confront a new question: what if life after caregiving isn’t about moving on, but about reshaping what care can look like for everyone?

Transcript

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Hello friends and welcome back to Take Care Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. In our last episode of the Cookie Jar, We met Marla Jewel in her attic of her salmon, Idaho Home on a Veteran's Day that felt heavier than most her caregiving season had ended. The house was quiet and grief seemed to hang in the air like dust until she found an old gingerbread cookie jar filled with notes from holidays past. Okay. Those little scraps of paper, recipes, memories, tiny love letters, cracked something open in her, they nudged her back into her kitchen, into connection with her nieces, and even into saying yes to a dinner invite she didn't expect. Today we pick up the story as life after caregiving takes a surprising turn, a certified letter arrives, a key appears, and Marla discovers that her great Aunt Judy was keeping more than recipes in that cookie jar. She was keeping secrets, promises, and a plan. This episode is about what happens when caregiving ends, but the story refuses to be over. This is episode two of the Cookie Jar. That weekend, Marla kept her promise. She made at her kitchen table, she put on a simple black dress pinned Uncle Jim's navy pen to her coat and met lorraine at the Veterans Hall for the community dinner. The room was full of faces. She half recognized from the grocery store and the post office all gathered to honor the families who had given so much Sitting beside Lorraine, listening to the names being read, Marla felt something she hadn't felt in a long time. Seen not just as the niece who handled everything, but as someone who had carried the long, invisible weight of caregiving. When they stood to be recognized, Lorraine squeezed her hand and whispered he Be proud of you. You know, Marla didn't quite believe that. But for the first time since the funerals, she let the ideal land. By the time she got home that night, hung her coat and set the gingerbread cookie jar back on the center of the table. The house felt just a little less empty. A few days after the cookie and care gathering, Marla's kitchen still looked like the good kind of aftermath. A dusting of flour on the counter cooling racks,, on the dryer rack by the sink. A forgotten spatula leaning against the stove like it worked. Over time, the gingerbread cookie jar sat in the center of the table, lid closed as if resting too. Marla stood at the counter hands wrapped around a mug of coffee that had gone lukewarm because caregivers forget to drink hot things all the time, even after the caregiving is over. She walked over to the table and gently lift the lid of the cookie jar. Inside were a few notes from yesterday, the day before and the day before that messages from her nieces, the girls who turned her lonely kitchen into a temporary support group. One note read. I'm proud of you for getting through your first year. Kayla, another read. I don't know how you did it all, but I'm glad you did, Abby. And from quiet, joy, her note read, you're allowed to rest. Now, Marla pressed that one against her palm a little longer. Caregivers hear a lot of words. Strong, amazing, selfless, but you're allowed to rest isn't one that you hear very often. She tucked the notes back in her jar, closed the lids, and told herself, okay, today I'm going to do something normal, just a regular day. She had no idea how far from regular this day was about to be around 11:00 AM a white SUV from the post office pulled up in her short, small driveway. Marla, watched from the window as the mail carrier stepped out with something that looked official. It wasn't a catalog, not a flyer, not another, we're sorry for your loss postcard that arrived months too late. The postman, walked up to the porch and knocked certified letter from Marla Jewel. Her stomach tightened. Because if caregiving teaches you anything, it's that paperwork rarely brings good news. She signs, closes the door and stands in the hallway holding the envelope like it was ticking. Return address was from Jensen and Rolson attorneys at law. Oh, no thought Marla, her thumb brushed over the senders line. Regarding the estate of Judith Elaine Harper, aunt Judy grief has this cruel little habit. Just when your heart has finally stopped clenching every morning, It throws you a reminder, a song, a smell, a letter that asks for a signature and gives you a fresh new wave of, I thought I was okay. Marla had done so much paperwork already. Hospice discharge forms, insurance notifications, death certificate copies, VA documents for Uncle Jim. Bank closures. Title changes, beneficiary updates. She had quietly promised herself No more, no more forms, no more decisions. But here it is. She takes a breath, sits at the table and opens it. A small brass key, old worn, smooth in places. A letter reads, dear Miss Jewel, our office represents the estate of Judith Elaine Harper. Your aunt left a seal box in our care over 15 years ago with instructions that it be released to you after the passing of both herself and James Robert Jewel. That condition has been met. The attached key belongs to a safety deposit box in the Lemhi High Valley Saving and Trust in Salmon, Idaho. The box is registered under your name. Please visit at your convenience. Sincerely, Jensen and Ralston Marla Star at the page 15 years ago, she does the math. That would've been long before Aunt Judy got sick, long before Uncle Jim's declined. Back when caregiving was something she associated with other people. So why all these years ago did Aunt Judy lock something away For a version of Marla who didn't even exist yet, the caregiver she was to become the key lies between her fingers, cool and heavy. She glanced at the cookie jar and for the first time, she feels like the jar and the key might be part of the same story. Instead of driving straight to the bank, Marla Does what many caregivers current and former do best? She hesitates not because she isn't curious, but because her brain is still wired for something else. Do I need to call first? What if there's more paperwork? What if this is about money and I mess it up? What if there's nothing and I get my hopes up? When you spent many years making big decisions, medical decisions, financial decisions, end of life decisions, decision fatigue doesn't disappear. Just because the person you cared for is gone. The body remembers. So if she cleans the kitchen instead she puts away mixing bowls, loads the dishwasher wipes down the counters that are already clean. As she reaches for her dish towel, her elbow bumps the cookie jar. The lid shifts and one folded slip of paper slides out and lands on the table. It's old, not one of yesterday's notes. The paper is yellow. The edge is soft. With time, her heart beats a little faster. She opens it is Judy's familiar handwriting. It says if you're reading this, you found the jar. When the caregiving ends, the story doesn't go find the key. I left you, Jay Marla's breath catches the letter. The key, the jar is not random, is orchestrated. Aunt Judy planned this. She looks at the brass key on the table. Then back at the note and whispers, okay, aunt Judy, I hear you. She grabs her coat. It is time to see what judy locked away Lemhi High Valley Savings and Trust is a kind of small town bank where they still know you by name and give out lollipops to the kids. The front desk clerk, maureen white hair, Christmas tree earrings, greets her with a warm smile. Marla, I haven't seen you in a while. How you holding up? It's the question everyone asks, even when they really don't want the full answer. I'm, I'm getting there. I'm getting there. Maureen. She holds up the key. I think I have a safety deposit box here. Maureen adjust her glasses, checks the computer and nods. Yep. Open under your name. But years ago, that's unusual. She lowers her voice. Those lone game boxes. Always have a story. There it is again. The reminder that caregiving doesn't exist in a vacuum. It's woven in legal documents, bank records, old promises made in attorney offices long before anyone gets sick. Maureen escorts her to the vault area where another employee retrieves the box. The box is smaller than she expected. Heavy, but not huge. The kind you'd use for documents, jewelry, or, or who knows? They leave her alone in a small private room. The door closes with a soft click. Marla hand shakes just slightly as she uses the key. A thick manila envelope, a small woven spiral notebook, a folded piece of fabric, soft and pale blue on top. And note in Judy's handwriting for Marla. Open the notebook first. She does. The page is dated May 8th, 2000. She can't tell one or seven. Is that a one or is that a seven? The title written in block letters, caregiver log. The promise I made myself, Marla feels her throat tighten. This isn't just a random journal, it's a caregiving record and it's from before Judy ever got sick. Marla always thought her caregiving story began with Judy's cancer diagnosis and Uncle Jim's slow decline. But this notebook tells a different story. Judy had been a caregiver before. She just never talked about it. We hear snippets as Marla reads. May 8th. Today I agreed to help Elaine Price. She's 72 lives alone. Early memory issues, the doctor says mild cognitive impairment, but I can see the freight train coming. Her son, Daniel, lives in Boise. He's trying, but he's drowning in guilt and work. I told myself I'd only help a little ride to the grocery store, a few appointments. I know what happens when you say yes. Too many times I've seen it, but then I saw her pill box and I couldn't walk away. May 29th, I had my first. I can't do this. Cry in the car today. Why is it always in the car? June 14th, the social worker mentioned respite and Elaine laughed. She said respite is for people who admit they're tired. I think a lot of us are raised to think asking for help is a character flaw. Each entry is a window into slowly escalating responsibilities. The late night phone calls, the missed social events, the way Judy began to orbit her life around Elaine's without ever officially. Being called the caregiver, Marla recognizes this stage, the I'll just help with one thing. The I'll manage the, it's not that bad yet, until suddenly it is July 30th. Elaine wandered outside today. She wandered outside this morning in her nightgown, convinced she was late for school. She's 72. I got her back inside, made tea, pretended it was funny. It wasn't funny. It was terrifying. I called Daniel, we both cried. I told him I'd help him look for memory care. I also promised myself I will never let the next generation do this alone. If I ever have a niece or nephew caring for me, I will leave them a roadmap, a permission slip to get help. Money for respite, if I can manage it something, anything. Marla's eyes filled with tears because she realizes She is the next generation. Judy was talking about. As Marla continues reading, a name keeps appearing. Daniel came up this weekend. Daniel feels guilty he can't move back to salmon. Daniel doesn't understand what 24 7 means yet, but he will Daniel at the bottom of the box under the folded blue fabric. There's another envelope on the front in Judy's writing for Marla to be delivered by Daniel Price. Only one problem. Marla has never heard of Daniel Price. She assumes he's out there somewhere in Boise, living his life. Maybe he got this letter, maybe he didn't. Maybe he was supposed to deliver it and never did. But as she lifts the envelope, another detail catches her eye. There's a recent date stamp from the law office Three weeks ago, someone gave this to the attorneys to include in the. Which means Daniel isn't just a name from Judy's past. He's very much in her present. Marla slides the envelope into her purse, gathers the notebook and fabric, and leaves the bank with more questions than answers. What was Judy trying to tell her? Why involve a man she's never met? And why now after both Judy and Jim are gone, later that night, the house was quiet. The kind of quiet that used to scare her back when she'd wake up, listening to her coughs, falls, and the sound of Uncle Jim trying to walk without his cane. Now the silence is thick, but different. She sits at the table with her notebook open, scribbling in the margins. Not just reading Judy's entries but jotting down her own reactions, like a conversation across time. She's mid-sentence when it happens. She freezes. Caregivers learn to decode. Knocks light. Light, fast. Knocks. That's a neighbor, a package. Kids selling candy, hesitant knocks. Church visitor or fundraiser heavy. Official knock. That's law enforcement. EMS, hospice nurse with news. This one is different, steady, intentional, like the person on the other side. Bracing themselves too. She opens the door. On her porch stands a man in his late thirties or early forties, dark jacket, tired eyes, snow melting on his shoulders. He holds a small cardboard box and a folder. Ms. Jewel, he asks, yes, he takes a breath. My name is Daniel Price, and I think we need to talk about your Aunt Judy. She invites him in. Because, because it's salmon, Idaho, and that's what you do. Plus there's something about the way he holds the box carefully, like it's breakable that tells her this isn't a scam, or some random drop in. They sit at the kitchen table. The cookie jar is still in the center like a quiet witness. Daniel sits the box down between them. I'm sorry to just show up. He begins. I know you've been through a lot this year. I saw the obituary for your uncle back in August. She nods. I, I got a letter from an attorney, she says, about a safety deposit box. Judy left me, your name was in it. He lets out a long Exhale. Good. That means I did at least one thing, right? He opens the folder he's carrying and slides out a photograph. It is a picture of a woman in her seventies, smiling in a front yard, drenched with summer light, silver hair pulled back, eyes bright, a cardigan that looks two sizes too big and comfortable. This is my mom. He says, Elaine. Marla feels a flicker of recognition, not of Elaine herself, but of the type, you know, the look. The, I used to run everything, and now my memory has holes in it. Look, half defiant, half lost. Daniel continues 15 years ago, your aunt helped me take care of her. It started with rides and groceries and ended with, well, everything he swallows. I wasn't ready. I didn't understand what I was asking her to do. I told myself, it's just for a little while. You know how that goes. Marla nods. Yes. She knows exactly how that goes. She kept this, he says, tapping the box. She called it the caretaker's promise. She made me swear that when the time was right, I'd bring it to you. Marla's throat tightens. Why? She asked, why, why me? Daniel looks at the cookie jar in the center of the table because he said quietly she didn't want you to make the same mistakes we did. As Marla makes tea, Daniel tells the story, I was working in Boise long hours new promotion. I told myself I'd drive back, I'd drive up every weekend, help mom with bills, groceries, that kind of thing. But the memory stuff, it got worse. We hear the familiar beats the stove left on the bills unpaid. The bruises from unexplained falls. The neighbors calling with concerns. Your aunt stepped in. She didn't call herself a caregiver, but that's what she was. She took her to appointments, argued with doctors, sat in the waiting room. She talked to social workers about services I didn't even know existed. Things like home health, adult day programs, VA options, if they apply memory care, wait lists, the things caregivers have to learn or apply without a syllabus. I kept promising I'd move her closer to me. I even toured a couple of places in Boise, but every time I chickened out, the guilt was well. The guilt was heavy. Like if I put her in a facility, it meant I didn't love her enough. Daniel laughs. Bitter and soft. Your aunt was the one who finally said, Daniel Love isn't measured by who changes the most? Sheets. Marla smiled faintly. The sounds that sounded exactly like Judy. She convinced me. He goes on. We worked with a social worker, found a memory care home here in salmon. It was actually good small kind staff. Mom had her own little garden. I still use their name. Whenever someone at work talks about their parents starting to slip, he looks at his hands, but I never really said thank you properly. Not for the emotional cause, not for the hours Judy spent, not for the fact that she saw my mom every day when I couldn't. He taps the box lightly before she got sick. She started putting things in here for the next caretaker. She'd say after she passed, the attorney contacted me. She left instructions. I was supposed to bring this to you, but not right away. Why not? Marla asked because he says she wrote, don't give it to her while she's still in the thick of it. She won't hear it yet. Wait until the caregiving ends. Wait until she thinks she's supposed to be okay. And isn't Marla swallowed hard because that's exactly where she is. The box is full, but not with what you'd expect. No jury, no bonds, no grand financial surprise. Inside our tools, on top, a laminated list titled, when You're Too Tired to Think, call these people a printed sheet of caregiving, hotlines and mental health numbers. A gift certificate. For three free counseling sessions at a local therapy group that partners with caregivers. It's expired, but the ideal alone makes Marla's chest ache. Under that, a small stack of gas cards, a prepaid Visa card with a faded sticky note for respite only. No grocery guilt. J under that, something more unexpected A slim binder titled The Caregiver's Promise. A Guide, I Wish I had, Marla opened it Inside is part checklist, part love letter, part manual pages labeled if you're just starting to care for someone, if you're somewhere in the messy middle. If you're getting close to the end after when the house is quiet. This is not professional advice. This is kitchen table advice. It's not a replacement for doctors, attorneys, or actual therapists. It's just what I know in my bones. After doing this more than once. There Are sections about how to talk to doctors without shrinking. Why keeping the medication list in one place matters How to create a go bag for emergency visit rooms. Why burnout isn't a moral failure, a biological reality? And then a chapter that makes Marla pause what to do when caregiving ends. And you don't know who you are. She runs her fingers under the words, because that is exactly the question she's been avoiding. The binder doesn't read like a lecture. It reads like Judy sitting at the table talking with her hands, sipping coffee, gone cold. We hear some of the entries as if she's speaking caregiving is a season not an identity. You are a whole person before this. You are a whole person. During this. You'll be a whole person after this even if it takes time to find yourself. When it ends, people will say, now you can rest. What they don't understand is that the body doesn't know it's over. It's still on alert. You might jump at small noises, wake up in the night thinking you forgot a pill. This isn't you being dramatic. It's a nervous system that needs gentleness. Some suggestions, keep one small routine from your caregiving days, but make it just for you. If you always made tea at 9:00 PM for your loved one, keep making tea at 9:00 PM but drink it yourself. If you can. Find one person who will let you talk about the hard parts without flinching, not just the sweet memories the resentment, the fear, the relief. Consider a Support group or a counselor who understands caregivers. Grief is complicated when you've been on duty for years. Between each section, you can almost hear Judy turning to look straight at Marla At every caregiver who thinks they should just bounce back at the bottom of the page it read. If this is in your hands, Marla, please hear me. You did enough. You were enough. You are allowed to live. Now. Marla closes her eyes, tears slipped down her cheeks, quiet, hot. Even now, Judy is still taking care of her. After a while, Daniel checks his watch. I should probably head back to my motel soon, I'm driving to Boise in the morning. Wait, Marla says there's another envelope in the bank box. It has your name on it. She pulls it from her purse and hands it to him. He opens it, scans the contents, and then lets out. A soft surprise laugh. What is it? She asks. He slides a photocopy across the table. It is part of Judy's caregiving Log an entry from one of the final weeks before Elaine moved into memory care. Judy wrote,. I'm scared for him. For Daniel, he thinks being a good son means doing it all himself. It doesn't. It can't. If he keeps going this way, he'll be the next one in the hospital bed. I told him today, you are not a bad caregiver. For taking breaks. You are a living caregiver and living caregivers get tired. He didn't believe me. Maybe one day he will. Maybe he'll be able to tell another caregiver this and they'll believe him faster. Daniel shakes his head. Half amused, half emotional. I've been that guy at work now he says. The guy, the one people find in the break room when their parents start slipping. I repeat her words all the time. You're not bad for needing help. I didn't realize she wrote it down. It's a small moment, but powerful because it proves something. Caregivers often forget the things. They learn in the dark, messy trenches don't just disappear when the season ends. Those lessons become part of the community survival guide. And then Marla remembers something, the note in the cookie jar, she says slowly it mentioned a key. She stands, lifts the jar and tilts it toward the light. On the underside of the base, there's a faint outline of something taped there long ago, the residue of old adhesive. Whatever key used to live there is gone. Did you ever see the jar before, said Daniel. He studies it. No, he says, but he turns the jar slightly squinting at the very edge of the base, almost invisible, are three scratch letters. Like someone used a safety pin or a nail. EPR. Elaine Price, she whispers mom. The room feels suddenly smaller. The jar, the key, the notebook, Daniel, these aren't separate stories. They're threads in the same tapestry, and they're still at least one piece missing. Marla goes back to the Manila envelope from the safety deposit box. The one she opened quickly at the bank and didn't fully examine. She empties it on the table. Out slides a photocopy of an old property deed, a faded brochure of a place called Sacaguwea, adult Day and respite Center, and a single index card with a line written in all. Don't let this close again, she flips the deed over the property address. It is on the outskirts of town. The owner listed Judith E. Harper and Elaine P Price co-owners. The date, years before either of them got sick, Daniel's eyes widen. I, I, I had no idea. He says she never mentioned she owned anything with your aunt. Judith and Elaine didn't just talk about respite. In theory, they tried to build something, an adult day and respite center, a place where caregivers could bring their loved ones for a few hours for safety and supervision and breathe, but something went wrong. The center clearly isn't open. Now the brochure looks like a relic. What does she mean? Don't let this close again, Marla wonders out loud. Daniel flips through the brochure on the back in Tiny Print. There's a mission statement. Marla reads it in Judy's words, Sacaguwea Ridge, adult Daycare and Respite Center, A place where caregivers can't exhale without apology. Where those being cared for are seen not as a burden, but as whole. People founded by two women who learned the hard way that love alone is not enough. You also need backup marla's heart pounds. Because in this moment, the mystery shifts. This isn't just about uncovering Judy's secret past. It's about an unfinished dream. A torch. She might be expected to carry. The practical part of Marla's brain kicks in. I can't run a center. I just barely survive caregiving for two people. I don't have the money, the energy, the knowledge, honestly, those are valid thoughts. Caregivers are often handed projects, responsibilities and opportunities after their season ends. As if their experience automatically translates into capacity. But this is a bigger than a random suggestion. Judy intentionally bought the property, co-signed with Elaine, filed documents, created brochures, hid the paperwork until a very specific moment. Marla flips back to her caregiver log. Near the end, there's an entry marked with a star. If you're finding this, it means the world has already taken more than it ever should from you. I'm not asking you to fix everything. I'm not asking you to sacrifice yourself the way we did. I'm only asking you consider this. What if your healing isn't just about leaving caregiving behind, but about reshaping it, building the kind of support we always needed but never had. If that thought excites you even a little, follow it. If it drains you, close this notebook and go live your life with my blessing. Either way. You are not a failure. You are my legacy. Marla stares at the page for the first time in months. The heaviness in her chest shifts into something else. Not joy. Exactly. Not yet, but possibility. The next morning, just before sunrise, a white truck pulls up in front of an overgrown driveway a few miles outside of town. The camera, if this were TV, would pan to reveal An old building nestled against the trees faded sign, peeling paint, a ramp leading to a double door. The sign reads Sacaguwea Ridge, adult Day and Respite Center. Closed, forgotten Waiting. Marla steps out of the truck, wrapped in a warm coat. Hands tucked in her pockets. Daniel stands beside her, rubbing his gloved hands together. So this is, it looks like it. They walk toward the entrance. The lock on the door is rusty, but the key Judy left fits perfectly. The door creeks as it opens dust mites swirl in the cold morning light inside. They glimpse stacks of old activity calendars, a whiteboard with faint writing, still visible today's theme, music and memory, a shelf of games and puzzles. A faded poster with caregiver stress. It feels like a place that was packed up in a hurry, as if everything, or everyone thought they'd be back on Monday and Monday never came. Marla steps over the threshold. You can almost hear Judy's voice in the silence. She turns back to Daniel. I don't know what this is going to look like, she says, or if we can do it, but I know one thing. What's that? He says she sets her cookie jar down gently on the dusty reception desk. I'm done keeping caregiving stories a secret. If we can find a way, this place won't close again and somewhere in the distance a church bell rings at the hour. Not the ending. A beginning. When caregiving ends, the world expects you to move on, get back to work, get back to your hobbies, get back to yourself. But for many caregivers, there is no way back there, is only forward into something new, something uncertain for Marla, that something looks a lot like an abandoned respite center, a box of old paperwork and a cookie jar full of promises. Will she reopen the Scaa Ridge? Will she decide is too much and walk away? What happens if she lets herself? Imagine a world where caregivers don't have to white knuckle it alone. Those are questions for another day and another episode. For now, maybe you listening are standing on your own threshold between. Who you were before caregiving, who you became during it, and who you might be after, wherever you are on that path, you are not alone, you are not failing, and you are not done. We'll return to Marla, the cookie jar and that mysterious key next week. If you are a caregiver listening to this and feeling that familiar tightness in your chest, I want to put something soft in your hands this holiday season. Introducing the Take care time, respite box, holiday edition from Take Care Time, A one time limited edition box created for caregivers who give and give. And give and almost never receive. This isn't just stuff in a box. It's a little gingerbread themed pause button. Inside you'll find a gingerbread mug and cocoa to sip slowly, even if the world is rushing. A cozy gingerbread themed mystery book to escape into for a while, gingerbread lip balm to soothe dry winter lips, A fizzy gingerbread bath bomb for that rare sacred bath A. You actually take a custom designed gingerbread puzzle for quiet, mindful fun, a whimsical gingerbread pen and a soft gingerbread notebook to capture thoughts vents and little wins nourishing gingerbread lotion and gingerbread soap to turn basic hygiene into a tiny spa moment. Fuzzy gingerbread socks to warm, tired caregiver feet, a gingerbread cookie cutter so you can bake a little joy into your day. And calming gingerbread pinch me dough for those. Hmm. If one more person calls my name moments, you can gift it to a caregiver in your life, or you can do what I strongly recommend. Gift it to yourself with zero guilt. Quantities are limited, and once those ginger boxes are gone, they're gone to next year. You can order your gingerbread holiday respite box at take care of time.com, and if you're sending it to someone else, we'll even include a personalized gift message for you because in a season that demands so much, caregivers deserve a little gingerbread, A little rest, and a reminder that you matter too. Please note. That this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of individuals involved names, and some identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.