Love, at a Distance
It’s 6:45 am and I awake ready for
a quick prayer before I have to walk the dog, feed him and the cat, and get on
with my day. Mom stirs in the other room
but remains asleep. I, grateful for the
bit of alone time, quickly move about our small apartment, deftly re-positioning
the items on our rickety dining room table which never seem to remain in place
for very long. In 15 minutes I’m ready
to prepare breakfast, prep lunch and dinner, and get on with the duty of
helping my mom to live. I’m 40. She’s 75
and spry, but often in agonizing pain from arthritis and a laundry list of
other ailments. This pain winds her already
acerbic character into a spiral of bad moods, bad words, and bad attitudes
about everything, and everyone, including her caregiver, me.
I burn [1]in
the kitchen. In no time flat I've got
breakfast hot and delicious on the table accompanied by coffee and juice. I’m proud of myself, of how well I care for
the mother who cared for me. She
grimaces and winces, peering at the plate with suspicious eyes. “Is there any grease in it?” She asks,
afraid of what the answer might be. “No,
mom. It’s safe.” I reply, hoping like hell it really is. I mean, I used non-stick spray and a butter
substitute, but sometimes even these things upset her testy gall bladder. She shrugs, resigned, and begins to eat. I exhale.
The days pass each in similar
treatment. One upon another, and
another, and again on into the next week.
The months pass un-remarked upon.
No outstanding days, no get togethers, no visits of note. My world shrinks. The seasons just roll into each other outside
our picture window, over the red velvet couch which doubles as my bed. Flowers, leaves, bare branches, ice,
etcetera. In my imagination I’m living a
cloistered life, repenting for something done on the outside, something so
sinful and forbiddingly exciting I had to be locked away in this most beautiful
and delicately composed little place. We
live in her seniors village. A place so
charmingly laid out it looks like a movie set, a well-manicured suburbia in
miniature. Baton
Rouge was recently voted America ’s most canopied city and
this piece of the town displays its ancient trees with boastful exuberance as
spindly, yet powerful branches stretch over our rooftops, making shade and interesting
shadows over our perfect little lawns.
Enchanting. From our window cows
can be heard lowing. In walking distance
is a lovely field where many chew and stare into nothing, while the
accompanying horses ignore them, keeping to themselves. My mother, a semi-retired minister, could not
have landed someplace more beautiful, more dreamy. At night stars boldly shine, not the least
bit deterred by the brash lights of the nearby Circle K. I regularly pick out the Big Dipper, and
luxuriate in the beauty of the natural world.
After 20 years of living in the world’s biggest and baddest [2]cities
no one in my family thought I would ever find satisfaction living here
again. I knew better because I know me
better than they do. The quietude and
peaceful rushes of nature here that natives take for granted soothe and
de-stimulate me. I feel happy and not the
least bit at odds with anything. Well,
except my relationship with Mom, which has always been difficult to navigate
and now has become a warped association built on resentment, fear, and healthy
amounts of guilt, instead of the loving give and take I’d envisioned when I
left my job in Los Angeles
and drove the 1800 miles to be with her.
“Church today, Mom?” I ask, trying to sound chipper, but not too
much so. I dance in my words, searching
for the tone and combination least likely to set her off. We dance with each other. She, lacking any stimulation in her life, often
tries to start a fight. I usually avoid
taking the bait. “Church? Hm. If my hip
will stop hurting long enough. But don’t
let me stop you. You just do whatever
you want. Dear.” I smile faintly and grit my teeth. I've been here a year now and still cringe at
these little jabs. Wordlessly I get her
the pain medication which will take the edge off. Just as silently she accepts the pink tablets
and swallows them down, water trickling from her sunken chin. My mother had been a great beauty once. Her 3 marriages and 6 children proof of her
desirability. To see within the sagged
face in front of me vestiges of the women I remembered is heart wrenching. I want to fix it. Age. I
want to fix this problem for her. But, I
can’t. None of us can…and it breaks my
heart.
“I was thinking of going to the
movies with Mary Ann…” Before I can
finish, an onslaught of angry words are spat into my face.
“How could you even think of
leaving me on a Sunday?”
“I don’t want to be alone with your
worrisome pet!”
“Didn't you even think I’d want to
come, too?”
I’m dumbfounded. Speechless.
After endless days of washing, cooking, shopping for her, helping her to
get dressed…after endless days of not taking one personal phone call or leaving
the house for a non-Walmart related trip surely I deserved a little
outing? And, with my own sister, surely
she couldn’t object to this. But she does. Anger wells up inside me and I bite my lip,
determined to keep in all the words I’d like to shoot back. I call my sister, cancel the trip, and sit on
the couch, my bed, ready to jump out of my skin.
Many people are right now in my
position, called upon, or hinted upon, to move in with and care for an elderly
parent. In their despair and fear they
appeal to our instinct to protect them, and to repay them for a lifetime of
care. Often we consent, afraid to offer
much protest or any conditions for fear of looking as if we do not care. Let my story be of use to you as you
contemplate this situation in your own life.
If you are fortunate to have a living parent, it is likely that at some
point long-term care plans will need to be addressed.
Love your parent. It is necessary to love your parent in order
to care for them. You may not like
them. That’s ok. You may not see eye-to-eye on many important
issues, like religion, politics, or how long a turkey should stay in the oven,
but that’s ok, too. See eye-to-eye on
the simple fact of you loving them. This
sounds insultingly basic, but when the rigors of daily care begin to grind your
bones, and patience, to dust, this simple edict will become very hard to follow
through on.
On July 2nd, 2011 I and
my dog, Louis, drove from Los Angeles to Baton Rouge to visit Mom,
and the entire family. I made the drive
in only 2 days, covering over 900 miles per day. I was a machine, spurred on by the fear that
Mom wasn’t doing well and needed me, and by the knowledge that others in the
family also weren’t doing so great and might benefit from my involvement in
their lives. It was a reconnaissance
mission. I’d been toying with the idea
of moving home for years and wanted to survey the territory. I arrived to find everyone fairly healthy,
and very beautiful. Except for Mom. She was drawn and wan. Her skin looked ruddy and her feet were
bloated. I inspected her fridge. I’m a nutrition nut and strong, annoying
advocate of healthy eating at all costs.
Inside I saw canned peaches, in high fructose corn syrup, and packs of
grits. No fresh veggies. No yogurt.
Nothing good. I flipped, and went right
into Savior mode. I was going to save my
mommy from herself, fix her health and her life, then ride off into the sunset and
back to my own great life. We had a huge fight.
A fight so nasty I said the truth about some painful things right to her
face. Two days earlier than planned I
jumped in my car and drove, dog riding shotgun, towards the Texas border and my cozy life in LA. About an hour from the state line I surfaced
out of my fury enough to realize that she’d been trying to apologize when I’d
stormed out. I turned around and went
back to her, a grown woman, not her child, ready to talk. Despite the venom in our relationship I loved
her and wanted to help. I was confident
that I could and that it would benefit her.
We concluded our talk like adults and I felt sure. I drove back to LA more matured, dedicated,
and deluded than ever. I moved to Baton Rouge permanently
90 days later.
The first few weeks were choppy,
but both she and I were buoyed by the newness of each other. She told all of her cronies that her
daughter, the singer from Los Angeles ,
had given up her career to move in and take care of her. I cooked three meals a day and prepped
snacks. I cleaned daily. I grocery shopped so much the staff at the
local Walmart began to call me by name and customers ask me for help! I neglected to care for myself, to prove to
her and to everyone else just how dedicated I was. Over the next 12 months I would gain 37
pounds.
Naturally, I’m a very social person
and the monotony of always only being in the company of Mom began to wear on
me. I was virtually new to the city and needed
friends my own age. I was single and
also needed to date. I love Louisiana and longed to
travel to see more of the state, to go to festivals and ball games. I thought I’d coax her out of her shell and
reintroduce her to life. I tried to get
her to come with me. However, her
reasons for staying in were always ready and sure. “My hip…”,
“Acid reflux flaring up…”, “I
can’t stand for long…”. I would always
feel slightly, to hugely guilty and opt to stay in with her instead. Then I realized that these complaints were
often ready aids to help her self-imposed isolation. My once vibrant, active Mom had become a near
recluse, angry at and afraid of the larger world.
I know pain will affect how we
relate to each other and our environment.
I am not callous. I cannot say
that I know how she feels. She is 35
years my senior and has birthed 6 people into this world. She has lived through tough times, lean
times, hellish times, and come out AOK each time. She’s a fighter and a survivor, which is why
her acquiescence to this age thing is so upsetting. When I realized, after months of failed
attempts to get her out of the house for more than her weekly trip to get the
tv guide and a couple of other short jaunts, that she was not going to budge, I
moved on in my spirit and began to venture out into my beautiful new city to
make a place for myself within it. Mom
went berserk.
Stockholm syndrome is where kidnap
victims take on the cause of their kidnappers and support them. They come to believe as their captors do and
accept their actions as right, even when they are damaging. For a time I bought into her vision for us
both, a spinster caring for an aged doyenne, cramped up in a 3 room cottage on
the edge of town near fields of cattle and felled trees. I felt ashamed for wanting a normal
life. She needed me, after all, and
hadn’t I had decades on my own to pursue all manners of self interest? I gave in and stayed in. “Geez, J, you look old!” A dear niece not known for her tact told me
after a few months. She was right. I struggled and eventually deprogrammed
myself and began venturing out. However,
at each attempt to go anywhere…movies, lunch with new friends, the park…I was
met with an increasing amount of hostility.
My movements were chastened down to microsteps. My calls were eavesdropped on. My life was removed from my control. I was 12 again living with an angry mom,
jealous of my budding life and her waning one.
I was kept in line with her episodes of illnesses, her rancor, her
sadness.
Living there with her cost me a
year of my life. I moved onto her couch
on October 4, 2011. On November 1, 2012
I fled, pets in tow, to live with a sister 5 miles down the road. I had wanted to stay to help our Mom. For three years prior she had hinted, then
outright begged for me to move home to care for her. I had my doubts but wanted to believe that we
would be good for each other, and for a time we were, as long as I lived my
life accoriding to her terms. I’m
40. I met my birthday on the red couch,
my fine furnishings in some storage shed in the San
Fernando Valley , my clothes scattered among relatives, my dog anxiety-ridden
and myself? Overweight, angry, and disillusioned. One day as I was joylessly going about my duties
feeding her, her constant complaints seemed nastier than usual, vacillating
between accusations of me and all of her children and a nagging about the world
in general. I realized with a dull
horror that I did not love my mother. I
did not, any longer, love this person. I
finished cooking and sat defeated with her while she complained about my food
and just stared at the floor.
To care for someone you must love
them. I knew this and strove to reignite
love for my Mom. I journaled, reminding
myself of how wonderful she had been in times past. I prayed for understanding. I scolded myself for my weakness. Glimmers of love would resurface, briefly,
before being stomped out by a mean remark or sideways glance. She was so mean, so rude and cruel. It was horrific to live with someone who
seemed to want me whisked away into oblivion, only the parts that cook, clean and
bear witness to her complaints permitted to remain. Strangely I never cried. However, often, I despaired and lost
hope. But, older and wiser now, I just
couldn’t abandon myself completely and I began to do something quite odd, at
least for me. I began to fight.
There is power in movement. When we make a commitment to move the
Universe moves with us in agreement.
Many little events presented themselves to help me to reclaim myself and
strengthen my resolve that I was doing the right thing. First, I made a friend who, surprise
surprise, insisted on hanging out and having fun. I would plan for our outings like battles,
plotting out how I would tell Mom I’d be leaving the house, finding a sitter
for my pets, ensuring her food was prepared well in advance. It was exhausting, and frightening, because I
knew when I returned I would be met with some punishment for having
gone…yelling, a story of how she became sick, a threat. Still, I went, and more and more, I felt
strong. Secondly, a starving kitten
adopted me. He was orange and white with
gold eyes. Though I tried for a week to
find him a home no one wanted him and I did cry then, to the mother with whom I
lived, to be allowed to keep him, to give him a shot a life. She softened and the kitten stayed, but the
fear and helplessness I felt at not being able to show compassion as I saw fit
was a huge wake up call. I was an adult
and needed my own space. The most
significant thing to happen was my accepting what would turn out to be a heavy
volunteer position with a local charity which required me to be out of the
house all day sometimes into the night.
She hated having me gone and raised a huge ruckus. Still, I had an excuse, and a purpose, and I spent
6 weeks more out of the house than in.
In that time, in that new, calm environment, my frayed nerves healed and
became strong. I became ready to take on
more in life again. I was clear and knew
what I needed to do. Another fight
ensued. I sent a text to my sister and
moved into her home the very next day.
To care for someone you must love
them. I slept on a paper thin twin mattress
on the living room floor in my sister’s home. She, my dear friend and compatriot, was at
that time in the natty grip of depression since the death of her 31 year old
son 18 months prior from the cancer which had ravaged him since childhood. She had not really cleaned up since his
passing. The environment was insane,
especially to my obsessively neat and clean way of thinking. My dog and cat, and my sister’s dog crawled intermittently
over me as I tried to sleep. Smells rose
up from under the couch. The porch light
burned all night and seeped through the drapes, falling over my face. Frequently heavy freight trains clacked along
the rusted tracks which lay only one block away. The house would rock and sway as they passed,
sounding off key, shrill horns for far too long. I was in heaven. With all of that chaos I was still free from the
all night blare of my semi-deaf Mom’s TV, from her angry after hours shuffling
while flinging on lights to get sympathy, and company from me, and from the
nagging, exhausting feeling of being unwanted yet needed. On the thin mattress on the dirty floor I
slept well and thankful to be somewhere where I felt welcomed and free. After a couple of luxurious days I stopped by
Mom’s house to pick up a few things and to say hi. She was apprehensively welcoming. I was nonchalant and pretended nothing was
wrong. I stayed only a few minutes but
when I rose to leave, I found myself kissing her balding head. As my lips grazed her nobby scalp, I realized
I had not kissed or hugged her in months.
For those of you facing this issue please
consider much before giving in to the pleading parent begging you to move in
with them and care for them. Think of
many things before making your final decision.
It is very hard to extricate yourself from the situation once within it
without bad feelings. Living on your own
and caring for them as they continue to live on their own allows for
independence for all involved. They
retain their way of life and avoid feeling smothered or judged by ours. We remain free to craft our lives to suit our
needs. This space allows all to feel
enlivened by each other instead of drained.
You cannot love when you have nothing but resentments available to
share. Cramped up with each other,
imposed upon by each other, every minor irritation is amplified and the elderly
parent becomes emotionally dependent on the caregiver, small and frightened,
further driving the caregiver into guilt and reservations, feeling mean for
standing up for their rights to continue to live an expanding life in the
presence of someone who no longer wants to do so, and wants company along their
narrowing road of experience.
I now live alone in the old house
once shared with my sister. My pets and
I are grateful to have the entire space to ourselves. We live without scrutiny and at our own pace,
creating life on our own terms. I feel
refreshed and energized by life, as it should be, and can now share myself with
my mother in her good moods and bad, giving her my best each time. Love and obligation are dangerous
bedfellows. Love is a luxury. It’s value is in the act of its being
given. When forced, it withers and
corrodes. It is hard to meet the needs
of an aging parent in a loving way when feeling forced to do so. The startling occurrence of our their
descent into old age can bring about powerful feelings of fear and rage as we
watch helplessly while our once capable stalwarts become feeble and
frightened. Remembering who they once
were, to themselves and to us, can propel us into heroic fits of rescue. But to rescue we have to be strong and
sure. I am of the opinion that living
with our declining parents is more apt to make us over tired and
conflicted. As people get older, their
bodies do not require as much sleep, so we may find that our parents roam
around much of the night. The caregiver,
younger and often very tired, does not benefit from those nocturnal wanderings.
Also, their dimming senses affect the
overall environment in significant ways.
TVs are played louder, air conditioners are either overused or underused,
and, if depression has set in, curtains may tend to stay drawn, intensifying
feelings of claustrophobia and isolation. Living full-time in circumstances such as
these would drain the strongest of us.
Take note, feeling drained is the first step to loosing that loving
feeling, and once lost, it may be very hard to find. There are other options instead of
cohabitation, even for those of us with limited financial resources that allow for
the benefit of all involved.
Call Upon Other Family.
If you have siblings please discuss
this issue with them. You may be the one
with the time, or the youth, or the income they see as perfect to be the
primary caregiver. But it is not your
burden alone. Frankly discuss with them what
you need in order to ensure your parent is cared for. Shifts or days or even times of year can be worked
out as some visit the parent while others receive them in their homes. If a home health aid must be hired, check
with your parent’s insurance to see what may be covered. If nothing then calculate the amount needed
to hire this person just for the times required, like overnight, and take up a monthly
collection from the siblings.
Move Closer.
I used to be an extremist. Life was either black or white. Hence, I lived in New
York , then Los Angeles .
Solace came when I learned to live in
the gray, the middle of hard extremes.
You don’t need to live with them, or them with you. You can find a place of your own within a
short distance from their home, or move them closer to yours. In either case, to better help them, let
their neighbors know who you are and give one or two your cell number to
contact you in case of emergencies.
Help Them Regain Some Purpose.
I set my Mom up on a volunteer
position with a local hospital. Though
she eventually gave it up, for a time she was happy. Don’t give up on this! I have introduced her to women her own age.
I have yet to become a parent. However, I study people and have more than a
few times noted the heartbreaking occurrence of a child passing with age from
clinging baby to distant relation over the course of many years. The parent becomes a left over, underwelcomed
at family events, marginally tolerated.
Perhaps this is why I am as yet without children. As much as I love them, the realist in me
concedes that this fate is possible for even the most devoted parent and it
frightens me. I do not advocate putting
your parent into a nursing home except when absolutely necessary. They, and you will feel better keeping the
situation family only for as long as you all can. If you have grown apart from your parent, get
back close now. It rends my soul to have
to tell you this, but they are not going to make it. None of us are. We are all here on a limited visa and, as
someone who has already buried half her family, I can attest that old grudges
mean nothing over a freshly filled grave.
Let it go. The cruel things
they’ve said and done and instigated, the lies, the fights. It’s not weakness or foolhardy, it’s
wise. If you love them enough to have
read this far then I’ll wager you love them enough to move into a new
relationship with them, annoying though they may be. Love is complex and needs strange, disparate
things to survive. Take it from me, you
may well be ready to become a new person by way of this experience. Engage your family. They need to share this with you. You need to get to know them better and
differently though this. Be there, all
of you, for each other. Now.
I am not an oracle. I do not know why we can be called upon to
nurture and support the very people we well may blame for many of our
problems. Perhaps it is to be acquainted with their
humanity, to see their frailty and release old resentments. Perhaps it is for our own salvation that this
cosmic joke is set up for our willingness to knock down. All halos belong to angels but through
actively loving our ailing parents we earn our own, becoming just as divine. They get to see just who we really are
through our care for them, and we get to see them as people, their fear,
regrets, pains.
I love the rain and today is
beautiful. The sky has darkened early
and heavy torrents are pelting the house with that delicious rhythm all storm
lovers know and find captivating. Yet, the
roof leaks in several places and flood waters rise dramatically in front of my
house. In my mind, I’m back in Los Angeles , careening
down La Brea in my fast little car with the jaunty spoiler, on my way to see
friends or window shop. I’m missing my
old life today. The old house I’m in now
needs as much work as I do and the prospect of making all the renovations in
good time is daunting. Things are
different here. No cattle lowing, but
plenty of outside cats roam and prowl, happy to eat the food I and other
neighbors provide. In thanks they leave
muddy pawprints on our cars. This area
is hurricane ravaged, but has managed to stay lovely even in this state of
ruin. The house next to mine has caved
in. Sometimes the elderly man who still
attempts to live there will show up and risk a night in his former home, which
is the only one he’s ever known. It had
been his father’s, and his grandfather’s before. A young neighbor asked him why he chooses to
stay. “It’s my house.” He softly
replied, tones of complete incredulity in his subdued baritone. “I love it here.” The neighbor shrugged and walked on.
I hold out hope for a more love-filled
tomorrow. Already my Mom has visited me
twice. I bough an antique rocking chair
just for her, at great risk to my pet’s tails.
I’m proud to have her in my life.
My love for her has returned and all it took was a little space.
A caregiver is more than a maid and
a nurse. We are their allies in the
great battle for dignity their aging selves are waging. We are their friends. Only we forget in the face of our own fears
and theirs, which so often manifest as anger.
My Mom gets confused sometimes.
When I lived with her, with no privacy, on her couch, I would loose my
patience. Sometimes I even fancied she
was doing it on purpose. How cruel of
me. Now, I gently guide her conversation
back on track when it veers. I laugh
with her as she acknowledges her slips.
I’m rested enough to be kind again and I like this me so much more. So does she.
Her fears, the wild erratic imaginings that prompted her to beg me to
move in with her left the moment the reality of my daily presence in her small
cottage set in. Closer. She needed me closer, not under her
feet. I organize a kitchen very
differently than she. I’m always cold
and hate air conditioning. She is always
hot. We were like a mismatched couple
trying to keep a limping marriage alive, too afraid to admit we’d be better off
as friends.
It is winter now and the air has
that delicious woodsmoke laced flavor from the many chimneys nearby. The sky is almost always steel gray and pale
blue with stringy clouds lazily stretching out in the cold winds. The beauty of it is enough to make me
weep. I love this time of year. I love the short days and crisp air. I love making the house all warm and
cozy. I’m a homebody and nothing
delights me more than caring for those I love, and that often involves food. I cook and deliver it to Mom, as do my
sisters and sister in law. We all know
how lucky we are, how precious this time is.
Mom is more relaxed than I’ve known her to be in a very long time. With me gone she can pretend that she is
still young and capable, and AOK. So can
we. I kiss her now, with a little hug,
and I mean it.
Sometimes we need to just step back
a bit from those we love in order to love them more, or at all. You have to love someone to care for them. It’s designed that way for our
betterment. If you can live with your
parent, loving them all the while as you care for them, then you are fortunate
indeed. However, for most of us, parents
and children, the close proximity is counterproductive. Two of my dear friends are going through this
very thing. Both have moved in with
their mothers. We were like a club,
sharing our frustrations and fears often over the phone. Marly, a teacher, lives is in Los Angeles . Angela is in Atlanta .
Marly’s mom was a agile, smoking, opinionated 87. She would speak to her 54 year old divorced
daughter as if she were still 12. She
afforded her no privacy and also made her feel guilty for the love and time spent
on her little dog. Marly lived with her for
the very last year of her life. She said
she does not regret it but admitted that it was not what she’d hope it would
be. The care she provided was
agonizingly strained though layers of frustration, confusion, and exhaustion. Angela, a successful entrepreneur in her late
30s, is still living with her mom, a young woman of only 63. She cannot have guests without a fuss
ensuing. She cannot date easily because
her mom hates being in the house alone and, a particularly religious lady, also
chides her daughter for spending the night out with her boyfriend. Whether anyone agrees or not, it is this
adults right to decide for herself in this matter. The overall strain has become too much and
Angela is looking for an apartment nearby.
Her mom, she says, is pleading with her daughter to stay. She asked me for advice. Gently, and with as much tact as could be
applied to a harsh truth, I replied. She
thanked me for my candor and made preparations to move into a complex 10
minutes away.
Life is a strange mystery. So many lessons learned we want to pass
on. It is humbling and odd to think that
some lessons are meant for us alone, in that moment of time, and will not apply
to either us or anyone else ever again.
I’ve learned so many things in my life.
As I write, there are many little omissions along this subject line that
only apply to my mother and me right now, today. What you have here is an overview, so if you
do not see enough information to satisfy your curiosity about your particular
situation, take heart and glean from this distillation of my experience what
works for you and fill in the rest with those lessons of your own. You can do this. It is natural law to outlive our parents and,
as such, be called upon to attend to their needs. My mother’s mother passed quickly. There was no illness, no decline. She was fine. Feisty and strong and then
taken from us. Come to think of it, all
of my grandparent’s had good transitions.
No one was hospitalized or lingered.
All were strong and vibrant right up until that moment. For many of us, though, a period of extended
care. There are so many decisions to
make. I was my father’s primary
caregiver for the last year of his life.
I was only 29 when his cycle of stroke/hospitalization/skilled
care/nursing home/stroke, etc. began. It
was so hard. I’m his only daughter. My Daddy was strong and such an icon in my
little life. I wanted to love the life
back into his body. I tried my
hardest. When he passed, I felt that I
had failed, let him down. If only I had
been there more, done more, tried harder!
But I lived in New York and he lived in
Virginia . I had a job and a husband. A life.
I jumped onto trains or into rental cars at each turn for the worse and
appeared, hoping, this time, my presence and care would be enough to turn
things around. But, death and age
won. Well, with Ma, not this time would
it be allowed to win. I would scare it
away with my dedication and self sacrifice.
I should never have agreed to move in with her. I should never have packed up a rather
complex life in only 90 days and streaked across country with no job, no
resources, no house waiting for me to occupy, no plan, nothing but my fear of
failing her, as I believed I did Daddy, which rode hard on my tail and
propelled me to go for it no matter what the cost to my own soul, sanity, and
happiness. I was on a mission, and still
am, yet I’m wiser and more settled in my spirit, more accepting of who and what
I really am, and ready to make changes in the gray to fit more than just one
person’s needs. My needs are valid. They do count and, as it is for all of us,
they must be attended to if we’re to continue growing as human beings. My nervousness has almost vanished. The weight of constantly being on call,
scrutinized, lashed out at any moment is whipped from my shoulders. I’m at home in my old, run down bungalow on
the tortured side of town. Funny. I had to leave in order to give more of my
better self.
I love and like my Mother. I crave her company now, as it should be, and
she mine. We call each other all day
long like school chums and gossip about harmless little topics. I make us tea when she comes over and am sad
to see her go, hunched over and moving ever slower. I thank God for her with every breath. I forgive her for every slight, every
overt. I accept her help with gratitude instead
of suspicion. I trust her judgment. Sure there are moments when I feel irritated,
but they do not color our entire relationship as once they did. Those feelings ebb away with the close of the
visit what’s left is a warm feeling of appreciation for the 40 years I’ve been privileged
to spend in her company. Don’t be
afraid. Just get still, and ask that
part of yourself that always knows just what to do just what should be done about
your particular situation. And, remind
yourself of the overall goal, not to provide a service for your aging parent, but
to be a dear friend. Then figure out how
best to be that.
Jennifer Tucker is a writer living
in Baton Rouge , Louisiana
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