In the
photo, a slim, dark-haired young man gives the photographer a mildly amused
smile while a young woman in a light coat beams up at him. I show this black
and white photo from about 1940 to my father and explain, “Look, here you are
with your sister Pat.” Dad reaches out a bony arm from his nursing home bed for
the photo and pulls it close to his face. He’s wearing his glasses, so I figure
he can see it at least somewhat okay; he’s not squinting. His pale face remains
expressionless. He asks, “What are their names?” And so it goes through all the
photos in the small album.
That Dad
does not recognize past scenes is not a surprise. That he can’t identify
himself in a photo or remember his own name is new. He does still know which
room in the Alzheimer’s wing I should steer his wheelchair into. I used to
think he recognized his name on the name plate by his door. And for his first
eight months there, he did know his name. Now I wonder if he recognizes his
Senior Olympics ribbon we tucked behind his name plate. Or maybe, like a blind
person, he just senses about how far down the hall his room is, or its distance
from the lunch tables. Who knows?
*
* *
Is it just my imagination, or
is the pool I’m swimming in changing shapes? In my ninth year of swimming here
in Elder-Care Park, my laps certainly feel much longer. And am I swimming farther
now to grab sides of the pool to rest? Has the narrow, straight-edged pool I
first dove into swelled into an amorphous, bulging blob, lap lanes now fuzzy?
Though my parents are nine
years older since Dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis, I feel 15 years older. That
might be fatigue talking. My six “bonus” years have happened just since last
April. That’s when the hospital wouldn’t release Dad back home to the sole care
of his 90-year-old wife; they would release him only to a nursing home. You
might think when Mom’s grocery lists for me went from Milk of Magnesia, toe separators, bread, latex gloves (lge), bed pad
(waterproof), to nonemergency items like cole slaw (1/4 lb.), grapes (if on sale), and gala apple (1), my
support role would have eased up. Yes, grocery shopping is less painful now,
but other feelings have surfaced.
Seeing my father helpless and
alone in a nursing home stirs up the pool in Elder-Care Park and straps weights
to my wrists and ankles. When my role was grocery shopping and odds and ends,
my laps were energetic butterfly strokes. Helplessly watching Dad’s dramatic
decline slows me to a crawl. It breaks my heart and squeezes my lungs—not ideal
conditions when swimming an indefinite marathon in an infinity pool.
Though Dad napped a lot in his
and Mom’s home, he was eager to putter, work jigsaw puzzles, and play his
favorite music on cassette-tape anthologies he’d recorded in more organized
years. Eventually, he couldn’t make sense of the tape player’s Play button or
Volume dial, but he smiled sublimely while tapping his feet to eclectic mixes
of Fleetwood Mac and Keely Smith, Jimmy Dorsey and Dire Straits. We were more
than happy to operate the machine to see him so happy. And no matter how many
words and functions and memories Dad forgot, he always remembered how to find
the cookie jar.
To see my father’s happy, homey
little world reduced to one small, lonely room surrounded by strangers—well,
it’s crushing. Since then, everyone in our family has been heartbroken for him.
We explored other options but finally had to admit he needs more care than we
can provide. Nine months later, sorrow still makes swallowing hard. Hoping Dad
doesn’t feel abandoned or unloved haunts us. We love him so much. And love is
what we try to convey in every visit to the nursing home. We rejoice in
wide-awake-smiling-conversational visits and sob after hollow-eyed-weak-voiced
visits. The differences in his cognition levels may seem random, but they are
not. As 2011 progressed, Dad’s abilities regressed. Alzheimer’s tightens its death
grip on yet another precious person.
Yet I thank God for oh so many
aspects of Elder-Care Park. One is that my mother has gotten a respite from her
tireless eight-year, 24/7 care of her husband. Another is that as her physical
health declines, she can still enjoy her home and simple pleasures. My husband
has cooked a lot of yummy dinners for us to eat on days I come home from being
with my parents, and two generations of our family have rallied to help our
parents/grandparents any way we can. Also, new family dynamics are developing.
I look forward to seeing them unfold. Weeping willows in Elder-Care Park may
not be as lush as orchids overhanging a Hawaiian beach. Swimming laps may not
be as thrilling as surfing. But God is in the park!
Besides thankfulness, I have
four, no five, joys in all this.
Joy 1: God is the life raft
that floats close to me when a new wave of emotion washes over me. Sometimes I
swim steady laps for days in calm waters—taking Mom meals, buying her
groceries, visiting Dad, thinking up little activities to brighten Dad’s day
and stimulate his diminishing brain cells, driving them both to doctor
appointments, communicating Elder-Care-Park news to out-of-state siblings. Then
suddenly, life pelts my pool with stones like these:
·
First seeing oxygen tubes on my father’s face
·
Aching for the loneliness I see in his hollow eyes
that brighten when we arrive and fill with quivering tears when we leave
·
Remembering Dad and Mom crying together last
April when he asked her, “What’s going to become of us?”
·
Feeling frustrated by and sometimes angry at
institutional rules
·
Feeling completely, utterly helpless as I watch
Alzheimer’s and age steal what’s left of my once-vigorous parents
·
Even sadness that Dad’s desserts are now bowls
of canned fruit, not his favorite—chocolate chip cookies
·
Disappointment that Dad slept, curled up on his
bed, oxygen tank humming air into his nose, his mouth sputtering “puh,” through
his 90th birthday party
·
Lately, new fears for my mom’s frailty
My
heavenly Father knows when such triggers are too much for me, I won’t be able
to glide to a gutter along the pool’s edge to process emotions. His raft is at
my side in a heartbeat. Thanks to God’s grace and mercies, the ripples pulsing
outward from these stones are just eddies of emotion, not tsunamis of suffering.
And you
know what else? This lifesaving raft has a cup holder where God collects all my
tears. I wish I could neatly articulate my emotions since I’ve been in
Elder-Care Park, but I can’t. I sometimes wish I knew which stages of grief I
am in at any given time. I’d really like to make sense of it all. But it’s
pretty much all I can do to fling an arm over the raft, give my roiled-up
feelings to my heavenly Father, and rest in the truth that the Holy Spirit
prays for me with groans too deep for words.
Joy 2: Even
as my arms burn with fatigue, our Lord strengthens them for one more lap, one
more visit, one more letter to the nursing home administrator, one more grocery
list. I’m learning to laugh about my own forgetfulness: Do we need sweet potatoes? Was the sweet potato I bought recently for
my mom or for us? Oh well, if it was for us, I’ll just buy another, no big
deal. I no longer care so much about details. I just have to trust the Lord
to remind me if I forget an important one. Also, God’s coming alongside me
deepens my understanding of biblical concepts like sacrifice of praise, thank
offerings, praying without ceasing, dwelling on what’s excellent and
praiseworthy, and new mercies every morning.
Joy 3: God
expands my heart, exercises lung muscles, and teaches me to number my days
aright. Living in survival mode glues frequent quiet times with the Lord onto
my calendar pages. One engages in much less casual
bible reading when one is desperate. Spiritual lessons abound. Many days I have
only five loaves and two fishes, which frankly, I’d prefer to put on my own
plate. In the lap pool at Elder-Care Park, God drills me in giving out of my
poverty. I have to be much more intentional about saving energy for my husband
and activities that refresh me. Gradually letting go of my parents, I sense
some new freedoms and adjusted priorities.
Joy 4: Two
years ago on my father’s 88th birthday, he asked Jesus to forgive
his sins, come into his heart now, and take him to heaven when he dies.
Whoohoo! Next party I have with Dad, he’ll jitterbug over to the tape player,
press Play, and we’ll make up a glorious, giddy new dance to the “Hallelujah
Chorus.”
Joy 5: I get
to spend time with my parents that I wouldn’t have if they were both still hale
and hearty. My parents are among the most generous people in the world. They
gave me so much. The joy of giving back, of serving them, is more than I could
have asked or imagined. But just their companionship is priceless. I love
sitting at their kitchen table with Mom to share mundane details of our lives.
She’s a news junkie, fascinating and well-informed. And in an election
year—whoa, look out. She’ll be sharp. I love sitting at Dad’s bedside to page
through a photo album or book of animal photos and to play his favorite songs
for him. Plus, these years with my parents allow me to tell them how much they mean to me.
Okay, I selfishly admit to Joy 5a, which may be more peacock pleasure than true joy. I am a
major techno-weenie by anyone’s standards, except my mother’s. Though she’s far
outpaced me in conducting life’s business on the Internet, she still needs a
little tutoring now and then. Setting up a Microsoft Word table or Excel
spreadsheet for Mom is about the only time I feel smart sitting at a computer.
***
Elder-Care
Park is this season of my life. I have no idea what season God might ordain
next for me. Whatever it is, I know His plan, purposes, and presence will be in
the new season, too, whenever it comes. Meanwhile, I’m just here swimming and
resting, swimming and resting, which is a bit like living in the moment. Modern
philosophers urge, “Live in the moment,” but this is certainly not a new
concept. In Matthew 6, Jesus tells us not to worry about tomorrow. Isaiah
43:18, 19 also says not to dwell on the past; rather to see the new thing God
is doing now. Funny … All a late-stage Alzheimer’s patient has is the moment. Though
my dad has no idea how his example helps me grasp this biblical concept, it is
at my father’s bedside where I most strongly experience God-designed, living-in-the-moment
peace.
