Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Correction...
...to the following sentence, the last in the last post: "This is what intense caretaking, when done alone by necessity, eventually does to even the best of us." The correction is the addition of the salmon colored words: "This is what intense caretaking of our declining ones (who are not always Ancient Ones) eventually does to even the best of us."
You see, solitary, intense caretaking of children is often done by one of two parents, whether the parents are together or separated. While I don't believe this is the best of circumstances, the journey of that caregiving is quite different than what caregivers do for the declining and/or elderly. As the child grows to adulthood the giving becomes less and less intense. Despite our desire as a society (or, perhaps, as a species) to liken old age to childhood, the two are nothing alike. One is a gradual stretch into personal competence in life. The other is a gradual shrinking from personal competence in life. Normally, taking care of a child slowly releases both the child and the caregiver into their own lives. Taking care of an Ancient or Declining One slowly grips both the caregiver and the charge into a union which blurs the boundaries between the two people's lives. I am, for instance, now, not only the person whose arm my mother grips when she walks, I am her thirst, her appetite, so many of her bodily indicators upon which she can no longer rely. I am sometimes parts of her will, although she retains a great deal of this. I am also her interpreter, to not only others but to herself.
These are not tasks that someone can do continually well alone without occasional replenishment. I am not talking about pats on the back and words of admiration or gratitude. I am not even talking about vacations of hours or days from one's charge. I am talking about reliable, personally involved, personally aware comrades in arms. It would be a relief if I were not the only one who, at any particular moment, was assiduously tuning in to my mother's being to know whether she needs a glass of water, a change of underwear, a nap, a walk, a laugh, some mental stimulation, a leg massage, a meal, a bit of sun, a bit of shade, more or less of one of her medications or supplements, a level higher or lower on her oxygen, a lighter or heavier approach from a healer, a change of scenery, no change of scenery, to sit, to stand, to sleep, to awaken, an advocate, a guardian, a child, a friend, a provider, a lover, and to provide each of these and many more. It would be a relief...
"Enjoy her," said the man at Costco who recently lost his own mother. I have. I do. I will. With every scrap of my being. And when it is over, when she has died, I can assure you, I will be too exhausted to be able to allow anyone who has not taken advantage of this time in my mother's life to enjoy her personally on her terms, to enjoy her in absentia through me. This is not a threat. It is a sad, tired prophecy.
You see, solitary, intense caretaking of children is often done by one of two parents, whether the parents are together or separated. While I don't believe this is the best of circumstances, the journey of that caregiving is quite different than what caregivers do for the declining and/or elderly. As the child grows to adulthood the giving becomes less and less intense. Despite our desire as a society (or, perhaps, as a species) to liken old age to childhood, the two are nothing alike. One is a gradual stretch into personal competence in life. The other is a gradual shrinking from personal competence in life. Normally, taking care of a child slowly releases both the child and the caregiver into their own lives. Taking care of an Ancient or Declining One slowly grips both the caregiver and the charge into a union which blurs the boundaries between the two people's lives. I am, for instance, now, not only the person whose arm my mother grips when she walks, I am her thirst, her appetite, so many of her bodily indicators upon which she can no longer rely. I am sometimes parts of her will, although she retains a great deal of this. I am also her interpreter, to not only others but to herself.
These are not tasks that someone can do continually well alone without occasional replenishment. I am not talking about pats on the back and words of admiration or gratitude. I am not even talking about vacations of hours or days from one's charge. I am talking about reliable, personally involved, personally aware comrades in arms. It would be a relief if I were not the only one who, at any particular moment, was assiduously tuning in to my mother's being to know whether she needs a glass of water, a change of underwear, a nap, a walk, a laugh, some mental stimulation, a leg massage, a meal, a bit of sun, a bit of shade, more or less of one of her medications or supplements, a level higher or lower on her oxygen, a lighter or heavier approach from a healer, a change of scenery, no change of scenery, to sit, to stand, to sleep, to awaken, an advocate, a guardian, a child, a friend, a provider, a lover, and to provide each of these and many more. It would be a relief...
"Enjoy her," said the man at Costco who recently lost his own mother. I have. I do. I will. With every scrap of my being. And when it is over, when she has died, I can assure you, I will be too exhausted to be able to allow anyone who has not taken advantage of this time in my mother's life to enjoy her personally on her terms, to enjoy her in absentia through me. This is not a threat. It is a sad, tired prophecy.
