I had known it in theory. I too would need to be held at bay.
It has been hard on me to realize, at early length with greater and greater concern, that my father will need – does need – assistance of a sort that he is unlikely to receive.
When I first thought of assistance I thought of a nurse, stuck to someone’s side, helping with feeding, with bathing, with dressing, with changing the channel on the television. That kind of thing, I am glad to report, is not at all what my father needs, nor would he tolerate it. This is a man who’s undeniably in full control of his wits. His mind is entirely there.
There are two slightly different kinds of need, at the moment, I could see needing to be addressed.
First, there are activities my father is no longer able to do for himself easily, but which greatly affect the ease with which he navigates the world. Things like reading a tape measure (he’s rebuilt the front door to the house, and while perfectly solid, it no longer fits in the doorway because it’s the wrong size), threading pipes together without cross-threading them, or seeing that there is another rubber gasket in the package from which a new kitchen fixture was produced. It is the kind of thing that requires both eyes (depth perception), or fine motor skills, or … just a little added sensory input. These are small tasks, no need for training, yet if they go poorly they could turn any project into a daylong slog. I also believe that these are the kinds of things my father would gladly receive help with doing.
The second kind of assistance my father would profit from is a little more tricky. It would be the kind of care you’d expect from … his partner, his children, siblings or other family, in the last resort friends, and yes indeed, a paid nurse. Help of the sort: making sure he changes his socks daily, does not sleep with his clothes on (the same he wore while demolishing a wall, or sanding a block of wood, or greasing his tools), or to tell him if he needs to bathe, to help him with a shave. These are more personal points, points that require a bit of intimacy, something not easily gained from a man who’s famous for being fiercely independent, a bastion of self reliance and self sufficiency.
There are, of course, occasional accidents, and the somewhat more frequent bouts of choking, which are of even greater urgency – but those are not so easily mitigated, even with assistance, paid, trained, or not.
It was after weeks of being here, and after one severe choking incident, that I decided that the only thing I could really do for my father was to move in.
I won’t go into the background of how this was received, but suffice it to say it was not unanimously cheered and supported.
For a few days this seeming impasse, I on the “ aye” side and several others on the “nay” side, dragged on. I experienced what I can only describe as a ‘loving imperative’, it sounded a bit like this inside my head, “I must do everything in my capacity to … blah blah blah”.
Yes, it was certainly out of Love. Yes it was (at least at a distance) selfless and caring. Yes it clearly was my intention to ensure that my father would receive the highest quality of caring, and thereby the highest quality of life, he could receive (remember, he does not need medical, or true nursing, care). I wanted someone who could be nearby, not hovering, but present, alert to the kinds of physical difficulties he encounters (such as going out and buying a two meter long, one inch thick steel bar, and then discovering that it is too heavy to haul by hand across town via public transport – among others), and to address them as they unfolded.
Not someone to ‘do things with’ my father at all times of the waking day. But just to have someone in the house who would reach out and hold the ladder when he climbed on it, or be sure the tools got put away if it were going to rain, to toss out the wilted potatoes in the ice box, to monkey with the routers when the internet goes out, or to jot down the small numbers on the fluorescent light bulb that burnt out so that he can buy another one.
My motives, I felt, and feel, were true, and good, and loving. But that’s not enough.
What eventually ended the impasse I’d put myself in was my dawning realization that living here with my father would mean – living here, with my father, in my father’s home, the way he wants to live in his home.
I came to Rio specifically to prevent well-meaning friends and family from interfering with his wishes, imposing their own remedies to whatever problems they might have perceived or projected upon him. It was precisely that side of the story I then found myself occupying. It was me who needed to be held at bay. It was now my turn to see problems “that should be addressed”, and for which I could happily, lovingly, provide a solution to. We have met the enemy, and he is us.
Over the course of two days while exploring the idea of living here I became certain that my father and I don’t live in homes the same way. Seeing the house like that was both an affirmation of his vitality and independence, and liberating to me. He does in it what he wishes, how he wishes. When he decides to tear down a wall it is not my part to question if that is such a good idea. If he decides to use old PVC pipes that have been much too used in the past, it is not my place to harangue him with my own point of view (no matter how righteously held) about the matter. This is his terrain, and these are his tools, his projects, his affairs – and it is not that he is unable to take care of them! That is the fundamental pivot point upon which this whole experience of being in Rio gyrates.
My father is managing incredibly well for a man of almost 90. He buys his own food, he manages his own finances, he carries out home improvements, he has house guests, he contracts labor … he has built this life for himself, and he continues to administer it. Anyone who would intervene, even yours truly, would be imposing something from the outside that would be incommodious. I’m not welcome. Not in the sense that I’m rejected in my father’s own home, but in the sense that he is his own, autonomous entity, and part of that means he is not ready to yield control over how and what he does to someone else.
It took me almost a week to turn the corner in my own mind, but I have.
I see that I would be no different from anyone else who might wish to impose “their own brand of medicine” for what they perceive “ails him”. The fact is, my father does not see anything as ailing him – who is to say the contrary? Upon what authority? As a side note, he has recently received another clean bill of mental health from a Dr., so he even has a legal document freshly minted that states he is in full control of his mental faculties and has the same legal recourse any adult citizen may be disposed of. This is no imbecile or invalid we are speaking of, but only of a man who’s body is not as up to the task at hand as his mind.
Would you, as you are now, invite your family members to come dictate to you how you should do things – how to dress, what to eat, when to go to sleep, who to have as company, how long you may work, where to install the phone, how many doors you should lock before going to bed, whether you wear a sweater or a hat, how to wash the dishes, to not use certain power tools, where and how you may remodel your home, what medicines you should take for what and how often … would you suffer such an imposition gladly? Willingly? Gracefully?
Yes, it is difficult to see my father struggle. I find it painful to see a man capable of so much battling with trivialities: reading a tape measure, or a list of ingredients, carrying a bag of laundry up the stairs, even just navigating a cluttered floor. I find it horrible, I suppose, because if I were the one in his shoes I believe I would have given up long ago. Yet he has not given up.
The only complaints you’ll hear coming from my father are about tools that have been stolen. He does not ever mention physical discomforts, he never complains about having only one eye to see the world out of, or that his legs are not as strong as he needs them to be. When he cannot turn a pipe by hand (which would prove light duty to you and I) he goes and gets a wrench. When he cannot carry something he uses a cart, when he cannot reach the ground for something he’s dropped he uses a broom and a dust pan to get it up, when he cannot read something he asks someone else to read it for him. There are also instances when he cannot do something, or cannot find the right help to get it done, so he reform his needs to do away with the source of the problem and the impediment it creates.
There are no gripes. The obstacles don’t often get the best of him, he just works longer and harder at it, and usually achieves his goals.
On occasion the swarm of banal obstacles a project can present pains me, and that leaves me breathless with the affront life seems to be handing a man who beneath his wrinkled skin is still so much like you or I. Alive with plans, en route to matters which must be attended to before others may be broached, desiring to effect all the improvements to his environment that he knows are within arms length, if only the primary tool at his disposal, his physical being, were not quite so worn. Days are lost to screws that get dropped and disappear, whole ordeals are overcome just to discover that the elements don’t fit, blood is spilled on sharp edges that get lightly bumped, economy of material ends of costing lavish expenditures of time. Time, for a man of ninety . . . free, yet priceless.
I am still here, for now, and I am still glad when I can help move the kitchen sink, or thread small parts together, or clean up unseen spilled coffee. But it’s not for but a few more days. The question I am yet unable to face is how much longer will my father be here, and what kind of experiences will fill his days and occupy his attention. Even if the days are short, I would not wish they be filled with the petite halting difficulties that plague a person with his kind of physical challenges. Better that they be filled with intelligent company, projects well executed, and if at all possible, with good food, humor and conversation.
But those are my criteria, remedies to my own fears I’ve project onto him. If I were to stop and listen, I hear no such faults being found by my father. He seems to understand better than I do who, where and how of his own life. Who am I to question …
*01.04.2013 As additional grist for the mill on this topic, here is an Op. Ed. from the New York Times Wellness Blog on maintaining your independence in old age.