Friday, June 16, 2006
I "made [her] do it".
Her words, ripe with disgust, for the short (one lap, no rests) walkering session I engineered again today within the hour after she completed breakfast, which seems to be an optimum time for getting her moving.
She's, obviously, taking a wry attitude toward increased movement. After she'd eaten, read her newspaper, leafed through a couple of tabloids and indicated she was ready to move to her rocker in the livingroom, I piped up, "Why don't we go outside and walk..."
She interrupted..."the plank."
I had to laugh. She doesn't see any reason, anymore, for moving much beyond her usual household haunts: The dinette, the livingroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. Although, out of habit, I thought up a brand spanking new encouragement, "Let's work some of that rust out of your joints so you can enjoy the company we might be having over the next month,"...
...her response was, "I can enjoy them just fine sitting down."
And she can.
I don't cajole anymore. She's too smart and too alert for that, or for all the standard reasons that make sense to those of us who are not yet Ancient and those Ancients among us who still enjoy the blessings of lots of energy and physical verve. And, anyway, our life together is much more pleasant when I don't cajole. I know, besides, that she is no longer convinced by all the politically correct arguments. She's looking at life from the other end. What the rest of us consider true is mere chimera to her.
I mean, let's face it: The woman will be 89 this year, she's become increasingly sedentary over the last four years and her health is, lately, improving, with no effort on her part (although lots of effort on mine, but, you know, that's my job and I like doing it). Even though I can think of some perfectly debatable points, I'm not interested, anymore, in arguing with her reality. Every portent seems hollow, ridiculous, even, when she's satisfied with the way things are.
Two of the hardest caregiving lessons to learn are when well enough is well enough and when to leave well enough alone. These lessons are hard for the professionals and avocationalists in the field, alike. You can't learn them by applying sense; or logic; or well-researched, well-intentioned, medically and socially agreed upon advice. You learn, finally, by surrendering, by listening to your Ancient One and remembering, it's her life. As long as she remains present in it, dementia or not, she's going to do what she's going to do and that's that. Come to think of it, deep into dementia she's going to do the same. Beyond a certain point, you can no longer convince her of the opposite of what the several years she has on you have revealed to her. You can't successfully counsel, or connive, or even legislate whatever you think is better for her than she thinks is good for her. You finally have to decide to sit back and enjoy the ride.
It's not easy. I'm lucky, though, that she humors me. In return, I consider it my sacred duty to humor her. Thus, although she agreed to the walkering today, I didn't push her beyond the distance she wanted to cover. I have a feeling, though, I will never completely accept her preferences. I imagine that on the day she dies, an hour or so before her final breath I'll be brightly suggesting to her, "Why don't we go outside and walk..."
...and she'll interrupt with, "the plank."
On that day, she'll be right. Just as she is now.
She's, obviously, taking a wry attitude toward increased movement. After she'd eaten, read her newspaper, leafed through a couple of tabloids and indicated she was ready to move to her rocker in the livingroom, I piped up, "Why don't we go outside and walk..."
She interrupted..."the plank."
I had to laugh. She doesn't see any reason, anymore, for moving much beyond her usual household haunts: The dinette, the livingroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. Although, out of habit, I thought up a brand spanking new encouragement, "Let's work some of that rust out of your joints so you can enjoy the company we might be having over the next month,"...
...her response was, "I can enjoy them just fine sitting down."
And she can.
I don't cajole anymore. She's too smart and too alert for that, or for all the standard reasons that make sense to those of us who are not yet Ancient and those Ancients among us who still enjoy the blessings of lots of energy and physical verve. And, anyway, our life together is much more pleasant when I don't cajole. I know, besides, that she is no longer convinced by all the politically correct arguments. She's looking at life from the other end. What the rest of us consider true is mere chimera to her.
I mean, let's face it: The woman will be 89 this year, she's become increasingly sedentary over the last four years and her health is, lately, improving, with no effort on her part (although lots of effort on mine, but, you know, that's my job and I like doing it). Even though I can think of some perfectly debatable points, I'm not interested, anymore, in arguing with her reality. Every portent seems hollow, ridiculous, even, when she's satisfied with the way things are.
Two of the hardest caregiving lessons to learn are when well enough is well enough and when to leave well enough alone. These lessons are hard for the professionals and avocationalists in the field, alike. You can't learn them by applying sense; or logic; or well-researched, well-intentioned, medically and socially agreed upon advice. You learn, finally, by surrendering, by listening to your Ancient One and remembering, it's her life. As long as she remains present in it, dementia or not, she's going to do what she's going to do and that's that. Come to think of it, deep into dementia she's going to do the same. Beyond a certain point, you can no longer convince her of the opposite of what the several years she has on you have revealed to her. You can't successfully counsel, or connive, or even legislate whatever you think is better for her than she thinks is good for her. You finally have to decide to sit back and enjoy the ride.
It's not easy. I'm lucky, though, that she humors me. In return, I consider it my sacred duty to humor her. Thus, although she agreed to the walkering today, I didn't push her beyond the distance she wanted to cover. I have a feeling, though, I will never completely accept her preferences. I imagine that on the day she dies, an hour or so before her final breath I'll be brightly suggesting to her, "Why don't we go outside and walk..."
...and she'll interrupt with, "the plank."
On that day, she'll be right. Just as she is now.
Comments:
<< Home
originally posted by Deb Peterson: Fri Jun 16, 06:30:00 PM 2006
Gail
Sometimes I think our routines acquire all the meaning and ceremony of ritual. Walkering with your Mom has gone well beyond the initial intention of strengthening--it sounds like it's become a way of reiterating your active love for her. I love that you're keeping it up, despite the fact that--yes--Mom is almost 89 and wants to call the shots on this one. But she gives in, the way she always does! She doesn't break the routine because it's important to her, too, that she has a daughter who gives her all this. Of course she puts up a little fight--that's part of the fun--but I'll bet if you stopped asking her she'd miss it. When I was younger I wouldn't have "gotten" this, but now I do. Sometimes we have to say what we need to say without words, over and over and over again.
Post a Comment
Gail
Sometimes I think our routines acquire all the meaning and ceremony of ritual. Walkering with your Mom has gone well beyond the initial intention of strengthening--it sounds like it's become a way of reiterating your active love for her. I love that you're keeping it up, despite the fact that--yes--Mom is almost 89 and wants to call the shots on this one. But she gives in, the way she always does! She doesn't break the routine because it's important to her, too, that she has a daughter who gives her all this. Of course she puts up a little fight--that's part of the fun--but I'll bet if you stopped asking her she'd miss it. When I was younger I wouldn't have "gotten" this, but now I do. Sometimes we have to say what we need to say without words, over and over and over again.
<< Home
