Thursday, November 17, 2005
Today I found myself explaining the dignity of items to my mother.
I'd been talking with the oxygen supply company people outside when she awoke, so she tended to herself, went to the bathroom, refused to acknowledge that she was wet all over and walked into the kitchen in her besotted night shirt and underwear, seated herself on her normal chair and began reading her magazines and soaking the chair cushion with urine. When I returned and noticed that she was up and settled at the table I ushered her into the bathroom as usual for her bath and stripped the chair, put the soaked cushion in the wash and replaced it with a fresh cushion.
As she was settling down for a nap and we had our usual bedtime conversation (we have one before every nap and every night sleep) I was standing in her room reorienting the foam inner section of the cushion to the loose outer cover while it was wet from the wash so that when it dried it would dry in the proper shape.
My mother asked what I was doing and I explained the procedure to her.
"Wouldn't it be easier," she asked, "to just rip the cover open, reset the foam then sew it back up?"
As I continued to reorient the two pieces of the cushion to one another I thought about the tightly bias-tape bound seams, the integrity of the stitches. "Well," I responded, "with this particular cushion it would actually be harder because it's so well made. But, the thing is, Mom, every thing, and I mean every [pronouncing the word obviously separately] thing has it's own dignity. When you take it apart and put it back together you challenge that dignity. In a few cases, if some thing is made badly, you may improve the quality of the thing, then it becomes a better version of itself with an improved dignity. In most cases, though, unless you are deliberately repairing some thing, by taking it apart for your own convenience then putting it back together you compromise the thing's dignity. It becomes a lesser thing, with a less sturdy dignity."
While I explained all this to my mother I was looking only at my working of the cushion. When I finished talking I looked at her in lieu of a final punctuation mark.
She was regarding me with a look which rarely meets me coming from her eyes: As though I was just about the strangest type of child to whom anyone could ever have given birth.
I joked with her, "Didn't you know, Mom, that when you gave birth to me you gave birth to an Uncommon Child of Wonder?"
She smiled. Then laughed softly. "Oh, yes," she said, "and sometimes I still wonder..."
At that I laughed heartily, bid her "Good Nap" and left her room.
The lecture about dignity that I gave my mother, though, has stayed with me and prompted all my thinking since. I've been thinking about how peaceful our home is for both of us now that I'm letting her sleep as she wishes, be as active or inactive as she wants, taking her here and there when I need to but not forcing any miscellaneous trips on her, generally letting her call her own shots; allowing her the dignity of her own decisions about how to lead her own life.
I think I've finally hit on the proper way to be with an Ancient One. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure this out but I'm glad I finally did.
If my mother was depressed or obviously disturbed with her situation or herself in some way I would certainly change things, work on her to do this, do that, perhaps continue to force her to do things she wasn't sure she wanted to do under the guise that she doesn't really know what she wants or what's good for her, anymore. But my mother is happy. She's not at all depressed. She isn't disturbed about herself for any reason. She doesn't wish "things" were better or somehow different. And, finally, she knows what she wants. Her decisions can be trusted, for the most part, on her own behalf.
Despite all we caregivers "do for" our charges, there comes a time when one is caring for An Ancient One when the best we can do is let our charge do what she wants, allow her the liberty not to do what she doesn't want, and simply hang out with her, surround her with love and protection and enjoy the moments we have with her. There is, I remind myself, nothing I can tell her about how to live as An Ancient One. I can only love the fact that she is living through Ancient years and not waste the opportunity to know her as Her Ancient Self.
This is a very good way to live. I think it may also be a very good way to die.
As she was settling down for a nap and we had our usual bedtime conversation (we have one before every nap and every night sleep) I was standing in her room reorienting the foam inner section of the cushion to the loose outer cover while it was wet from the wash so that when it dried it would dry in the proper shape.
My mother asked what I was doing and I explained the procedure to her.
"Wouldn't it be easier," she asked, "to just rip the cover open, reset the foam then sew it back up?"
As I continued to reorient the two pieces of the cushion to one another I thought about the tightly bias-tape bound seams, the integrity of the stitches. "Well," I responded, "with this particular cushion it would actually be harder because it's so well made. But, the thing is, Mom, every thing, and I mean every [pronouncing the word obviously separately] thing has it's own dignity. When you take it apart and put it back together you challenge that dignity. In a few cases, if some thing is made badly, you may improve the quality of the thing, then it becomes a better version of itself with an improved dignity. In most cases, though, unless you are deliberately repairing some thing, by taking it apart for your own convenience then putting it back together you compromise the thing's dignity. It becomes a lesser thing, with a less sturdy dignity."
While I explained all this to my mother I was looking only at my working of the cushion. When I finished talking I looked at her in lieu of a final punctuation mark.
She was regarding me with a look which rarely meets me coming from her eyes: As though I was just about the strangest type of child to whom anyone could ever have given birth.
I joked with her, "Didn't you know, Mom, that when you gave birth to me you gave birth to an Uncommon Child of Wonder?"
She smiled. Then laughed softly. "Oh, yes," she said, "and sometimes I still wonder..."
At that I laughed heartily, bid her "Good Nap" and left her room.
The lecture about dignity that I gave my mother, though, has stayed with me and prompted all my thinking since. I've been thinking about how peaceful our home is for both of us now that I'm letting her sleep as she wishes, be as active or inactive as she wants, taking her here and there when I need to but not forcing any miscellaneous trips on her, generally letting her call her own shots; allowing her the dignity of her own decisions about how to lead her own life.
I think I've finally hit on the proper way to be with an Ancient One. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure this out but I'm glad I finally did.
If my mother was depressed or obviously disturbed with her situation or herself in some way I would certainly change things, work on her to do this, do that, perhaps continue to force her to do things she wasn't sure she wanted to do under the guise that she doesn't really know what she wants or what's good for her, anymore. But my mother is happy. She's not at all depressed. She isn't disturbed about herself for any reason. She doesn't wish "things" were better or somehow different. And, finally, she knows what she wants. Her decisions can be trusted, for the most part, on her own behalf.
Despite all we caregivers "do for" our charges, there comes a time when one is caring for An Ancient One when the best we can do is let our charge do what she wants, allow her the liberty not to do what she doesn't want, and simply hang out with her, surround her with love and protection and enjoy the moments we have with her. There is, I remind myself, nothing I can tell her about how to live as An Ancient One. I can only love the fact that she is living through Ancient years and not waste the opportunity to know her as Her Ancient Self.
This is a very good way to live. I think it may also be a very good way to die.
