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You have to take care of yourself. If you don't
take care of yourself, you won't be able to take
care of another person.
Dorothy Calvani, Former Staff Nurse in the Geriatric
Clinic of New York's Mount Sinai Hospital, comforting
the adult child of an Alzheimer's patient.
I am that adult child.
At the time of this writing, I am fifty-eight years
old. My mother, Rebecca, age ninety, has been widowed
for close to three decades, almost from the age
that I am now. She has been suffering from dementia
for the last half dozen of those years. It's Alzheimer's
disease, according to the many doctors that Mom
and I have visited during this time. Of course,
they add, only an autopsy can absolutely confirm
the diagnosis, which has become irrelevant. More
to the point is this overwhelming reality: my mother's
in a bad way, and she's slowly getting worse.
……………………………
A recent experience serves as an example. I'd arrived
at my mother's home to drive her to the geriatric
clinic. Despite having phoned Mom the previous evening
and twice that morning to alert her to the fact
that I'd be coming by, when I let myself into her
apartment she expressed surprise at seeing me. She
then took a long time getting ready, changing one
sweater for another, topping it off with the red
woolen jacket, while I grew impatient. An hour's
drive lay before us.
Heading uptown on the FDR Drive, a twisty, narrow
highway bordering Manhattan's East River, I glanced
in the rear-view mirror to locate the motorcycle
I'd heard. There was no motorcycle in sight. The
rumbling sounds were coming from my car. Was it
the exhaust? The engine? My concern grew.
All the while, Mom kept up a barrage of questions:
Have you heard from your children lately? Where
are they living? What are they doing? How is your
mother-in-law? Do you think it will rain tomorrow?
It looks like it will rain tomorrow. Did you speak
to your mother-in-law lately? As I answered each
question, my mind centered on the image of two stranded
women, one in a red woolen jacket, standing by the
side of the highway, thumbs extended, as hundreds
of cars whizzed by. When at long last we made it
to a parking lot near the hospital, the car was
in far better condition than I was.
Nurse Dorothy Calvani greeted Mom warmly. "Hello,
Rebecca, you're looking great," she said. She
then turned to me. "Your mother looks fine,"
she said, the dimples in her cheeks deepening with
the warmth of her smile.
"Yes, she does," I replied through gritted
teeth. "I'm the one who's about to jump out
a window."
Dorothy's expression turned serious, "Let's
talk," she said quietly, taking a seat beside
me in the busy waiting room where white-haired men
and women and their caregivers, seated in rows of
orange plastic chairs, gazed listlessly at the walls
adorned by posters proclaiming the importance of
good nutrition and exercise.
Talk we did. I told the nurse about my emotional
state.
She listened. She didn't criticize. She spoke to
me about the possibility of my joining a support
group for caregivers. In fact, just talking with
Dorothy helped me feel calmer, better. After leaving
the clinic, I drove my mother home. The car rumbled
even louder on the return trip. Yes, the problem
was still there. Only now I felt as if I'd be able
to handle it.
……………………………
The time spent in caring for an aged mother or
father, the intimacy imposed by the arrangement,
forces many of us to confront feelings that have
lain dormant for years, perhaps decades. "Sometimes
you love someone and do not tell them," says
a daughter whose mother was disabled by a series
of strokes. "Caring for my mother allows me
to show her how much she matters. It is my chance
to give something back."
Others whose relationship with a parent was not
quite as close use this time to gain a better understanding
of, and improved relationship with, a parent. I
believe that this is one result of the time I am
now spending with my mother. In caring for her needs,
I have come to care more about her as a human being,
and as my mother. In some perverse fashion, I am
glad to have been given this chance.
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