The holiday was about parent/child interaction. I like to spend time with my parents as a reminder of what I love about them, and how they often drive me nuts. Sometimes I wonder if anybody has a simple relationship with their parents. Is that even possible? I love my parents, but we have a fairly intense codependency going on. These visits are worthwhile, though, and I look forward to them.
Sometime over the last year or so, my father became an old man. It's hard to watch. His hair has been grey for years, but now his eyes carry the hazy glassiness of confusion and forgetfulness, and he can do less for himself every way. Yesterday I watched my mother cut his chicken into bite-size pieces at dinner. I didn't know what was sadder: the fact that he had no discernable sense of embarrassment, or that this scene was unfolding at a dining establishment called The Thirsty Perch.
Today, we drove to Kalamazoo to see Fahrenheit 9/11. I sat between my parents at the theater. My mother and I are cheap, so we smuggled in some kettle corn. My father, who does not share our frugality—in fact, his lack of fiscal prudence caused serious financial problems during my childhood, and these those directly led to my current money-saving mentality—bought a $4 popcorn. I really didn't mind, because if popcorn will satiate his 74-year-old belly, then who am I to grouse?
Except, again, he is an old man and he can't remember things very well. Throughout the first 20 minutes of the movie, he kept offering me popcorn. He was very polite about it, and I declined his offers in kind: No, Dad, I brought some, remember? No thank you, see, we smuggled this in. Oh, I've had enough, but you go ahead and enjoy it.
Since I was a child, I've watched people I love grow old with Alzheimer's. That's not quite the right description, though, because people with Alzheimer's lose their ability to function as an adult; they grow younger as they get older. Although my father hasn't been given a proper diagnosis, my mother and I can recognize the signs. It never gets any easier to witness, and it's going to get worse.
My father used to read each night before bed. Now he stares at the television for hours instead. Sometimes he remembers things that I don't think he'll remember, like what we ate at Irazu last year or the names of my coworkers. Other times, he mistakes me for my 40-something sister, who hasn't lived in the United States in 20 years and who I do not resemble. I gently correct him, and for a sliver of a second I can see in his eyes the horrible recognition that he cannot remember things that he should know without thinking about them.
Of course, we don't talk about any of this. In the idealized world of caregiver guidebooks and group therapy sessions, we'd discuss our feelings and come up with ways to cope. My immediate family doesn't do that; we are admittedly dysfunctional and so we skate over awkwardness, always moving toward the best cohesiveness we can reach. In most situations, I deplore this sort of behavior and demand to know why we never talked about this bad behavior or that hidden secret. I get all worked up about acknowledging negative behaviors and seeing how they have shaped my attitude and other self-helpy pap.
This is different. There is nothing that we can do to fix this problem. It's not like my father can try to not forget things, and it's not like he means to forget things. It just happens. My mother often becomes understandably frustrated when she has to repeat herself or worry that he'll get lost on his way to an art fair. I tell her to treat him with the patience that you'd afford a toddler. I don't know if that enables his behavior, but it's somehow easier for me to do that than to think that he has a choice in all of this. It hurts less to tell myself that he can't help it.
One of the most difficult yet meaningful moments in my life happened three years ago, as I held my dying grandfather's soft and veined hands. He could barely cough out sounds, much less articulate his thoughts. Still, I could sense that all he wanted was love and kindness, and so I stroked his hands and forehead while croaking out I-love-yous between sobs. He died an hour after I left the hospice, and I like to think that he did so feeling completely loved. My father is nowhere near death, but already I feel myself treating him gently, forgiving his transgressions, seeing him as a vulnerable old man, pulling him out for walks to the lake, reminding him of the good times, leaving out the sour parts, and finally wondering if maybe this is the simple relationship that happens to a family.
Sometime over the last year or so, my father became an old man. It's hard to watch. His hair has been grey for years, but now his eyes carry the hazy glassiness of confusion and forgetfulness, and he can do less for himself every way. Yesterday I watched my mother cut his chicken into bite-size pieces at dinner. I didn't know what was sadder: the fact that he had no discernable sense of embarrassment, or that this scene was unfolding at a dining establishment called The Thirsty Perch.
Today, we drove to Kalamazoo to see Fahrenheit 9/11. I sat between my parents at the theater. My mother and I are cheap, so we smuggled in some kettle corn. My father, who does not share our frugality—in fact, his lack of fiscal prudence caused serious financial problems during my childhood, and these those directly led to my current money-saving mentality—bought a $4 popcorn. I really didn't mind, because if popcorn will satiate his 74-year-old belly, then who am I to grouse?
Except, again, he is an old man and he can't remember things very well. Throughout the first 20 minutes of the movie, he kept offering me popcorn. He was very polite about it, and I declined his offers in kind: No, Dad, I brought some, remember? No thank you, see, we smuggled this in. Oh, I've had enough, but you go ahead and enjoy it.
Since I was a child, I've watched people I love grow old with Alzheimer's. That's not quite the right description, though, because people with Alzheimer's lose their ability to function as an adult; they grow younger as they get older. Although my father hasn't been given a proper diagnosis, my mother and I can recognize the signs. It never gets any easier to witness, and it's going to get worse.
My father used to read each night before bed. Now he stares at the television for hours instead. Sometimes he remembers things that I don't think he'll remember, like what we ate at Irazu last year or the names of my coworkers. Other times, he mistakes me for my 40-something sister, who hasn't lived in the United States in 20 years and who I do not resemble. I gently correct him, and for a sliver of a second I can see in his eyes the horrible recognition that he cannot remember things that he should know without thinking about them.
Of course, we don't talk about any of this. In the idealized world of caregiver guidebooks and group therapy sessions, we'd discuss our feelings and come up with ways to cope. My immediate family doesn't do that; we are admittedly dysfunctional and so we skate over awkwardness, always moving toward the best cohesiveness we can reach. In most situations, I deplore this sort of behavior and demand to know why we never talked about this bad behavior or that hidden secret. I get all worked up about acknowledging negative behaviors and seeing how they have shaped my attitude and other self-helpy pap.
This is different. There is nothing that we can do to fix this problem. It's not like my father can try to not forget things, and it's not like he means to forget things. It just happens. My mother often becomes understandably frustrated when she has to repeat herself or worry that he'll get lost on his way to an art fair. I tell her to treat him with the patience that you'd afford a toddler. I don't know if that enables his behavior, but it's somehow easier for me to do that than to think that he has a choice in all of this. It hurts less to tell myself that he can't help it.
One of the most difficult yet meaningful moments in my life happened three years ago, as I held my dying grandfather's soft and veined hands. He could barely cough out sounds, much less articulate his thoughts. Still, I could sense that all he wanted was love and kindness, and so I stroked his hands and forehead while croaking out I-love-yous between sobs. He died an hour after I left the hospice, and I like to think that he did so feeling completely loved. My father is nowhere near death, but already I feel myself treating him gently, forgiving his transgressions, seeing him as a vulnerable old man, pulling him out for walks to the lake, reminding him of the good times, leaving out the sour parts, and finally wondering if maybe this is the simple relationship that happens to a family.
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