Caring for Mother by Virginia Stem Owens was my obvious choice for this Dewey decade. Caregiving is that form of pastoral work defined as "true religion" by James, and Paul says the absence of caregiving is the mark of someone who has, for all practical purposes, denied the faith. It also happens to be a rather all-consuming ministry, whether one is caring for a small child or an aging parent.
My mother is 74 years old. She can barely stand, and walking is out of the question. She has open wounds on her toes that are still not healed after more than a year of almost weekly visits to the podiatrist. She was in the hospital four times last year and moved from an "independent living" senior apartment to a "personal care home." So far 2016 has been quiet, but every time the phone rings I wonder if it's going to be inviting me back on the merry-go-round. I am in counseling and on anti-depressants, but I'm doing better than some people I know, who have lost the battle and altogether given up to depression, or disappeared completely into the demands of caregiving and lost their jobs, their friends and pretty much their identities. It's hard to believe there isn't a better way to walk this road, and that 21st century Western medicine isn't pretty much the worst way to die ever known to man, virtually indistinguishable from torture.
No one I talk to and no book I read dares to sugar-coat the long goodbye. We watch the most honored figures in our lives, bar none, descend slowly into dependence and, in most cases, some form of madness, and we know there is nothing we can do that can stop this from happening, and that it only ends one way. We drive, we call, we visit, we cajole, we cram up our evenings and weekends with obligatory trips to doctors and hospitals, or, on the rare week off, with outings to the movies or a museum so that our poor impatient patient will remember why life is worth living in the first place, and when the day or the week or the journey is done, "what never goes away, doesn't wear out or disappear, is the feeling-- no, the certain knowledge-- that I could have done more, could have done better" (p. 93). And this from Owens, who hung out at the nursing home for hours every day. I have friends who quit their jobs and moved in with their moms to keep them out of nursing homes. Listen, I just get together with my mom once or twice a week and problem-solve as needed, but I still feel both that I am taxed beyond my capacities and that I could do more, could do better.
All the reviewers agree that the most poignant and meaningful chapter of the book was "Thanksgiving at Fairacres." Owens' mother's nursing home sounds no worse than any other and better than some, so her description of it rings true to every caregiver. From the preschool-teacher-esque forced cheer at holiday events to the ring of wheelchairs around the nurse's station (they call it the concierge desk at my mom's place, but they're not fooling me) to the fact that almost every single person in that building is mad about something, I guess care homes are pretty much the same everywhere. And the caregiver's task is always the same: stay on the good side of the staff, because you need them more than they need you, but never give up and never surrender when it's your parent's health and happiness on the line.
There are weeks I have a vision of my responsibilities to my mother as a high calling. And there are weeks that I know for a fact I am doing a crap job of coming alongside at a time that, while it may not be a blast for me, is certainly her darkest hour. But I sure appreciate authors who have been able to share their stories of similar journeys. When I see their little ships in the distance through the fog, I know I am not alone.
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