Cookies to the Rescue
Submitted by Debbie on 2008, May 28 - 14:45.
My mom made most of the decisions about her care right up to the end. I’d say she was a control freak, but that might seem harsh. Let’s say she enjoyed exercising her right to choose her own path and destiny. Doesn’t that sound better? Still, she was a control freak and I was amused and frustrated by it, and she knew it. We came from a long line of strong women, and I am pleased to say it continues with my daughter.
My mom wanted to be home as long as possible. This is a noble and understandable goal. I supported this decision but wanted someone in the house with her and my dad. Mom would insist she was the brain and he was the body and together they “were whole.” I knew that, due to the advances of their illnesses, the sum of the parts did not make a whole. I was terrified of the “what ifs.” But Mom was fearless and insistent that it would be fine. However, when she was getting ready to be discharged from the hospital, I wanted someone in the house to help. She did not and was offended at the thought of a stranger's providing care to them in her home. I was mistaken, though; she wasn’t so much offended as struggling to assert her independence. I knew I had to let the bad thing happen and hope it was not really bad.
I went to visit my mom and dad one day. I checked on the food and removed some clutter. I did what I could without crossing the line Mom had drawn. All visits were conducted in their bedroom, as she couldn’t get out of bed. While I visited, Mom asked that I get her a cookie. I said, “No.” It was awful. I felt heartless, cruel…ungrateful. It was really hard, but I knew this might be a moment. Mom was floored. How could she refuse such a simple task? she wondered. I told her to show me how she and Dad would handle it without someone to help, what would happen if I had not been there. She sent my dad to get the cookie.
We visited some more and Dad wandered back. She asked where her cookie was, and he gave her a blank stare and then wandered off again to get her a cookie. Each of these trips took 30 to 45 minutes, and there were several trips. Mom would look at me in frustration and I would bite my lip. Poor Dad was trying so hard to get her a cookie, but it was just beyond his abilities at this point. Now, the kicker in this story is that each time he came back, he was eating a cookie.
I tell this story often because it means so much to me. Not only does it show how devoted my parents were to one another and their struggle for independence, but their determination not to “be a burden.” It was a huge lesson for me as the caregiver. I had to watch and wait and let there be a lesson—tough love, if you will.
That silly cookie changed our lives for the better. My mom finally agreed to have help in the house. They then had regular meals, clean clothing, food that had not been frozen and re-thawed repeatedly and, most important, they were safe and at home. And my mom more readily accepted me as her caregiver.
My not struggling for control and waiting for the inevitable allowed her to choose the time to accept help. She was at peace with the idea since she had made the decision, not me.
Once again, cookies save the day.