Caring Today Blog

Something My Father Said

Submitted by mlichter on 2007, August 3 - 09:54.

One thing I vividly remember from my childhood was watching my father on the kitchen phone every night, between the moment when he came home from work and when dinner was served, talking to his mother. Sometimes—many times—I could hear the frustration in his voice, as he would repeat stories he'd told earlier in the week or would try to deal with problems my grandmother was bringing to his attention, or problems of her creation that he was bringing to her attention.

And almost every night, after the phone call and with drink in hand, my father would look me in the eye and say: "It's not easy raising parents."

I thought at the time that he was being funny and that I fully understood what he was saying. What I didn't realize is that I didn't know the half of it.

I got a hint of it when my father was ailing with coronary disease prior to his death. Every so often he wouldn't eat—"I'm not hungry!" he'd insist—and he'd eventually suffer from what we later learned was malnutrition-induced dementia. This would manifest itself in confusion, hallucination, anger and more—and would disappear once he got a decent amount of food in him for a few days straight.

But in his last few days, he really didn't want to eat. And as if he were a child, my mother and brother would stand in front of him in his hospital room and politely badger him about how he needs to eat. They were going to the cafeteria, they'd say, and wanted to know what could they bring back for him. He would again insist he wanted nothing and that he didn't feel like eating.

And I got it. It might not be easy raising parents, but no matter how childlike their behavior might seem, they are not children. They do understand what they need and what they want and the importance of their having what we might deem a necessity. They usually understand the consequences of their actions. So when my mother and brother left the room to go eat, I said to my dad: "Can I ask you a question?"

"I don't want anything to eat," he said gruffly.

"I know," I replied. "Would you like a back rub?"

"That," he said, leaning forward in his chair so I could provide a massage, "would be great!" And he enjoyed the next 10 minutes more than you can imagine.

And now, five years later, as my mother descends into the world of diabetes-induced dementia, ever more rapidly losing her memory and the joie de vivre that made her an incredible social butterfly for over 80 years, I tend to her ever more childlike thought patterns and needs. Her ability to do for herself is disappearing. Her independence is vanishing. And once again I am faced with the reality that raising a parent is no easy task. It is, however, one you can't neglect. Just as you would not abandon one starting life, you can't abandon one ending life. And if it's not easy, remember that that which is worthwhile is rarely easy—it's just the right thing to do.