The gods had condemned Sisyphus toceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain,
whence the stone would fall back of its own weight.
They had thought with some reason that
there is no more dreadful punishment
than futile and hopeless labor.
~ Albert Camus
It all comes down to one word: avoidance. I have not wanted to travel into the despair again. That's it in a nutshell.
Maybe it's time for me to put on my big-girl panties and deal with it. This festering abcess in my heart really needs to be lanced. Maybe this will help me get there.
I spent 8 months, from October through July, living near (and partially with) my parents, caring for them over the winter. I spent most of my waking life with them, and some nights as well. It was good, and the right thing to do, not just for them, but for me as well. It gave them the physical assistance needed to cope on a daily basis: I helped cook, clean, shop, and get them to doctor appointments. I organized a lifetime of photographs and gave my mother companionship she sorely needed. I tried desperately to make their living situation better, even if only in small ways.
What do I say about it? How do I condense those 8 months into a chunk of information and emotion that can be easily comprehended? I have no clue. Maybe it's like eating an elephant: you go about it one bite at a time.
I didn't write all winter because I couldn't. I was living the experience too intensely, and living the experience too alone, living the experience too locked away. I didn't have the strength or the courage to write what I was living; it was too much, like looking into a bright light that blinds you. I need to stop my mental laziness. Guilt has been nibbling at me for quite a while, and I know I need to address things before they build and grow out of control.
Control......I just realized I wrote that famous word. It is all about control, keeping it, losing it, needing it. Accepting things that are beyond your control. Being self-righteous about it in pig-headed fashion. All of that, and more.
Let me deal with Mom's control issues first. That will be easier for me, since it is a bit less personal. Mother needs to control everything and everybody in her life. This is central to her personality; it part of her core. I am not judging her for it; far be from me to do so. I have more than a few issues with the subject myself. However, her life has turned into a surreal version of "The Emperor's New Clothes", and she truly doesn't see that the emperor is naked.
One of the objectives was to show her, by my being there, that the time had come to get help in the house, be that help in the form of a home health aide, visiting nurse, PT/OT for Daddy, or a combination of services. Naive woman that I was! All my presence did was allow my mother to keep the fragile, wobbly walls of her "reality" propped up a bit longer. I enabled her denial to roll along unchecked. (yes, that's AA/Al-Anon speaking; that stuff is not for this discussion)
Mom's convinced that she is "doing it all" and doing it well. The reality is that she is NOT doing it, except maybe minimally. Their house is a metaphor for what her life has become: everything is neat, and in it's proper place, so things look fine.....at least until you look closely. Then you see the dirty windows and soiled carpets. Open a closet and you'll see the accumulation of "stuff" that has been allowed to collect. Breathe deeply and you will smell the sickness and despair that permeates the house.
A light bulb burns out, and it becomes an event. If the garbage is put out before dinner you will hear about it, since that is not how things are done there. Ice cream at 9PM, grocery shopping Thursday morning, and a cocktail at 5PM. Rigidity reigns supreme.
What's the problem with it? Several. First and foremost, my poor Daddy. He is incapable of bathing himself, so she must help him shower now. It is extremely difficult and far too taxing for her to do, but hey....control, control, control! Thus, he only gets a shower twice a week. Consequently he smells badly. Not just basic body odor, but as he has become incontinent he now smells of urine as well. The indignity of it is outrageous. An aide would keep him clean, yet she refuse to allow an outsider into her home. Just beautiful.
Quick tangent: one Saturday evening, while she was at church and I was with Dad, he had difficulty in the bathroom and needed to be showered. I had to call James to come and shower the excrement off his father, while I mopped floors, walls, and his walker and washed his soiled laundry. James and I both got through it and didn't cry until the work was finished, but cry we did. How could we not? Again, the indignity is outrageous.
The other issue I have is the blatant exploitation of myself and my siblings. Where do you draw the line? Can you draw the line? How do you draw the line? Of course we want to help and be supportive, but at what point do you stop helping and become a broken crutch? We are all broken and bleeding, and she doesn't see it. She is trapped inside the walls of her own pain and suffering, and will not relinquish enough control to let in any light. And so, we cope, individually and as a group. Or we try to, each in our own way.
Maybe it's time for me to put on my big-girl panties and deal with it. This festering abcess in my heart really needs to be lanced. Maybe this will help me get there.
I spent 8 months, from October through July, living near (and partially with) my parents, caring for them over the winter. I spent most of my waking life with them, and some nights as well. It was good, and the right thing to do, not just for them, but for me as well. It gave them the physical assistance needed to cope on a daily basis: I helped cook, clean, shop, and get them to doctor appointments. I organized a lifetime of photographs and gave my mother companionship she sorely needed. I tried desperately to make their living situation better, even if only in small ways.
What do I say about it? How do I condense those 8 months into a chunk of information and emotion that can be easily comprehended? I have no clue. Maybe it's like eating an elephant: you go about it one bite at a time.
I didn't write all winter because I couldn't. I was living the experience too intensely, and living the experience too alone, living the experience too locked away. I didn't have the strength or the courage to write what I was living; it was too much, like looking into a bright light that blinds you. I need to stop my mental laziness. Guilt has been nibbling at me for quite a while, and I know I need to address things before they build and grow out of control.
Control......I just realized I wrote that famous word. It is all about control, keeping it, losing it, needing it. Accepting things that are beyond your control. Being self-righteous about it in pig-headed fashion. All of that, and more.
Let me deal with Mom's control issues first. That will be easier for me, since it is a bit less personal. Mother needs to control everything and everybody in her life. This is central to her personality; it part of her core. I am not judging her for it; far be from me to do so. I have more than a few issues with the subject myself. However, her life has turned into a surreal version of "The Emperor's New Clothes", and she truly doesn't see that the emperor is naked.
One of the objectives was to show her, by my being there, that the time had come to get help in the house, be that help in the form of a home health aide, visiting nurse, PT/OT for Daddy, or a combination of services. Naive woman that I was! All my presence did was allow my mother to keep the fragile, wobbly walls of her "reality" propped up a bit longer. I enabled her denial to roll along unchecked. (yes, that's AA/Al-Anon speaking; that stuff is not for this discussion)
Mom's convinced that she is "doing it all" and doing it well. The reality is that she is NOT doing it, except maybe minimally. Their house is a metaphor for what her life has become: everything is neat, and in it's proper place, so things look fine.....at least until you look closely. Then you see the dirty windows and soiled carpets. Open a closet and you'll see the accumulation of "stuff" that has been allowed to collect. Breathe deeply and you will smell the sickness and despair that permeates the house.
A light bulb burns out, and it becomes an event. If the garbage is put out before dinner you will hear about it, since that is not how things are done there. Ice cream at 9PM, grocery shopping Thursday morning, and a cocktail at 5PM. Rigidity reigns supreme.
What's the problem with it? Several. First and foremost, my poor Daddy. He is incapable of bathing himself, so she must help him shower now. It is extremely difficult and far too taxing for her to do, but hey....control, control, control! Thus, he only gets a shower twice a week. Consequently he smells badly. Not just basic body odor, but as he has become incontinent he now smells of urine as well. The indignity of it is outrageous. An aide would keep him clean, yet she refuse to allow an outsider into her home. Just beautiful.
Quick tangent: one Saturday evening, while she was at church and I was with Dad, he had difficulty in the bathroom and needed to be showered. I had to call James to come and shower the excrement off his father, while I mopped floors, walls, and his walker and washed his soiled laundry. James and I both got through it and didn't cry until the work was finished, but cry we did. How could we not? Again, the indignity is outrageous.
The other issue I have is the blatant exploitation of myself and my siblings. Where do you draw the line? Can you draw the line? How do you draw the line? Of course we want to help and be supportive, but at what point do you stop helping and become a broken crutch? We are all broken and bleeding, and she doesn't see it. She is trapped inside the walls of her own pain and suffering, and will not relinquish enough control to let in any light. And so, we cope, individually and as a group. Or we try to, each in our own way.
