So here’s the situation: my father is going on 87, and was diagnosed two years ago with early to moderate dementia. Add a history of chronic depression, some ongoing intestinal complaints, and that's pretty much what defines him these days. He’s always been quiet, veering toward withdrawn, traits that now have increased by an order of magnitude. His life’s work as a community college professor (teaching speech and drama, which I never could imagine) ended when he retired at 61.
My stepmother, a former kindergarten teacher some 7 years younger than dad, has endured a variety of onslaughts, including a minor stroke, occasional seizures and atrial fibrillation that caused a series of TIAs (smaller temporary strokes). She enthusiastically makes up for my father’s silence; at times her constant stream of observations brings to mind the image of a dripping faucet. They recently left their home of 25 years in Southern California to move up north, closer to family. That means me, my partner, my step-brother and his family. We all take part in the caregiving; my “shift” is usually on the weekends.
By almost anyone’s standard, my parents are not difficult or even especially needy. They don’t ask for favors very often, never whine or suggest that I should be doing more for them. When I do help them out, they’re unfailingly appreciative. They’re generally the type of people who start their requests with “We don’t want to bother you, but….” or “Whenever it’s convenient, would you be able to…” As a caregiver, I must admit that I have it fairly good right now. There’s no need for me to be there every day; I don’t have to cook or clean for them, and they’re still managing their own finances (albeit with questionable judgment). At the moment, there are no major medical problems, no adult diapers to contend with. In fact, there’s not much more than weekly shopping trips or taking them to a restaurant and an occasional appointment.
To be honest, I can hardly be called a caregiver…but even so, there’s a creeping sense of rough times ahead, my knowledge that the trajectory of aging usually entails periods of relatively slow decline—even stability—punctuated by crises and major changes of status. But I can be grateful that, for now, they’re in better shape than most people in their age group.
I’m convinced that the key to successful aging is for older people to accept help when they need it. My parents certainly need more help than they’re getting, but their situation hasn’t become dire yet. Lacking urgent cause to intervene, I must instead respect their need for independence (or what they see as independence.) I must accept the fact that their meals are uninspired and at times inadequate; must be patient when they refuse to consider Meals on Wheels or even resist having occasional take-out delivered to them. I do my best to monitor the situation, gathering as much information as I can about changes in their functional or physical status without appearing too intrusive. If I think a visit to the doctor or podiatrist is warranted, I help set it up or at least suggest they do so. It’s a delicate balance, and thus far, we’ve been lucky.
As parents are our first, and hopefully our best, teachers, mine continue to teach me. Not only in the “notes to self” sense of what to do should I reach their age and level of need, but also in the ongoing lessons of patience and acceptance. Not necessarily understanding, but accepting.
