On Being There

Being there.

That phrase distills the nature of support for one’s elderly parents to its essence. Once the years close in and the elderly find less reason and energy to venture forth, being available to them, whether by phone or in person, is the best way to show your love for them. (Note that I did not mention e-mail or instant messaging or internet webcams. For my parents, at least, these means of communication are not part of their lives. Eventually the elderly will be able and willing to use these avenues to keep in touch, but they do not deliver the same personal contact as the phone or the face-to-face.)

My mother called me last night to discuss various items, but the most important facet of the discussion was the discussion itself. Early in the telephone conversation, I detected the strain and stress in her voice. After allowing her to speak at length, engaging her in further conversation despite her suggestion I had better things to do, the tension in her voice was gone, and we had both relaxed and passed beyond the “what needs to be done” stage to the “what’s going on” stage. Obviously every person should be so gracious as to allow his mother the time to speak – my mother happens to speak a lot. Sometimes, though, it is the obvious that bears repeating. The simple act of listening and giving your time to an elderly parent is in itself restorative. And your parent is genuinely appreciative of this, at some level.

I know that one of my brothers has the knack of upsetting my mother when he speaks with her via telephone. He has her interests at heart and is all too willing to help, but he apparently does not recognize the inherent value of a pleasant conversation. In this case, it is a matter of understanding my mother, who is stubborn at times, but values the process of the discussion. When something needs to be done, you cannot simply tell her to do it, you must get her to see your point of view – otherwise you are wasting your time. I suspect this is often the case with the older crowd, set in their ways and, in their opinion, well-versed in the ways of the world.

My father used to tell a joke, the punch line of which has transmuted into a family folk saying – “Don’t try to teach a pig to dance. It will only frustrate you and irritate the pig.” It is perhaps only a more folksy way of saying you cannot teach an old dog new tricks, but it indicates that you need to know the intrinsic capabilities of those you are dealing with. And the old dogs do have their limitations. As in most arenas, when dealing with elderly parents you do what you can.

The notion of being there is somewhat different for my father. Phone conversation has become untenable, stripped of the visual cues you need to effectively discuss anything with Dad. In his case, we find ourselves regularly visiting in the hopes of actually making a connection. This is not a given, whether you spend one hour or seven with him, but seems to be a matter of random chance. When my father is in a semi-lucid state, there are the rewarding glimpses of his personality and the person we knew our entire lives. Even so, these are genuinely short glimpses of late. The window of opportunity is very small, so you must be on guard for your chance. My brother – the one who has the ability to make my mother hang up the phone – makes it a point to tell my father that he loves him during these windows of true contact. John will seize those moments and make the most of them. He has a list of what he wants to say (I love you, I forgive you, please forgive me, etc.) He has a plan for these moments. Most of us respond to these opportunities as they arise, but do not actually have a plan. We attempt to use them to make a connection, prolong our relationship with our ever-fading father, but we do not really use them to make peace, to wrap up our relationship.

I think my brother’s approach is better. You can view the situation of speaking with a parent in the latter stages of Alzheimer’s in the same way that you would approach any opportunity that only extends itself for short bursts of time. You plan ahead to view a solar eclipse. You set a camera on a tripod to catch the right moment in time. You watch intently for the time to make your move in sports competition. My father is rapidly slipping into the latter stages of Alzheimer’s disease. His diction is typically clear, but unrelated to the exterior world. His brain is working on something we cannot see or often guess. But there are the windows of clarity still. They are short, they are random, they are unpredictable, but they are there. The only way to take advantage of these windows is to plan ahead, to plan what to say, to keep things simple and unmessy and straightforward and distilled to the essence of our relationship, which is loving and caring for one another.

And the only way to accomplish this is by being there.