Exodus 20:12 (GNB) “Respect your father and your mother, so that you may live a long time in the land that I am giving you.”
I wrote this book for you the caregiver because the job that you do now was not easy for me. Perhaps for some it comes naturally, but not for me. My feelings were always sliding back and forth between positive and negative, triumphant and defeated.
Sometimes I felt it was the right decision to care for my invalid elderly parents at home. It was during these times that I felt in tune with God’s plan for my life, and I was learning the true meaning of the word love. It wasn’t a flowery nice word used in a Mother or Father’s Day card, but it came to mean giving up years of my time and energy to make sure my parents were happy and safe.
Then there were the many days when I was down in a pit, lying flat on my face with no sunshine reaching me. This was when I did not want to take care of my parents anymore, and I thought I must have been crazy to think I ever could. These were the times I wanted someone else to take care of them, saying, I had enough!
Of course, there was always the option of a nursing home. Three members of my family and a couple of friends moved their loved ones into nursing homes. They visited them often and had an important part in overseeing their care. I do not criticize them for this decision. Yet, for me this never felt like the direction God wanted me to go.
My Heavenly Father gave gifts of love that made it possible for me to stay the course as my parents’ caregiver rather than move in the other direction. My husband Bill and I had enough space in our house, so no one felt crowded. Bill was always willing to support and assist me in any way he could. My parents had money coming in each month, along with savings in the bank, so I was able to hire an assistant. God guided me to hire someone who was kind, compassionate, and loyal. Last but not least, God helped us every step of the way.
Before my parents came to live with us, they built their part of the house onto our three-bedroom ranch. It was beautiful with a separate entrance downstairs where there is a big all-purpose room. Up a flight of stairs, built to house a lift-chair, there is the kitchen with lots of cabinets and room for a table and chairs. There is also a big master bedroom with a full handicapped-bathroom nearby. Off the other side of the kitchen is one of our original bedrooms that we gave my parents to use as their television room. This is where eventually we put in two lift-chairs that were practical and comfortable.
When they moved in, I helped my mother with the curtains and the arrangement of the furniture. This kind of work seemed beyond my mother’s capabilities at this point, but I didn’t fully understand why until she began to show signs of premature dementia. Soon it was obvious to my stepfather George, my husband Bill, and I that we had a serious problem on our hands.
My mother was slowly descending into more and more confusion. She began to have extreme short-term memory loss, and repeated the same stories over and over. Often she thought that I was two people and would ask me about the other lady. I’ll never forget the day Mom asked me if I was her daughter. That was not only shocking, but it was like a dagger in my heart.
As time passed, both my parents became more and more helpless. My mother came to the point where she spoke very little, did not know when she needed the bathroom, forgot how to walk, and could not eat unless someone spoon fed her. George who was already legally blind when they first arrived at our house, made a slow, steady decline. At the end of his life, he had heart problems, needed kidney dialysis three times a week, and could barely breathe.
Yet there were many good times together during the nine years they were with us. We often sat on the deck during the summer months and listened to the birds sing or enjoyed music from a local radio station. We went to church together, or we took an hour car trip to visit relatives. Even after we hired an assistant, my husband Bill and I tried to be home for every holiday so my parents wouldn’t be alone. I would cook extra big and fancy meals with the hope that the day felt special for them as well as for us.
For the first five years, George and my mother were still relatively self-sufficient, but as time went on they could do nothing for themselves. Sometimes, the work seemed overwhelming. I was often tired, especially when our assistant had her weekly two days off. On those days, Bill would always help me, but I was still busy from morning till night. I would dole out pills, cook meals, feed my mother; cajole George to eat, cut up his meals, supervise or give sponge bathes, do general housework, take my mother to the bathroom, change her diapers, and be on guard that my stepfather didn’t fall as he used his walker, sometimes recklessly. Often throughout the day, I found myself getting depressed. At eight PM when George went to bed and took his last pills, I would say, I’m going to fall asleep before you. Then I would collapse into my own bed, unable to spend any time with Bill.
When our assistant came back, I was always happy to see her. Of course, it took me another day or two to fully recover, physically as well as emotionally.
Early on Bill and I learned that regular periods of rest and relaxation were a necessity. We would have burned-out a long time ago if we didn’t make time to do activities we enjoyed. Bill played racket ball, softball, and worked hours in his vegetable and flower garden. On days when our assistant was here or in between helping my parents, I prayed, took walks, and read inspirational literature or a suspenseful novel. Often I sat on the deck alone, enjoying Bill’s potted flowers. I also found a little time for my hobbies: writing poetry, journaling, and making clay figures. Bill and I went to church and often would get away for short vacations, visiting our children and our grandson who live out of state. These activities kept my husband and I emotionally, mentally, and spiritually fit so we were able to continue caring for my parents.
From the beginning, my hope was that this experience of care giving would help my soul to grow, so I would become a more mature Christian. I believe God’s goal for each one of His children is to become like his own dear Son Jesus in thought and deed. Yet way too often, I still found myself down in the dumps, feeling blue, because I was trapped by work and responsibility. Often I couldn’t understand why God wanted me to continue taking care of my parents at home when it was so hard for me.
One day as I talked with a friend over the telephone, I came up with an analogy. The job of caring for my parents feels like I have fallen off a boat, and I must tread water to stay alive. Someday when I am back on firm, dry land I will be able to say that I am glad I took care of them at home.
After nine years of treading water, I have finally made it to dry land. Both my parents are now in heaven. When I look back on all their physical problems, all the pills, doctor visits, trips to the emergency room, car rides back and forth to the kidney dialysis center, visits to the wound care center, and hospital stays, I wonder how we all stayed sane. Yet, God’s guidance and love was always with us. I felt it strongly. He protected my parents especially when they were in the hospital. He provided Bill and me with what we needed to stay strong for each situation that came our way. If it wasn’t for God watching over all of us, I doubt my husband and I would have been able to complete this huge job of caring for my parents at home. All praise goes to God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
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You may want to chronicle your own experiences as a caregiver. You journal can be loose pages in a folder or a fancy bound one from the bookstore. Don’t worry whether your grammar or punctuation is correct. Unless you choose to share, no one else will see your work. Some days you might write only one word to express how you feel: Peaceful. Tired. Angry. The length of your entry has no bearing on its worth. Once you put a feeling or a thought on paper, you may want to ask yourself where this comes from. If the answer evades you today, maybe it will appear tomorrow or maybe weeks from now.
I have included sections called YOUR JOURNAL. These should be ignored if you choose to write about something else. They are only there in case you need a jump off point on days when you can’t think of anything else to put on paper.
Your journal will help you better understand yourself as a person and as a caregiver. Always remember you are human. Only God is perfect. When you begin to understand where negative feelings come from, I hope this will encourage you to be forgiving and gentle with yourself. When you are kind to yourself, you will have the energy to love others. This will in turn make you a better caregiver. Your job is a hard one, and sometimes the journey will seem way too long, but with God’s help you will succeed! How do I know? I did it!
I wish you the best and would enjoy an email from you. rbbbadowski@hotmail.com
For Now
A spider interrupts. She drops
from the apple tree, dangling.
I pinch the invisible string; set her on a plant.
Another one comes and falls near my feet.
He plays dead but eventually scurries away.
Now I continue to chronicle my life.
Repairs on the car cost a preposterous amount.
One pill less makes Mom more alert,
but she still can’t walk.
Stepfather recovers from heart failure again
even though he’s ready to die.
Our aging cat opts to sleep rather than explore.
Oldness suffocates me while I long
for playground days
with our grandson who lives far away.
A delivery interrupts. It’s another
ominous scenario, wrapped in plain paper.
I drag it down into the cool dry cellar
and store it with the others on a dusty shelf.
I will open them, but not today.
For now I lounge carefree on a deckchair
and absorb the sun’s warmth surrounded
by smells of lilac and autumn olive
with tincture of jasmine thrown in just for fun.
