The Caregiver

EPISODE 1

I take the diapers to the garbage bin. I pin a pair of socks together with a safety pin so they won’t get lost in the wash.  So much depends upon details.  Next, I fix a glass of warm water, a bowl of corn flakes with a soupspoon, and to help my dad swallow (what he calls lubrication), a bowl of applesauce. I reassure him that, yes, this is the Clover brand skim milk that he always uses, yes, non-fat-protein fortified-vitamin-A&D, yes. By this time, my tea is cold, and it’s time to turn on the sprinklers in the garden. 

   The next step will be to help Dad get dressed and to make sure he is comfortable watching TV.  His eyes are poor, and since he can only read the headlines, he likes to listen to the news stories after scanning the paper. I weave my personal routine into the fabric of my parents’ way of doing things.  It is essential they stay engaged in their own activities and take as much care of themselves as they can. This requires some strategy.

   It would be quicker to do the dishes by myself.  I could wash and put all the dishes away in the time it takes Dad to unload the dishwasher, but it is one thing he is capable of doing in the kitchen.  He wants to help, so I organize the way to do this project a little differently.  I want him to feel useful, and it’s a good test of my ability to be flexible and not be attached to the job. 

   The dishes are done.  I’ll go to the mailbox and get the morning paper.  The Press Democrat tells me the UPS strike continues.  Small businesses are feeling the crunch.  The postal service can’t pick up the slack. There’s lots of tension and talk.  I need to locate a box that was sent to me from Colorado.  Dad becomes terribly agitated about my need to commandeer the telephone. He thinks the phone should be free for emergencies.  Hard to convince him that this is an emergency.  Later, he apologizes for being so rigid, but he can be a handful once he gets on one of his hobbyhorses.

  Here is the episode of the separation of religion and business.  One morning, I leave the house early to do Chöd, a Tibetan practice, and when I return, Dad is fuming about “religiontakingoverthebusiness,” meaning that somehow my practice was interfering with my responsibilities.  Hard for him to understand that I had been working for an organization, Tara Mandala Retreat Center, that combined religious and commercial activities.  He has begun to think there is a Buddhist coup underway, that there is a “suspicious influence” on my life that will ruin our business (read our family arrangement).  He shouts that this fusion of church and state has been tried in other countries and failed. (Am I living in the Middle Ages?)  He makes his point by pounding his cane on the floor, spittle forming at the corner of his mouth.  He was a chief executive for State Farm Insurance.  He is used to getting his way. But this is not a business meeting. This is going on in the family room, and part of the reason I have come home to stay is to mitigate these tirades, so that Mom doesn’t have to bear the brunt.

   Here I am, bringing diapers to my main authority figure. This old man is not the villain. He is a person who worked hard his whole life, almost an entire century, to care for and protect his family.  He has earned his retirement, but when he starts worrying about what’s to become of everyone and everything, the family trust, his files, the burial plot, he starts thinking in circles, repeating himself, until I want to run screaming from the room.  He is not aware that dementia possesses him.  It wears Mom out.  She cries and threatens to leave.  Then he fusses about being 98 years old, claiming this has only happened once and that we must forgive him, and things quiet down.

   For a while.  I see that one of my roles here is referee.  This is the longest I’ve stayed with my folks since I left to go to college 35 years ago.  This couple has been married for nearly 60 years.  Their relationship has its own dynamic.  As a child, I was unaware of this dynamic, and as a young adult I didn’t pay attention.  Now, I am immersed, embroiled, emplaced, and I am effecting changes, some subtle and some not so subtle.

   After a recent knockdown, drag out bout concerning the historic Proposition 13 of California Property Tax Law, I got up from the table and went in the next room to eat my muffin in peace. This precipitated an accusation that I was breaking up the family because I wouldn’t sit at the kitchen table with them.  I tried to explain I did not want to discuss taxes and neither did Mom, and we were accused of ganging up on him and that she wouldn’t act like she was if it wasn’t for me and that he was standing in the way of everyone living their own lives and he should commit suicide and, damn it, he just wanted to have a little discussion about taxes.

   My solution, separate them.  Fix some breakfast.  Chop up some onion and put it into the scrambled eggs.  This could be exciting and new.  Take their minds off the inevitability of taxes and death.  Change the subject.  Mom mentions a friend of hers from years past, and I ask if they visited us when we lived in Berkeley in the 40s, as I have a childhood memory of someone spending the night in the front room.  I see a man taking off his shoe, a man because I can remember an argyle sock.  She finds this funny, and she has a memory of when she was four years old, her brother a baby in their mother’s arms and her dad telling her mom never to rent a particular horse again because it was a mean horse, had mean eyes. 

EPISODE 2

 Around midnight I hear a thump in my dream—a wrecking ball, bouncing off the wall, a plane crashing through the roof, an avalanche, no, don’t freak, it’s only a tidal wave. I’m up in a flash because I know that it is Dad falling.

  Sure enough, there he is on his back behind the door, laughing. I ask him what’s so funny, and he gleefully tells me about “a forest of huge trees and tiny houses, very neat and clean, with roads elevated above a field, so clear I could touch them.” A few simple images can seem profound in a dream.  Terrifying or exhilarating, so much meaning, yet all just a touch beyond comprehension.

  I check him for cuts and bruises. A scrape on his knee, a scratch on his cheek, a bump on his elbow. I help him to his feet. Mom is up now and puts a bandage on his knee and helps him back to bed. In the morning, his dizziness persists, so I make an appointment with his doctor. A little fussing about what color shirt and which hat, old or new slippers. Bring the car to the front of the house, back out the wheelchair, bump down the steps, and we’re on our way.

  The tech at the clinic is gentle and instructive about the process. He helps Dad onto a platform for a scan. I’m reading a magazine. There’s a Gary Larson cartoon with cows in a classroom I don’t get. We wait for the computer to print out the results. The photos show nothing irregular, no tumors or broken blood vessels, so the doctor feels that if Dad had suffered a stroke, it would have been very small. The diagnosis seems to be that it is the continued deterioration of blood circulation due to hardening of the arteries. Old age. He’s 98.

   He has a good appetite, a good sign. Mom and I talk things over, trying to get a game plan for the next day, or we will be ground to dust by all of Dad’s small needs, just getting him washed, dressed and ready for the day.

  At breakfast, he wants to tell me about driving a team of horses to the train station near his family’s farm in Iowa. He had trained these horses from colts, and he was proud of them and felt he could drive them anywhere, sure they would co-operate. The steam from a locomotive spooked the team at a place where there was a telegraph pole, and they shied and bolted, one horse going on one side of the pole and one going on the other, stripping off their harness and smashing the yoke and tongue of the carriage. Scraped up the horses pretty good. He said it took a lot of coaxing to get them to pull again. After this experience, the horses were not of much use. Dad feels useless now that he can’t walk and guilty for being a burden.

 Important to be mindful of the luxury of my freedom of movement, of my control of my body, and my ability to care for myself.  Sitting, standing, walking, eating, to be joyful. One minute everything is stable and clear and the next minute, stupid and wobbly. And fear gets up. Demons dance. Dad begins to worry his retirement benefits will stop. Social Security bankrupt. His savings run out. Somebody sue. A comet may strike. Martians invade. My legs are failing. I’m going blind. I can’t hear. I can’t have a bowel movement. Stark photographs.

  This is going to take some getting used to. Mom can’t handle it all, but there is no stopping her from taking the lion’s share. Dad can take baby steps, stand and turn. He doesn’t want his leg muscles to atrophy, so I help him walk, although he tires after a few steps. Depression sets in because he doesn’t want to be helped. I hold his hand and tell him I love him and that I want him to relax and be with us as long as he is able. 

  I begin to see a change in his attitude like he has passed a barrier and put his trust in us to care for him. He seems humble. Quiet. Still wishes he could read the small print, but so do we all. I’m thankful for this incarnation and opportunity to gain wisdom and merit. Accepting the condition, “All offers subject to credit approval” found at the bottom of the page.

EPISODE 3

The day has been felled by a chainsaw of angry words. Turbulence and ragged voices.  The six perfections out the window. The mystery of anger, desire, and ignorance rides on a riptide of self-interest, the flotsam of a family misunderstanding. Pick up the pieces, and go beyond the ideas and feelings. The universe is fundamentally abundant. Fears derive from an idea of scarcity—–not enough time, not enough space, not enough food or enough love—all from the point of view of limits. Fear knows no frontier.

  Easy to say this, sitting in the comfort of my family and the luxury of a suburban home, but the force of this fear is real whether it’s in a place of affluence or one of poverty. Just what is enough? What amount of satisfaction will spur me to right action? What glut of misery will induce me to shun negative behavior?

  Dad says that it is my intent to make Mom do an extra amount of work to cause her health to fail, which will put her out of the picture, and I will take hold of the family trust so I can distribute the family fortune to all my relatives. He squints his eyes, sucks in his breath with a hiss, and squiggles his upturned fingers like leeches. Mom shouts that all she is trying to do is remove the breakfast dishes from the table and that she doesn’t like being told what she can or can’t do and not to act like she is hired help, that she’s been taking care of him for years because she wants to and that if he wishes to revoke the trust that is up to him because he won’t get better care if he goes into a rest home. I raise my voice a few decibels and tell Dad not to badger Mom, and Dad takes this as a threat to his authority, and he reacts by telling me that my motives are impure.

  To act in a way that benefits my dad, I need to look at this accusation. Being pissed off is counter-productive. Breathing deep, I can see I’ve missed an opportunity to defuse the situation because Dad is only looking out for Mom’s best interest, and she has misread his tone of voice as an order. It’s another case of Hearing Aid Wars. Sometimes, my parents get to talking on two completely different subjects with their voices getting louder and louder, and the feedback from the hearing aids makes a squealing like the speakers at a rock concert. Usually, I can help them sort it out, but this time I take the words personally and make matters worse.

  Dad accuses Mom and me of conspiring, saying I have her twisted around my finger, and that he’ll have to revoke the trust because he’s lost confidence in us. Mom tells him to do as he damn well pleases, and she goes into the living room to cry.  I try to smooth things out, but I wonder if I do this out of lovingkindness or because of the threat of disinheritance? Maybe a slow walk around the block will help me chill out.  I’ll let the purple rays come down from heaven and feel the red rays come up from the earth. I’ll take a look at what’s going on in the neighborhood. Fine brickwork being erected at the house on the corner.  The pyracantha bushes are lush with berries this year. Robins love their fermented liquor in the spring. Oak leaves in the yards. Ghost and bat decorations and jack-o’-lanterns presage Halloween. Giant orange faces. Luminous trees. Autumn light.

  I meditate on the fact that I am an adopted child. I entered through a womb door, but I was put into the bosom of a different family, parents who are generous, patient, and moral but are biologically different. In the six-ring circus of reincarnation, my life has been a cross between being on a flying trapeze and in an animal act—out of the flying pan into the lion’s mouth. I can make light of my situation, but I am grateful to have had two mothers, one that gave me birth and one that nourished me into adulthood.

  So, does an inheritance complicate matter? The money and property that my dad has is meant to keep my parents in comfort until the end of their days. I’m trying to be neither attracted nor repulsed. I’m trying to act for the benefit of Dad without self-interest, believing this is the natural way to act—kindly and, as much as possible, according to his wishes. At the same time, I am protecting my interests, which is, hopefully, enlightened self-interest.

  I walk and relax. My goal is to have my anger liberate into clarity at the moment it arises. When I get back to the house, Dad is still in the same frame of mind. Looking at the bigger picture—he’s half-blind and half-deaf, confined to his wheelchair with CNN being his only source of information about what’s going on in the world—I am more understanding of his point of view. When Dad is having a fit of dementia, my trying to talk reasonably doesn’t work because he refuses to listen, and my remaining silent and smiling and telling him to calm down just increases his frustration.

  Then, nature takes its course. He has a sudden bowel movement and becomes totally discombobulated. I apply Oil of Olay Moisturizing Body Wash and give him a dose of Imodium Anti-diarrheal, and we are looking at a new man.  The mind depends on the body and is conditioned by it. This shift of focus from mental activity to bodily functions changes the dynamic of our relationship.  Perhaps a bowel movement and shower were all that was needed in the first place. At dinner, Dad is contrite and prays to remain calm and give everyone a chance. Where is the anger now?  Washed away with a little soap and water.

CUTTING A SWATH

an old man pushes his wheelchair

and a clothes basket down the hall

he is slowly advancing to the laundry

with a plastic bag of soiled diapers

and with him the whole world comes

EPISODE 4

It’s Veteran’s Day. Dad was too young to fight in the First World War and too old for the Second World War. Born in 1900, he is a veteran of the 20th century, but today he is depressed he’s helpless and a burden on his family. He has Mom dig out a file called Choice In Dying. He wants me to call his physician and ask if there isn’t something that can be done to let him die peacefully.

  Whose life is it? Dad feels it’s his right to say, “Enough is enough.  I’ve had enough of this suffering.”  But without getting into the concepts of sin and karmic retribution, it is necessary to impress on him that being half-deaf, half-blind and dizzy does not constitute a terminal condition. Dad has strong moral convictions. He wants out but can’t take his life.  No contest, people should be able to die with dignity.  The debate, however, is whether assisted suicide should be legal. It’s not in California; and in Oregon, where it is legal, the FDA intimidates doctors with the threat of having their ability to write prescriptions terminated.

  When should a person be able to die?  Some believe it should only be done for terminally ill patients when the pain cannot be kept at bay with medication.  This is mercy killing, however the precise meaning of euthanasia is good death, which can apply in a broader sense to people who are no longer willing to live, and which is based on an individual’s right to control their body.  Some believe no one has this right and that it is necessary to guard against the direction society might take to get rid of unwanted people. Some believe life should take a natural course, and the time of death is up to God.

  My dad has put advance directives in place.  A living will is on file, and I have durable power of attorney for health care stipulating he does not want to be resuscitated if his heart or breathing stops and that he does not want to be put on a life support system.  I tell him, that other than this, about all he can do is write a letter to his congressperson and wait for a change in his condition.

  To get his mind off this subject, I ask him to tell me about his youth. Mom and Dad and I are sitting at the breakfast table, and I put the tape recorder between us. These are his words:

  My father was one of six brothers who came over.  He was a small one who came over with his dad and lived in a small town near New Hampton (Iowa). I haven’t had many occasions to visit, but there are a lot of Denners in that area.  Dad was about the only one who didn’t speak German. He was one of the youngest. After he married my mother, they settled around Mason City. Farming, they had 160 acres. The house was small, two stories; looked different than those today. It had an outhouse. No electricity. Electricity started to come in about the time of the automobiles. There weren’t too many cars. We had horses. We broke horses. That’s one of the jobs I had.  We had these colts. I know I had a team of three-year-olds that I was quite proud of, well-broke and everything. One deal: of course, they weren’t used to an engine on a train, and the engine came in pretty close to them, so they took a break and just straddled a telephone pole.  A free-for-all broke out. All came home. Had to be more careful with them after that because of them going through that experience.  Before that I could drive them most anywhere.

  It’d be seven miles to town. I’d take a wagon, a big old wagon.  I think it’d have some flaps down so you’d have some protection from the wind. My mother, she helped me an awful lot at that time. Inventories and all that stuff. And to pass an examination. I walked, I don’t know, six miles or more to school, and I got up to where they had an 8th grade guy tutor me so I could pass an examination for high school and qualify for Iowa State. I had a little trouble getting into high school because I had to get some credit as I hadn’t time to get very far.

  Of course, I took kind of a fancy to breaking those colts.  We always had colts, and I was proud of some of the horses I was training.  I had a team of horses for several years, seven or eight.  Of course, you’d sell some of them, but Dad was always very good about helping me getting into other things and gave me a lot of support.

  Because I know I raised guinea pigs, and I raised skunks. I had all kinds of things I did to make a little money. That’s what it was at that time. I never got back to Iowa very much, and I kind of lost track of people back there.  I know I stayed at my aunt’s place in town when I was going to school, so I could get through high school, graduating so I could get into Iowa State. 1920. I remember I was in charge of our group to graduate and go to college. Not too many folks went to college. None of my dad’s brothers went to college. The other brothers were older. They were more strictly German.

  When The War came, I got involved in a lot of war activities, and my dad was very active. I don’t think he qualified. I didn’t have any trouble (being German). There was some of that.  One brother was in business in New Hampton. The rest of them were all farmers. German wasn’t our language at home.  I know I was always on the side of the United States. They all spoke German, but I think they kind of resented (what the Germans were doing in Europe).

  I got so involved shipping different kinds of livestock. Skunks were only one. They made me keep them away from the house. But there were other animals that were very popular and expensive at that time.  I raised groups of mink, and I’d always raise up groups so I’d have some so I could sell. That’s one thing the folks were always very helpful about helping me in other things in little profits. They were more so than some of my cousins.  My cousins just about all spoke German at home. 

  High school, I graduated 1920. Then, college. The first job that I had, I was on the faculty in North Dakota. I remember the staff would go out and stop at various places and help some of the outlying places with their agriculture. I had a start in the county, what you call a district agent, or district group, and I had those groups several places in Iowa.

  Dad was one of the first ones to have an automobile. It was in the garage a lot of the time because they’d have to break up the snow that covered everything. Sometimes, you’d only be able to see the horse’s ears over the pile of snow they’d shovel out of the tracks.

  I’m wondering what was happening on the farm on November 11, 1918, so I look in an old farm journal:

Shipped calf weighed 160 lbs, sold 17.50

Shipped calf weighed 150 lbs, sold 12.50

Cream money, Price 63¢. . . . . . .   .32.04

Sold 44 lbs beef 11¢. . . . . . . . . . . . . 4.85

Sold 31 lbs cowhides 4¢. . . . . . . . . . 1.24

                                                 $ 55.63

Expenses:

5 gal gas. . . . . . . . . 1.49

crackers.  . . . . . . . . . .25

stove pipe. . .  . . . . .1.95

qt of oil for car. . . . . .30

pd note (S.N.B.). . 50.25

Sam . . . . . . . . . . 100.00

3 pair socks . .. . . . .1.00

licence for Buick. .27.00

G.E. Wilkins tax. . 59.47

tobacco & candy. . .  .20

  A note in the margin: Corrosive Sublimate ½ ounce, lard 2 ounces for lumpy jaws on cattle.

  Tucked inside the journal, a letter from the U.S. Employment Service, Dept. of Labor, which reads:

This is to certify that Sam Denner has been duly enrolled as a member of the United States Boys’ Working Reserve for farm labor, and will be allowed to wear the official badge after proving his fitness by actual service for the prescribed period, and subject to the rules of the RESERVE. Attested and Dated, April 8, 1918.

  Mom says she remembers the day the war ended. She was eight years old. Her mom put her on a horse and sent her to the fields to tell the men the war was over. “They all came in, all except Dad. He stayed to shuck corn, and the rest went into town to drink and throw their hats in the air and shoot holes in their hats and do silly things like that. We lived near Colfax, Illinois, and I remember it because it was such a cold day.”