Pop 89: A spill-proof life
By Madonna Hamel
madonnahamel@hotmail.com
Reinforcements arrived last week. My father, still weak and confined to bed most of the day, became surrounded by well-meaning Helpy Helpertons. At times, Hover and Fuss could be the name of our little caretaking business. I don’t mean to make light of the very real danger my father found himself in and the daughterly sense of duty we each innately understand and demonstrate in our unique ways; we put on our big girl pants and played to our varied and individual strengths. But this experience was new for all of us.
A high tolerance for pain is not something anyone should brag about, but those of us who have such a threshold can easily fall into taking on too much at times like these. I am reminded of that experiment with frogs: put a frog in a pot of boiling water, and he’ll jump out. Put him in a pot of slow-boiling water, and he’ll boil to death. We were boiling frogs.
We are not unique in this. According to all the research, most family caretakers burn out because they believe – are often told - they have some kind of superhero caretaking capacity that they actually don’t possess. Unfortunately, by the time they accept this reality and shrink back to human-size, they have burnt to a crisp. And studies show that few ever get their full mojo back.
It’s hard to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you put it on your child - or aged relative - it feels counter-intuitive, but it’s best for all parties involved. It’s neither selfish nor lazy to do so. It’s the opposite. It’s good medicine and, above all, it’s resentment prevention.
On the third week of our watch, we acquired a portable urinal so dad could pee without leaving the bed. It’s a pretty shade of blue, heat resistant, and comes with a removable spout with a valve on the bottom so that the gentleman’s pee flows into a second chamber where it gets sealed in. Hence the name, Spil-Pruf.
In the end, dad opted for the container minus the spout. Which, of course, means we could just as well have given him a juice jar. But as it is, our little demo video, with three exhausted, dishevelled, giddy sisters in their sixties, filling the Spil-Pruf with water from the tap, turning it upside down, marvelling at the pricey pot to piss in, will remain a highlight of our time together.
Life is messy. We all know that. We just don’t like to think too much about it. When hardships and accidents happen, we do our best to climb out of the mess unscathed. “Dodged a bullet,” we might say. Or “Got lucky.” As if getting old is a question of luck. Something to be avoided at all costs. We live in a culture that pathologizes age and death, and that expects us to hide all signs of either. We operate under a bizarre etiquette that insists we be embarrassed by our wrinkles, bellies, and slow gaits.
(Raise your hands anyone else who wants to throw their computer across the room when advertisers appeal to our base curiosities with phrases like: You’ll cry when you see what she looks like now. As if it behooves movie stars to remain frozen in their prime in order to maintain our own illusions of immortality.)
Last night I walked through the freshly fallen snow to visit with an old radio pal. Years ago, we worked together on a daily show. I liked to say I was Ed McMahon to her Johnny Carson. (And I’m not apologizing for dating myself with the reference.) Now she lives in her childhood home nestled against a creek and tucked away from a busy Kelowna thoroughfare.
My friend moved back to Kelowna to be with her mother in her last years of life. I know few people who do what she did, who are capable of bearing witness to the extreme vulnerability of someone fighting to stay alive or relinquishing slowly to the arms of heaven. But my friend assures me, the intimacy that comes from such an experience is unparalleled. But her story is hers to tell.
What I can share is that I felt safe confiding to her what I witnessed in myself as my days with my father in the hospital and then back in his home added up: Resentment. (It’s worth noting that the word resentment comes from the French resentir, to re-feel.)
With every lost hour of sleep, my resentments grew, among them: my past history with my father; a health industry making a buck off vulnerable people; the lack of care for broke elders; unwanted, and even the needed, advice from people who in theory have great ideas but have yet to put them into practice; loud-talking aides who feel they have the privilege to be familiar with and apply nicknames to old folks they’ve just met; lack of sleep; game shows every evening; lack of sleep; negotiating around a stubbornness to do things the old way despite a lack of mobility. Most of all, I resented myself, that I could not rise to every occasion and be there with a smile on my face no matter what the situation. Oh and, did I mention lack of sleep?
Behind every drama is resentment, my friend assures me. Messes are inevitable, but as a caretaker, you can, and must, prevent the drama by creating a break schedule, getting support, and not waiting until the point of no return where there’s no getting back to normal.
So, get some rest to allow love to take precedence again.
We do what we do out of love. And we owe love its rightful place in the room. When your weary and worried father manages a laugh, or a whisper thanks, or guesses the Final Spin on Wheel of Fortune, you realize you actually were of service. You know there is nowhere else you want to be – or are meant to be. You can bless the messes you’ve made instead of fretting over a little spill.