Helping a friend at the start of her journey
- col-leslie-pearce-keating
- November 6, 2023
- 743
I keep repeating the same sentence to my friend: “I will be praying for you and your parents.” Otherwise, I am at a loss for words. How could I tell Anne the truth — that watching her parents falter and fail is one of the hardest things a person ever faces? Anne is at the beginning of this journey. I am nearly at the end of mine.
Anne and I met years ago at Antioch Writer’s Workshop. I attended for about seven years, so did she. Our years overlapped for about five years. Through discussing memoirs, through shared lunches and dinners, because of long walks around Yellow Springs, we became close friends.
Anne also has heart, so she knows about my losses and heartbreaks, just as I know about hers. But she is about 10 years younger than I am, so up until recently, her parents, in their 80s, have been doing terrific, where my folks began struggling with their health about 22 years ago, first with Dad’s heart blockage and COPD and then later with Mom’s falls and strokes.
Dad died 17 years ago. Mom was admitted to an assisted living nursing facility after she suffered from a bad stroke 11 years ago and then was placed in full care for seven years as falls and more strokes took her captive. I am ahead of Anne in this area. And yes, it is great to help my friend through a difficult time, but it isn’t easy is it?
When I struggled through Dad’s failings and eventual passing, I didn’t know Anne. Antioch served as a good escape for a week-long getaway after he passed, to escape family issues, but then Dad began showing up in my writing and then Mom too. As Anne and I grew closer, I began telling her more about Mom’s struggles: her falls, her subsequent injuries, the UTIs, the creeping dementia, not to mention the debilitating loss of my dad after a 58-year marriage. And then Mom forgot him completely.
Just last year or two ago, Anne began to tell me about her mom’s mental slips, the times she was terribly confused and her eventual diagnosis. As her dad took on the role of full-time caretaker for his wife of 60 years, he began to experience health issues himself, just like my mom did after caring for dad. Last month her dad had exploratory bowel surgery, which was difficult at 84.
Luckily, Anne and her sister are equally devoted to their parents, flying or driving to Ohio from the South, staying for weeks on end caring for their parents, often splitting duties so someone is with both parents at all times. Both women can work from home. This too is reminiscent of my sister and me as we struggled to care for my parents, which was much harder because I live 100 miles away and then had two small kids when Dad was sick while my sister had a demanding job and two children as well. I swear my cars, each one I have driven, could find my parents’ home, the big hospital or the nursing facility without me steering.
Just this week the chaplain at Shepherd of the Valley called my sister to disclose Mom is failing ever more. She is halfway through her 101st year. When I decorated her room with pumpkins and darling witches several weeks ago, she was awake enough to hold the hand-crocheted pumpkin I made for her, to chew small bites of the maple cream stick I fed her. The only time she spoke was to ask why I had kissed her. She no longer knows I am her daughter.
If I were to talk to Anne as honestly as possible or perhaps if your loved one is faltering or failing and you need some advice, I would give just one bit of counsel: love them. Hold them close. Say all the lovely things you have always wanted to say. Lay it on thick. Whisper sweet nothings, even if your loved one is distracted or asleep, even if you are embarrassed. Forgive and forget about past hurts. Sing to them, even if you feel corny while doing it. Reminisce about all the wonderful times you’ve shared. Kiss them tenderly.
That is what I have done for my mother, even when she says I am a stranger, even when she doesn’t recognize me, even when she doesn’t speak or sleeps through the entire visit. That’s what I must tell Anne while there is still time. Maybe when her mom has a good moment or when her dad awakens from a nap, she can say those sweet nothings — because those sweet nothings add up to a whole lot of something in the end.