Some teens have a hard time talking to their parents.
I didn’t expect that kind of strain to return at this stage of life.
They just drive me crazy. Come every year. This year’s the worst, though.”
“What drives you crazy, Dad?”
“The bugs.”
“Bugs?”
He shifted in his worn recliner. “Don’t you see them outside the window? Ladybugs, I guess. They just drive me crazy. Come every year. This year’s the worst, though.”
“I see a few.”
“Come every year. This year’s the worst, though.”
“Dad, have you seen much of Maureen?”
“Who?”
“Maureen. Your sister. My aunt.”
“She died years ago. Such a wonderful woman. That was a sad, sad funeral. She was a wonderful woman.”
“Dad, Maureen is alive. I spoke with her a week ago. She said she was planning to visit you last Sunday, if the weather was still good.”
“Sunday? When was that?” The recliner creaked.
“Two days ago.”
“Have you seen the bugs? Come every year. This year’s the worst, though.”
“Yes, they can be annoying. Did you go to the senior center for lunch today?”
“Oh, sure. Right after geometry. I’m not doing well in that class. Numbers. Bah! Have you seen the bugs? Come every year. This year’s the worst, though. By far.”
“Yes, it is, Dad.”
According to results of national studies conducted within the last decade and reported by New York Times columnist David Brooks, between a third and half of the current baby boomer population will suffer some form of dementia, from mild cognitive impairment to full-blown Alzheimer’s.
What does a statistic like that do to us? It brings us to our knees with a soul-sobering reality only God can help us navigate.
When dementia issues move from statistics to our own parents or grandparents, we step into an altered universe that bears little resemblance to the familiar. As the disease or disorder progresses, we find ourselves not only giving, but giving up what we once cherished. We can no longer ask for advice. Family gatherings become a pinch-point of distress. Shared memories? Traditions? Inside family jokes that once caused instant laughter? Gone. Shelved. Relegated to a storage bin marked “Untouchable Past. Corrupted Disk. Irretrievable.”
Conversation styles change.
One woman said, “I learned not to ask questions, because Dad would never know the answers and trying to find a suitable response brought him more frustration. So when I visited, rather than search for topics I hoped would be meaningful to him—and none were—I talked about relatively meaningless trivia that required no response.
“It exhausted me,” she said, “but it filled the time we spent together and kept from aggravating his agitation that his brain wouldn’t cooperate with conversation’s natural give-and-take.”
Mindy Peltier said of her grandmother, who lived in a memory-care facility, “After our visits, a few times she followed my children and me to the elevator and tried to get on. I used to think she wanted to come home with us, but now I know better. She wanted to escape, but she didn’t know where she was from, so didn’t know where to go.
“A staff member would gently hold her and talk in those reassuring tones they’ve perfected, while I pushed the button of GUILT and watched the doors close in front of her face.”
For some, conversation is the one remaining connecting point. Other shared activities have diminished as the years progressed. “Sit and talk to me,” a mom or dad might say. Behind those five simple words is a plea to share what still comes easily.
For others, conversation is difficult at best and nearly impossible at worst. A mental disconnect with reality, the disappearance of common ground for discussion, severe hearing issues, comprehension issues. . . .
Our minds race, searching for topics of discussion that will be of interest to our parents at this stage of their lives, for conversation starters that won’t lead down tangled paths of frustration for us or them.
If your aging parents are comfortable conversationalists, consider yourself blessed.
If, instead, they struggle to respond verbally and are unable or hesitant to initiate conversation or if every discussion is caught in a spin cycle of sameness, my heart goes out to you.
“I’ve known caregivers to carry ‘caregiver business cards’ with them,” Brent Mausbach, clinical psychologist at UC San Diego Health, says. These cards “state something like, ‘My mother/father has Alzheimer’s disease, and I am his caregiver. Please direct communication to me and know that he may (forget, be unable to communicate or answer questions, display agitation, etc.). Thank you for your patience.’ ”
The ability to verbally connect with our parents starts a handful of months after we’re introduced to them—Mama, Dada. Our hope is that the connection would continue unbroken. But it doesn’t always. And when their ability to communicate effectively ends, it adds another layer of heartbreak.
The gift of conversation with our parents parallels one aspect of the parent-child intimacy we can know with our heavenly Father. We talk. He listens. He talks. We listen. We read what He wrote and discover His true heart. Our communication with Him builds our faith.
When words won’t come in our attempts to communicate with our aging parents, we can turn to the One who invites us to pour our hearts out to Him. May He fill us with hope-hemmed words to fill the empty spaces.
Reach out in the language Jesus speaks—the language of love.
“Let my mouth be filled with Your praise and with Your glory” (Psalm 71:8 NKJV).
Lord, I’m lost again.
Adrift.
Bereft
Of words.
No,
More than that . . .
Bereft of good words
That will warm
My parent’s soul,
Light a spark
Of recognition.
And I tire,
I admit it,
Of carrying the full burden
Of conversation.
But I hear You say,
“Come
All who are weary.”
I hear
Your Voice.
And it comforts me.