Guilt—the tattered rag we try to throw away,
but the dog thinks we’re playing fetch.
A lot of my guilt stems from my mother’s last six months or so,” a friend confessed. “After a long hospital stay, the doctors wanted her to go to a rehab center. So we let them put her in a rehab/nursing facility.
“I know it’s the right answer for many people, but I couldn’t stand for her to be there. She was alone and so small. I wanted to bring her home. The staff talked me out of it every time. I knew I couldn’t give her the nursing care she needed and couldn’t lift her, but I hated that she was there.
“Then one night, I fell down the stairs and broke my leg. I had to have surgery and was bedridden for several months. That was bad enough, but I couldn’t go to see my mom.
“When I finally was able to visit her in my wheelchair,” she added, “the shock was hard to bear. She had declined so much. I desperately wanted to bring her home . . . but now I was wheelchair-bound.
“She died a few weeks later. I’m still dealing with the guilt of not being there for her. Yes, I know, it couldn’t be helped. Guilt doesn’t listen to that kind of reasoning.”
Stephen bore endless regrets about his relationship with his estranged father. He’d tried many times to reconcile over the years. Eventually Stephen stopped trying. How much battering could his pride take?
He’d hoped age might soften his father’s heart, that forgiveness would come easier to the old man as his life drew closer to its end. But instead, the hardwood of his heart petrified. And his ability to communicate was the first of his functions to leave.
Stephen and his father’s unfinished business remained unfinished. “I could have tried one more time before it was too late.” The guilt-laden words loop through Stephen’s mental playlist.
Jolene remembers, “My daughter’s destination wedding in the Bahamas had been in the planning stages for a year when my mother took ill. The doctors assured us she’d be okay but wouldn’t be ready to travel.
“My daughter and her husband-to-be volunteered to postpone the wedding until Mom could join us. But we all knew rearranging so many schedules and paying cancellation fees at that late date would have been cumbersome, to say the least.
“Mom insisted we go through with our plans, that she would be content to watch the video after the fact.
“We got the call in the middle of the wedding reception. Mom had fallen, an apparent stroke, and never recovered. I held that news to myself until the reception was over, thinking—how foolish of me—that waiting would spare my daughter the grief of knowing her grandmother died while she danced with her new husband.
Jolene couldn’t stop her tears. “Even now I don’t know. Should we have canceled the plans? Would that have been the right thing to do? Would it have made a difference? Could we have stopped Mom from falling? Prevented her life-ending stroke? I don’t know. But it’s taking everything in us to fight off guilt over our decisions.”
“After my mom died,” Marla said, “I was advised not to go in to see her body; people knew I’d been so close to her. But a future of guilt-ridden regrets wouldn’t let me follow that advice. Touching her ice-cold hand and stroking her forehead for the last time was something I will never forget. I would never see her face again on this earth. I’m glad I have that closure, that touchstone, if you will.
“Now I know why elephants are so insistent to keep their dead comrades and family close for a time after their deaths,” Marla said. “When they are deprived of this opportunity to see, to touch, to know . . . to mourn, they are unsettled and worrisome. I spared myself in that brave moment, going against all well-meaning advice.”
What do we do when aging-parent guilt clings to us like sharp-edged barnacles, scraping us and others as we brush past? Logic can’t make it fall away. On an intellectual level, we know we can’t meet our aging parents’ every need. But we take on the guilt as if we should at least try.
Dementia, at least, removes the ability to reason, so when a parent lashes out in confusion or anger, it should be automatic for us to resist unwarranted guilt over what we said, did, didn’t say, or didn’t do to cause the outburst. But it isn’t easy. It’s anything but automatic to fight off guilt.
Caring for aging parents often means juggling responsibilities between aging parents and at-home children, or aging parents and job demands, or aging parents and a spouse’s medical needs. It’s a season of choosing one over the other, shuffling heartaches, triaging disasters. Kyle’s appendectomy takes precedence over Mom’s broken hip, right? Okay, my husband can stay with Kyle while I make sure Mom’s new care team understands her medical history. I can’t win. I want to be with Kyle too.
What kind of people would we be if these tensions didn’t disturb us?
From our perspective, meeting the needs of those we care about will sometimes afford us no good options. Not surprisingly, someone—if not all parties—will be disappointed by our decision and our triage prioritizing.
•Is the heart of my problem that I’m worried about how other people will perceive me or that I’ll lose my reputation as the person who can juggle it all?
•Is pride keeping me from seeking God’s intervention? Do I assume I ought to be able to figure out a solution on my own, so if I turn to God, that’s a sign of defeat?
•Is pride keeping me from enlisting the help of others?
Guilt—if untended—gets in the way. It’s as hazardous to relationships and spiritual health as a ball and chain tethered to a long-distance swimmer. God made provision in His Word for dealing with guilt and its troublemaking sidekick, pride.
Psalm 51:1–2 (CEB) is the expression of the psalmist David’s heart. In his case, his guilt was well-placed. But even for those of us who know our guilt is unfounded, its sweet comfort can serve as a balm to our soul.
“Have mercy on me, God, according to your faithful love! . . . Wash me completely clean of my guilt.”
Father God,
Caring for aging parents
Is consuming.
It’s an inconvenient time
For guilt
To want my attention.
So with Your help
I’ll let You handle it
When it insists
On camping
In my heart.