Don’t let the best you have done so far
be the standard for the rest of your life.
—GUSTAVUS F. SWIFT
For me to not be able to lift my mother’s spirits is just one of the most disheartening things that I’ve ever had to endure,” Marcus said.
Xochitl says, “During our months at the cancer-care center, I slept in a rented recliner. While serving as my mom’s live-in caregiver, I struggled with my own recovery from multiple surgeries and injections in my shoulders and upper thoracic back.
“I still ache when I remember the night my mom’s soft voice hung in the darkness that separated us as we prepared to sleep on opposite ends of the room.
“ ‘You can lie down with me, if you want,’ she said.
“I declined. ‘I don’t want to disturb your sleep if I move too much.’
“Now, I recognize her invitation as a plea for closeness. Thinking back, I can identify lots of times I missed her hidden requests for comfort. We wore shields of faith and brave warrior masks as we navigated around personal loneliness and heartache.
“I excelled at hiding emotions, wanting to be strong for her, needing to hold myself together for her, when all I wanted to do was fall into my mom’s arms and sob.
“Although Mom affirmed how much she appreciated all I’d done, I’ve often wished I had been more selfish. I wish I would have hugged her, even when she acted strong. I wish I would have had the courage to acknowledge that my faith was still strong, even though I needed to break down and cry, voice my frustrations, and share my fears and insecurities.
“If I had been brave enough to admit my struggles with feeling weak, scared, and overwhelmed at times, maybe my mom would have felt safe enough to say, ‘Me too!’
“Maybe the pain would have been easier to bear if we’d both had the guts to be vulnerable and assure each other that we were in this hard journey together.”
What qualifies us for serving either our aging parents or Christ is not perfection, unparalleled talent, finely honed skill, or even a sound body. What is required above all else is a willing heart. There are no hardship deferments.
Bill G. says, “God is father to the fatherless, He’ll step in to fill gaps we can’t. He loves our parents more than we do, and He’ll love them when we can’t. We’re not in this alone; omnipotent love is on our side.”
The day comes to many children of aging parents when it’s obvious that our efforts are no longer enough. Our own health is deteriorating, or theirs is. They need the kind of pain management that’s not possible at home. Their physical care is beyond our limitations. Their mental or emotional state is a threat to others living in the home. Or, our parents make the hard call.
My mother’s desire was not to live with her children. She wanted to spare us the rigors of full-time caregiving. Plus, I’m pretty sure each of our busy schedules would have tried her patience to the breaking point. It was her decision to have in-home hospice care at her apartment for as long as possible. We served her in every way we could, but she preferred that some of the care we would have done was accomplished by hospice workers so when we visited, we could talk. Her choice. We complied.
The day came when she called those of us who lived closest and asked for a mini family meeting. Breathless and pale, she said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore. What do you think about calling the House of the Dove and seeing if they have a room for me?”
I can still feel the tears that pooled. She’d done things her way. She’d endured more than most humans could, but she knew she’d reached the end of her resources and stamina. Yet she consulted with us. She wanted to know we approved. We did.
She thought she’d held out until the second of August by sheer determination. Because she planned everything carefully, she expected to die by August third so the funeral could be over and done with before the start of the new school year.
That was my mom.
But once safely tucked into the hospice residence, she rallied a little. Then a little more. The actual date of her homegoing was February fifteenth. She’d gotten another of her wishes. My grandfather was buried on my birthday. My father was buried on my birthday. She wanted to be buried on my birthday.
In August, that seemed a dream she’d have to surrender.
In November, we tried to console her that Christmas would go on without her.
In mid-February, we visited the funeral home the day after her death and realized that she would indeed be buried on my birthday.
For some, the moment when our skills and love are no longer enough comes far earlier in the process, when a memory-care facility or nursing home or assisted living is the best option. That decision has never been an easy one in all the history of parents and homes for the elderly.
“He may not notice,” Glenn said, “but we’ll choose a place for Dad with a great garden because of how much he loved his flowers. We’ll choose a place where he can have his own chair, his own pictures, because we know how much that would mean to him. We’ll choose a place close enough to home that the few friends who are brave enough to visit him can still do that. And when he hollers and screams and throws a tantrum? We’ll have to ignore the noise and pray he’ll settle in eventually. Who’s to say he wouldn’t be belligerent and angry if he were able to stay at home?”
Julie’s father’s care had become far more than she could physically manage. The family knew it was time. But he insisted he could care for himself. That hadn’t been true for years. And he fought the decision like a cornered bull, until three weeks into his stay. His resentment dissipated. He made friends and found peace. His relationship with Julie and his other children settled into a far less stressful season with confidence that his physical needs were getting the attention they deserved.
The family could then focus attention on who their father was as a person, on rehearsing cherished memories and creating new ones.
No one can make those housing decisions or end-of-life-care decisions alone or without wise counsel.
But God speaks to a listening heart. And one of His messages during those “I can’t do this anymore” days is “[I know. I’m here.] My power is made perfect in your weakness” (see 2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV).
A place with a garden
A river
A view
A place with the things
That matter to you
A friend in the next room
And one down the hall
Staff members kind
Who respond when you call
This is my prayer
When the time comes to leave
This place you call home
Because you matter to me.