The day after American Thanksgiving my wife and I cut our visit to our daughter's family in the U.S. short. Word had come back that my mother-in-law was not doing so well in her long-term care facility. And my wife felt she needed to be home.
I lost my mother when she was 64. I was 35 at the time. My dad died in his 91st year. I was 59. My wife's father lived to be in his 97th year and died when my wife was 70. And now we sit daily for a long stretch of time -- feeding and making comfortable her mom who is in her 96th year.
She has signed all the required papers. They are not to resuscitate her when the time comes. In the meanwhile she breathes with the help of oxygen. I understand that the amount of oxygen is significant enough that the portable containers can no longer be used. It now comes directly from a much larger machine that is plugged into the wall.
And although this is also possible in the dining room, this resident is no longer able to sit up, let alone stand up. Thus getting her to meals in a wheelchair is not feasible. It's a struggle for two staff people to get her to the washroom or to take care of her in her bed. They are angels.
I don't mind visiting as often as I can. I do it because I love my wife. And I want to be there for her. Fortunately, the home has excellent Wi-Fi and I can get a lot of work done (including writing this blog) when I'm here.
Today is not a particularly good day. My mother-in-law does not want to eat a lot. She is hardly talking. She can barely keep her eyes open. This is no way to live. She wonders how long she has been like this and how much longer this condition will continue. We're not sure if she is hoping to get better or if she is ready to die. The verdict on that changes regularly.
For all of us, it's like waiting for Godot. You may have studied the famous but absurd play by Samuel Beckett performed first in 1953. Godot never comes for the two main characters.
But get rid of "ot" and change it to waiting for God -- and that's exactly what we have here. We tell Grandma that it's up to God now as to how long this state will continue. We are doing nothing to cut it short and there is nothing we can do to prolong it in accordance wth her wishes.
But the wait is important. Not so much for her, but more for us. Death has a way of strengthening the living.
When a parent lives into his or her late nineties, their caregiver children often range into their seventies. The toll of daily visits, feeding and just sitting next to their loved day after day (especially if due to location one child is more likely to bear the majority of the burden) often with little or no response, or signs of real life, can be taxing. Yet, children do it because of the relationship and the bond (regardless of quality) that has been established over seven decades or more.
Somehow God gives them the strength to daily set aside their own responsibilities and make that visit. It's a duty they take on even though they have no idea of how long it will need to last. The staff at the long-term care facility my wife's mother is in told me this week that in 2019 they had to say goodbye to two 108 year olds. And then of course what happens when the caregiver themselves starts to have her or his own health issues? Just imagine a parent living to 108 and the caregiver being 85.
Maybe our forefathers knew something when they all lived together in villages, taking care of their aged at home and sharing the responsibilities. Or did they?
So we wait for Godot. We wait for our loved one to die. There are no other options -- recovery has succumbed to age. If a setback occurs, any medicine or treatment can only prolong life for a day, a week, month, maybe even a year. But what does that life look like and who wants it? Does the elderly person themselves want it? Does one dare to ask him or her?
I asked my mother-in-law today, "Did you sleep well last night?" Her barely audible reply was, "That's all I do." She's right. I added, "Then you've mastered that. Maybe you can teach some of us how to do it." She smiled.
As we each take turns visiting and sitting quietly in the room, we cannot but think of our own future, our own old age, even our own last days. Will we have mastered sleep, waiting for Godot, waiting for death? I pray my personal experience will be characterized by a sense of wonderment because I will be waiting for God, not Beckett's Godot. And Love will have once again conquered all, even death.
-- Ken B. Godevenos writing from Toronto.
I lost my mother when she was 64. I was 35 at the time. My dad died in his 91st year. I was 59. My wife's father lived to be in his 97th year and died when my wife was 70. And now we sit daily for a long stretch of time -- feeding and making comfortable her mom who is in her 96th year.
She has signed all the required papers. They are not to resuscitate her when the time comes. In the meanwhile she breathes with the help of oxygen. I understand that the amount of oxygen is significant enough that the portable containers can no longer be used. It now comes directly from a much larger machine that is plugged into the wall.
And although this is also possible in the dining room, this resident is no longer able to sit up, let alone stand up. Thus getting her to meals in a wheelchair is not feasible. It's a struggle for two staff people to get her to the washroom or to take care of her in her bed. They are angels.
I don't mind visiting as often as I can. I do it because I love my wife. And I want to be there for her. Fortunately, the home has excellent Wi-Fi and I can get a lot of work done (including writing this blog) when I'm here.
Today is not a particularly good day. My mother-in-law does not want to eat a lot. She is hardly talking. She can barely keep her eyes open. This is no way to live. She wonders how long she has been like this and how much longer this condition will continue. We're not sure if she is hoping to get better or if she is ready to die. The verdict on that changes regularly.
For all of us, it's like waiting for Godot. You may have studied the famous but absurd play by Samuel Beckett performed first in 1953. Godot never comes for the two main characters.
But get rid of "ot" and change it to waiting for God -- and that's exactly what we have here. We tell Grandma that it's up to God now as to how long this state will continue. We are doing nothing to cut it short and there is nothing we can do to prolong it in accordance wth her wishes.
But the wait is important. Not so much for her, but more for us. Death has a way of strengthening the living.
When a parent lives into his or her late nineties, their caregiver children often range into their seventies. The toll of daily visits, feeding and just sitting next to their loved day after day (especially if due to location one child is more likely to bear the majority of the burden) often with little or no response, or signs of real life, can be taxing. Yet, children do it because of the relationship and the bond (regardless of quality) that has been established over seven decades or more.
Somehow God gives them the strength to daily set aside their own responsibilities and make that visit. It's a duty they take on even though they have no idea of how long it will need to last. The staff at the long-term care facility my wife's mother is in told me this week that in 2019 they had to say goodbye to two 108 year olds. And then of course what happens when the caregiver themselves starts to have her or his own health issues? Just imagine a parent living to 108 and the caregiver being 85.
Maybe our forefathers knew something when they all lived together in villages, taking care of their aged at home and sharing the responsibilities. Or did they?
So we wait for Godot. We wait for our loved one to die. There are no other options -- recovery has succumbed to age. If a setback occurs, any medicine or treatment can only prolong life for a day, a week, month, maybe even a year. But what does that life look like and who wants it? Does the elderly person themselves want it? Does one dare to ask him or her?
I asked my mother-in-law today, "Did you sleep well last night?" Her barely audible reply was, "That's all I do." She's right. I added, "Then you've mastered that. Maybe you can teach some of us how to do it." She smiled.
As we each take turns visiting and sitting quietly in the room, we cannot but think of our own future, our own old age, even our own last days. Will we have mastered sleep, waiting for Godot, waiting for death? I pray my personal experience will be characterized by a sense of wonderment because I will be waiting for God, not Beckett's Godot. And Love will have once again conquered all, even death.
-- Ken B. Godevenos writing from Toronto.
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