IF PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE, DOES THAT MEAN I AM WICKED?

A few years back, my husband and I bought a Prius.  The following year, a close friend bought one too.  One day, when I was pondering where to store emergency supplies in our car, this friend suggested I put them in the hidden area under the trunk’s floor.

Hidden area?  I didn’t know there was a hidden area.

When I asked her how she knew about this, she told me she had read the manual. What a concept.  I have never read a car’s manual, except to look up how to perform a particular function or to find out why there is suddenly an alarming-looking exclamation point on my dashboard   There are probably many features of my car (and past cars) that I know (or have known) nothing about.

Here’s the thing.  I have a teensy problem with impatience.  Sitting and reading through a car manual is beyond my patience limits.  Same with reading directions.  Sure, I can read and follow a recipe (if, and when, I feel like cooking), but carefully reading about how to put together something like a bookcase or a desk that arrives in pieces in a box – I just can’t make myself do it.  

In my defense, the directions are often badly translated from Japanese or Swedish.  And don’t get me started on the diagrams.  But even if they were written in perfect English, with diagrams aimed at a third grader, I would be unlikely to get beyond the first page before my eyes glazed over.  

 

I am not proud of my impatience.  I know it isn’t attractive.  It gets me into trouble with my husband sometimes – he being a slow-talking Midwesterner, and I being a fast-talking Jersey girl.  “Are you going to finish your sentence?” I will ask when he takes one of his 10 to 15-second pauses mid-thought.  

Not nice, I know, but I feel like my idle is set too fast, and I don’t know how to reset it.  (Is there a manual for this?)

Sometimes—to my detriment—I combine impatience with procrastination.  I can’t make myself pack for a trip ahead of time.  I wait until the last minute when I don’t have the time or patience to do it right.  In consequence, I will wind up throwing way too many of the wrong clothes into a suitcase and hoping for the best.  (I have done better with infrequent trips abroad – for these, I make myself decide which five things I will wear for two weeks.  But, car trips, fuggedaboudit – there is no limit to what can be jammed into a car.)

 

And while I am confessing, I will share that I am extremely impatient when I am sick.  My husband will simply sit and read when he is under-the-weather.  Not me.  I will chafe against my restrictions until impatience turns to panic, as I become certain that I will never feel well again.  

Why can’t I be more like him?  (If patience is my spiritual lesson for this lifetime, I may have to live another hundred years, and there is no guarantee that would be long enough.)  

There are, however, occasions for what I will call justified impatience.  These include long lines at stores that have fired most of their checkers and replaced them with self-checkout stands; waiting on hold with a company that refuses to hire enough humans to service their customers; phone trees with no humans at the end; phone helpers who have neither answers nor power; and companies whose only phone help is a recording telling you to search their web site, which, of course, does not have the answer to your question. I will not apologize for my impatience in these situations, although I do try not to take out my frustration on the aforementioned phone helpers.  

Justified impatience aside, I do get this patience thing right at times.  I have endless patience for my granddaughters, aged one and one-and-a-half.  I am charmed when they hand me things over-and-over again or want me to read the same book multiple times.  I was patient and present during my years as a hospice volunteer.  I am never bored in my garden, where my back gives out long before my patience, and I can sit for a long time once I get going on a writing project.  

That’s a start, isn’t it?  

I’ll report back in a hundred years . . .

                                               Art by Carl Chew
 

 

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NOTES FROM MY FUTURE SELF

         I am a healthy 60-something, and am doing everything I can to keep it that way.   I feel fine.  I am not blind, however, to the fact that, my best efforts notwithstanding, there is a fair chance that sometime between now and when I move on into the great mystery that is death, I will not be as healthy as I am now.  So, just in case I am not able to share these tips later (or forget them. . .), here are some notes from my future self to my future caregivers, based on what I learned caring for my mom during her declining years and what I have gleaned from my first year-and-a-half as a hospice volunteer. *

         Let me start with what I don’t want because I am more upset by these than by the things you are not doing. 

        

1.      Do not leave me alone in a room with a blaring TV over which I have no control.  I prefer music or silence.  On the other hand, I would be happy to have your company while I watch a show of my choosing. 

2.      Do not call me “young lady.”  I know how old I am; you are not flattering me, only patronizing me.

3.      Do not argue with my confusion.  If I mistake my nurse for my mother, ask me what my mother has to say.  If I say I am planning a trip, when you know I can’t walk to the bathroom, ask me about what I am packing and who/where I will visit. 

4.      Do not talk about me as if I am not there.  Assume I can hear you, even if it doesn’t look like I can.

5.      Do not tell me about the sacrifices you are making for me.  I can’t do anything about this.  Assume that someone will make sacrifices for you when your turn comes.   

6.      Do not tell me how upset you are by my condition.  Find someone else to share this with.

  

         Remember that I once had a life as full as yours, and would like some help in filling it now when I am not able to be as active as I once was.  Please do whichever of the following things do not cause discomfort for me or you.    

1.      Take me on outings, if I am able.  I miss being in the world.    

2.      Even if I can’t manage outings, take me outside or place me where I

can see outside.  I was once an active gardener.

3.      Talk with me.   If I tell the same stories over and over again, ask me about something more interesting, such as what it was like to be a teenager in the ‘60s or how I spent my childhood.

4.      If I can’t talk, talk or sing to me.

5.      If I am able to read, bring me books and magazines.  Read to me.  Read to me even if I am still able to read. 

         If I have dementia and can’t tell you what I would like to hear, try reading something that I loved as a child or young person.  (Hint – For me that would be Anne of Green Gables.)  I spent time reading to a hospice patient with dementia who loved Dr. Seuss. 

6.      Hold my hand or rub my feet.  I haven’t lost my need for human contact.

7.      Play music for me.  Ask me what I would like to hear.  If I am not able to tell you, and you know what I loved when I was young, try that.  Otherwise, you are probably safe with classical music. 

8.      If I am confined to my chair or bed, bring me something soft to hold in my hands.

          (If I have dementia, I may still respond to different textures—give me a sampling of different materials to touch.  I might also like a baby doll to hold.) 

9.      Help me to get dressed every day for as long as I am able. 

10.     Be patient with me as I try to keep up with technology.  (OK, you can start on this one now.)  I would like to use the current email/text equivalent to stay in touch with the outside world for as long as I can. Notice when I am no longer able to do this, and see 11and 12 below.

11.     If I can read, send me cards or notes.  I love to feel connected.

12.     If I can answer the phone, call me.  Like I said in No. 11, I love to feel connected.

         My future self thanks you and, if you happen to be a caregiver now, she asks you to take these suggestions to heart.  She would also love to see your additions to this list.  Please share them in the comments below.   

*     This post expands on a previous post titled The Top Ten Things That I Learned at the Assisted Living Facility.  


Photo by Cristian Newman on Unsplash

THE TOP TEN THINGS I LEARNED AT THE ASSISTED-LIVING FACILITY

My mother spent the last 12 years of her life in an assisted-living center not far from my house.  During this time, I spent many, many hours in this building.  Here are the top ten things that I learned from observing, and interacting with, my mom and other residents.    

10.      Everybody has a story. 

            Even those, or especially those, whose lives look diminished and sad have stories to tell.   Ask for these stories.  You will learn that the storyteller’s life was not always so small and that she likely lived a very full and interesting life.  My mom’s assisted-living facility published a weekly flyer that frequently included the biography of a resident.  It was humbling to be reminded that these people had lived long and fulfilling lives before their need for care.        

9.        If you want to know how to approach an elderly person, watch how kids and pets do it.   

            If you want to give an elderly person a treat, bring a dog or a kid to visit him.  Then watch what happens.   A dog will not feel awkward around an elderly person’s disabilities, and generally speaking, neither will a small child.  My mom spent the last 10 days of her life in an adult foster home because she was too ill to stay in assisted living.  It was wonderful to see the delight on her face when the owner’s children would prance into the room and dance for her. 

8.        Start getting rid of your stuff.   

            If you are over, say, 55 or 60, start looking at your possessions with a cold eye.  If you live to be very old, the time will come when you can no longer take care of or use all of that stuff.  And, if you have had to go through a parent’s stuff after they pass, you will know what a burden you are creating for those you will leave behind.  As Roz Chast says in Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant?, her wonderful memoir of her parents’ last years, once you have gone through and sorted your parents’ stuff, you start to look at your stuff “a little more postmortemistically.”  So, organize your photos.  Take on a room every year and get rid of what you no longer use or enjoy.  And then start over again.  Not only will you be doing your kids, or whoever is left to pick up the pieces, a favor, but not having to take care of so much stuff will free you up to do what you really want to do with the years left to you.  (Unless, of course, taking care of your stuff is how you want to spend the years left to you.)

7.        Keep moving. 

            No, not your residence, your body.  Here is the bottom line, people.  If we don’t keep moving as we get older, we will stop being able to move.  And then everything will go downhill really fast.  So walk.  Or swim.  Take a yoga class.  Stay limber. Get out of your chairs.  Move your body.  Every day.      

6.        Keep your balance.

            Of course we want to be balanced in mind and spirit, but I am speaking here of physical balance.  Old people fall.  A lot.  So, don’t wait until you are really old to work on your balance.  Stand on one foot at a time for a while every day.  If you want a little more challenge, do the yoga tree pose every day.  Take a tai chi or qi gong class.  Of course, if we live to be very old, we will probably fall, but I like to think that working on our balance before then will forestall that day. 

5.        Make younger friends.

            By the last few years of her life, all of my mother’s friends had pre-deceased her.  This is a very lonely business.  So, don’t put all of your relationship eggs in one generational basket.  Cultivate younger friends.  If you are lucky, maybe they will visit you in your dotage. 

4.        Learn to enjoy your own company. 

            Here is the sad truth.  Most of the people who lived at my mother’s assisted living center rarely had visitors.  Even if you have family nearby and even if they visit you when they can, if you live to be very old and your friends pre-decease you, you will probably end up spending a lot of time alone.   So, if you don’t enjoy your own company, make it a priority to cultivate alone time, and figure out what to do with it.

3.        If you are an unhappy, self-absorbed adult, you will be an             unhappy, self-absorbed elderly person. 

            Any one who has cared for an elderly or very sick relative knows that we continue to be ourselves, only more so, as we grow older or sicker.  So, if you have unattractive qualities, you might want to work on those now.   In this way, you might be more likely to keep those family members and friends coming around.      

2.        Show up.

            If you have a friend or family member who is ill or frail, show up for them.  Be generous with your time to the extent that you have any to give.  Your loved one likely can’t remember what it felt like to have a job and a family and multiple calls on her time.  She just knows that she feels very alone.  Although we can’t picture it now, the time is likely to come when we are the ones who long for a visitor.     

1.               Practice kindness and patience and the gentle art of listening.

            These are the most important gifts that we can give to someone whose health is failing.  (OK, they are the most important gifts that we can give to anyone.)  And they are sometimes not easy gifts to give when our loved one is moving and talking slowly or repeating the same stories over and over again.   I wish I could say that I was always patient with my mother.  I was not.  Here are two things that I did find to be helpful:  (1)  Ask about something that you are interested in, (see lesson No. 1 above), then be silent and listen.  I would sometimes ask my mother to tell me about her girlhood or her experiences during WWII.  Not only did this cut off her oft-repeated stories about old TV shows, but now that she is gone, I am so glad that I asked these questions.   In fact, I wish that I had asked more; (2)  When you run out of patience and the ability to be kind, take a few days off to look away and do whatever you need to do to restore your ability to be present with patience and kindness.  This may help you to ward off burn-out and keep you from becoming one of those persons who never shows up.      

Of course, all of these lessons are aspirational.   May we all do our best to take them to heart. 

Photo by Joshua Hoehne on Unsplash