A blank pad of paper and a pencil, and a photo of author Richard Ely, smiling.
Richard Ely
We all get older all the time. We have no choice in this. No going back, no standing still. You keep aging; then you die.
I’m 73 now. I was 50 when I moved from Madison to Providence, Rhode Island, to take care of my 86-year-old mother, who had dementia.
By then, she was old and skinny and slightly stooped, with a soccer ball-sized belly. Most of her teeth were gone. She wore adult diapers, and I was the guy who changed them. She spilled food on herself. She picked at the buttons of her sweaters, eventually pulling them off. You couldn’t have a conversation with her of more than two or three lines. And she could slip out the front door of her little house and disappear in no time flat.
Yet I was frequently delighted with her. She was funny, creative and sweet. In a way, she was free: After a lifetime of pleasing others, she now did exactly as she pleased. She lay down when she was tired, got up when she was ready.
She was constantly rearranging her environment. In the mornings, I’d often find a tableau on one of the little tables by the living room couch — perhaps a button, a book, a handkerchief and a pillow arranged like a mini art installation, the dining room table covered by a bedspread.
She made me laugh, intentionally or otherwise. Once she jumped up from the dining room table and headed toward the bathroom. “I’m just going to turn my food around,” she said. Another time she was hungry and said she wanted a “scrownie.” So, my 9-year-old niece and I made a batch of cookie-like things and called them scrownies.
Her dementia was progressive. As time passed, she forgot more and more. When I first arrived, she remembered her childhood and college years, but had no memory of my father, her husband. When I pointed out to her one day that she was my mother, she laughed with astonishment. She didn’t know that I was her son, Richard. But she knew we had an emotional connection, that I was someone special in her life. She knew she loved me, and she often told me so, embracing me with exquisite gentleness.
Occasionally she was wise in her confusion. One afternoon as we sat on her front porch in silence — there was a lot of silence between us — she turned to me with a happy smile. “You’re my mom,” she said.
On the evening of 9/11, when Peter Jennings stated that no one watching would ever forget that day, I glanced over at my mother, knowing she was already forgetting it.
Of course, it was sad, watching an adult slowly becoming more and more childlike. And boring. When your main companion lacks a single intellectual idea in her old head, what is there ever to talk about?
But I learned so much from her, mainly about myself. For one thing, caring for her transformed me from a bad son — critical and sarcastic, “borrowing” money I never repaid — to a good son. And at age 50 I was just mature enough to feel good about being good.
I cared for her for two-and-a-half years, and then my brother took over for another six months. She was baby-like when she finally went into a lovely nursing home and died soon afterward. By then, I had given my all, and I had no regrets.
That was more than 20 years ago now. As everyone knows, time moves quickly. In another 14 years, I’ll be the same age my mother was when I went to live with her. Unless I die suddenly, it’s extremely likely that I will need people to take care of me. Lacking a spouse or children, I don’t know who that will be.
So here is what I want to say to whomever ends up caring for me. It’s only three simple things, really.
The first thing I learned was not to push my mother. After all, there was no hurry. What important things did we need to accomplish? None. Unless her health and safety required it, I never made her do anything she didn’t want to do. I let her take the lead as much as possible. I didn’t even announce that it was time for dinner. I asked, “Would you like some dinner?”
Second, I learned to offer reassurance. Over and over and over. My mother was often confused, sometimes frightened. And there I was — a warm, calm, familiar presence, smiling and putting my arm around her, making her feel safe. It was so easy and made such a big difference. It helped that I had been her favorite child and that she loved and trusted me unconditionally, granting me the power that a child grants a parent.
The third thing was to take care of myself. I found helpers, and I discovered ways to get out on my own. I slowed down and enjoyed small pleasures. I laughed at my mom when she was unintentionally funny, and I didn’t feel bad about it. I laughed at myself as well. I made do with what was available. Some afternoons, for instance, I paced between my mother’s living room and kitchen for long minutes, while she sat on her couch paying no attention to me. It was ridiculous, but it was exercise, and it helped.
That’s all. You don’t need to be a martyr or a saint. You can be your ordinary, imperfect self. Three things: Don’t push. Offer reassurance. Take care of yourself. It’s good practice in most situations, and I’ll appreciate your effort when I’m old.
Richard Ely is an artist, editor, and writing coach in Madison.
