The thing about candor is that there are always limits. I'm willing to be open about a lot of things and so the illusion may be that I am an open book. We extroverts can provide a plethora of information about ourselves, an overload. We suck the oxygen out of the room in our rush to express our rampant personalities. But, pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. Watch the show, please.
When does the "show" become part of the problem? Careening along on the crest of an unidentified mood, we can do damage and not consider it. We can take risks unthinkingly. We find, once again, that we are not as highly evolved or developed as we thought. We've taken a detour on the road to enlightenment, indulged our darker, more thoughtless selves, or as an old friend said: ". . . let the other guy out."
I'm not really fond of the other guy, but I think he's with me on this journey for the foreseeable future, popping for whatever reason. It's no me or him, it's me and him. I'm fortunate to have a group of friends who know me well enough, and care enough about me, to mention to me when I fall short. Hey! You! Listen! The alternative would be to live in a much sadder, lonelier place where people shrug and write you off.
This week has begun a number of transitions. Caitlin moved into her dormitory at UNI. Moving her was a pleasure, reminding me of how enervating and terrifying freshman year away from home was for me, and will be for my daughter. Walking in and out of the dormitory with boxes of things, we parents were at once necessary and irrelevant. We hooked up the television and the computer, managed the logistics and schlepped, but we are not beginning. We are much farther down this road. I think I was much less tense than a lot of parents, at least from the look of it. There was a lot of grim focus on rolling carts in, setting up bunks. There were terse exchanges between parents and impatient offspring, enduring their necessary but ultimately clueless parents. It reminded me a little of the Disney Channel, where situation comedies involve young people who live in large comfy suburban homes seemingly devoid of adults. This is better than Disney, don't get me wrong. At least I hope it is, considering the price! We are, however, the supporting cast and we leave in the first act. At least we do if we know what our kids need.
On the other end of life's continuum, we were notified that the Bureau of Inspections and Appeals has decided that my mother no longer can be sustained in memory care and have denied her waiver to stay in her very expensive assisted living facility more than about another 30 days. This is less of a crisis than it might be since I was getting ready to move her anyway. The cost is high and ambiance simply no longer matters to my mother, who only occasionally knows me, who forgets the ends of sentences she has begun, who spends most of her remaining moments in a sleep that seems like a rehearsal for the next, much longer one. One day soon she will drift off and not awaken. Our allies at Hospice will administer medication to dull the pain from not being able to eat, and she will begin the hard work of dying, rather than diminishing.
Mom's money is running out and what is left needs to get her to this final act. This is why I was already preparing to hunt for a nursing facility, a semi-private room - who needs privacy when you can't remember from moment to moment? The denial of her waiver is just a marker here, a confirmation. A punctuation. Mom's decline has been precipitous since I asked the doctor to discontinue her Alzheimer's medication. It was time to kick the chocks out from under the wagon wheels. She was in that place she always dreaded - the place of incapacity, of pitifulness, of incompetence - and she's clearly not sampling or enjoying life. Mom can't walk on her own, or stand, let alone be witty or sweet or helpful or knowledgeable. I know what she wanted and I'm trying my best to do it. If I could, I'd press a button and end it all for her. That would be tidy and expedient and that's not how it works.
I suppose this transition has a lot to do with my previous post regarding vodka, but it serves only as a context. There's always something coming up, some grounds for sadness or self-pity to distract us. That's no excuse for indulging the other guy. Life is a very long self-improvement project if it's to mean anything. I have kids to raise, a wife to love, jobs that matter, beauty to appreciate, a wife to love. . .
. . . and I have good friends, keeping me honest, trusting me to listen to them when they speak, and in turn listening to me. I'm a lucky guy that way.
No comments:
Post a Comment