Sunday, July 17, 2011

True disability

Disability ... a term filled with sadness, regret over what one can't do.  I remember that my father used to get very upset upon hearing that word, after his amputation, instead wanting to focus on what he could do.

My mother could be considered 'disabled' now.  She uses a transport chair to get around. She walks with difficulty, if at all. Her mind is sharp, but her physical abilities are limited.

Yet, last week we went on a trip to visit her old friend, and I have walked away realizing again, that her greatest disability is not her physical constraints, but her unwillingness to expend herself mentally and emotionally.  She has admitted she is lazy, and I haven't seen any evidence to contradict her. She admitted she is 'non-participative', and I agree.

We spent the day with her childhood friend, the same age as her.  Her friend is not as physically-challenged as my mother, though she has recent changes in her state of health. But she has stayed engaged with life, curious, eager to know more and to stay connected.

In contrast, my mother just sat in her chair, staring into space.  She didn't ask questions about her friend's recent loss of her husband, about her children or grandchildren, or about her health. Mom just sat there, and when she spoke, she commanded.  "Give me a kleenex!" or "Take me to the bathroom".

I have become very friendly with this friend of my mother's, and she expressed shock at my mother's decline and her commanding tone. We spoke later, and she told me about my grandmother (whom I never met).  She would tell her family that she felt weak (feigning illness? or, ill?), and all would dance around her, and do her bidding. And my grandmother would take my mother to the department store (with her friend), and buy her 2-3 dresses at a time - during the depression, when they were in financial straits to the point of losing their house.

My mother grew up in an environment where she felt entitled, privileged. She married my father, who adored her, and she continued as the princess.  My father 'carried her' socially, making the friendships for her (then breaking them when his temper caused a rupture).  But my mother just remained passive, waiting for good things and for people to come to her, to entertain her, to worship her. When he died 15+ years ago, she has just slowly withered with boredom.

I honestly believe that is her true disability - her unwillingness to give of herself, her unfamiliarity with even HOW to engage with others. It's like speaking Chinese to her when I talk to her about it.  She is crippled by her own self-absorption.  She is hobbled by laziness and disinterest. That is the tragedy - she could have had such a rich life, had she been willing to do more for herself and more for others.

Tragic.

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Oh, wow, this sounds so familiar. My mother was an "only child" (which she never tires of telling us) and she has always said she enjoys her own company over being around other people. The other day she said that the young new father across the street told her that his wife was having surgery that day. I asked her if she had expressed any kind of sympathy for his wife and she said no, it wasn't any of her business (although she watches them like a hawk from her living room!)

I'm constantly amazed at how anti-social she can be. You've hit the nail on the head about the unwillingness to "give of herself" and not knowing how to engage with others. My mother's idea of engaging is giving us money for the things we do for her. I've told her often that it's not necessary to pay us, that this is what a FAMILY does for each other, but she would rather even things out monetarily. I've given up trying.

NancyG said...

Something that happened yesterday, more of the same:

Her hospice nurse was scheduled to arrive at 3PM. Her hospice social worker visited at 2PM, and said that he would probably be late because he was with a client that was "actively dying". Yet when I arrived at 3:00, she was impatient to see him, slapping her thighs like an truculent child, saying "I want him here NOW! I want attention NOW!" I pointed out that she did have the social worker visit already, and that I was there at that very moment, giving her attention. She was momentarily confused then said she still wanted him there now. She has no active hospice issues, just is very slowly dying of/with congestive heart failure, so it was just a question of being the queen at the center of everyone's lives. She wanted him to look at her toe, which appears to be healed now anyway.

A toe check versus the last moments of someone's life.

How does someone get to the point that they feel so entitled? Well, I know how - it's the story of my mother's life.

Embarrassing. Horrifying. Tragic.

Anonymous said...

Nancy--Your comment about your mother wanting to be the "queen" made me chuckle.

My husband reminded me the other day that whenever we would pick my mother up for a family occasion she would get out of the car and say "The queen is here."

I took her to her oncologist's the other day and we had a short wait while her blood work was being analyzed. There had been no other patients in the waiting room, so she was impatient for the doctor to see her. He's a very nice guy who apologized for the wait by saying that even though it looked like they weren't busy, he had a lot to see to since he's taken over the practice from his partner who retired last year. I tried to assure him that the wait hadn't been long at all, but I don't think my mother was even listening to what I was saying.

I liked your comment on Chuck's blog "Life with Father." I recently read a book called "Thank You for Being Such a Pain" that reflected much of what you told him about the gift your mother gave you of not being like her. I try not to be like my mother, with her self-absorption, and my husband has always tried not to be like his father who was a self-indulgent skinflint. We all do the best we can, don't we?

Anonymous said...

Touche! Perfectly describes one of our family members.

Jim Booksh said...

You write beautifully. Every word resonates with me, as I became a caretaker for my wife Rita, when she battled the disease. I was married to the love of my life for 58 years prior to losing her, but all that lives in my mind are the memories I'll cherish.

You may really enjoy my book "My Life With Rita, The Love of My Life". I have a hunch you'll probably commiserate with my sentiment.

Wonderful blog. Keep writing!