When I was a child, maybe 8 years old so about 1958, my parents got me a doll with a really sad face. It was something like this photo. I tried desperately to make the doll happy, but obviously with inert plastic, I was doomed to failure. I could not change the unchangeable. I was utterly doomed.Flash forward about a half-century...
My mother got a visit from the director of the hospice program, Cathy, who was introducing a new hospice nurse. Later Cathy called me to say they'd like to start a couple of new interventions: antidepressants, and bringing Mom (an artist) some watercolors.
For some reason, both suggestions really irritated me.
I tried very hard to not just shoot down the ideas. I didn't want to be perceived by hospice as a difficult family member. Nor do I actually want to BE that difficult person. And I knew my reaction was irrational.
But we've done this before.. both the antidepressants and the watercolors. For the antidepressants, she tried them twice and had side effects twice, and quit them. For the watercolors, we tried that repeatedly too, at her last assisted living facility where they moved the class to just steps from her room and she still chose not to participate. Then I set her up in her room with an easel, good watercolor papers, her own professional watercolors and brushes, even water. She just was not interested - even when I offered to do it with her. It was just easier to sit in her chair and watch TV.
But now, to state it from the standpoint of my internal overreaction... the director of hospice has become engaged and will solve her problems. They will make a 91-year-old chronically negative narcissistic person into a happy productive artist with a life full of meaning. Of course, I know that is not the real intention, just an incremental improvement, but it felt like hubris, like a doomed effort. Deja vu.
I really wondered... why did this irritate me so much? I want the best for my mother. I truly do prefer her to be happy and enjoy what time is left. So why did this call bother me so much? I really knew this was about me, not about hospice, who are kindly doing all they can to bring comfort to their client.
Then it hit me... I spend my life trying to make my mother happy. My efforts fail. I am now 60 years old, and still trying to make her happy. For instance, I asked her how was her night... "terrible!". I ask her why, what's wrong, but she can't say ... but just then tells me about a good dream. Then I ask her how the new lift chair is, and she says, I haven't decided yet. I remind her that the chair helps her get up and be more mobile, yet she still refuses to say she likes it. I take her to see autumn leaves, and she insists she can't see, although she can see the clock on the wall. And on and on. I look for positive things in her life, and she looks for the dark side. The hopeless.
Trying to make the dolly smile.
So, if hospice can put her on pills, and if she gets even just a bit better, fabulous. If hospice brings in watercolors and my mother actually uses them even once or twice and enjoys it, wonderful. The dolly will smile. Maybe just for a moment.
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