The Visit (standard:non fiction, 5157 words)
Author: Sarah	Added: Apr 02 2001	Views/Reads: 3673/2742	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Reflections of a daughter on the realities of life as we grow older and what it means to be a parent and a daughter.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

angrily lash out.  I would get my feelings hurt.  Sometimes he would 
allow me to restate my position.  When that happened, he often 
apologized and said, "Oh, I thought you were saying . . ." or "I 
thought you meant. . . .". 

Is it really that hard to learn not to jump to conclusions? 

I think of all the times I've heard my dad say things like, "Well,
that's the problem.  You just don't use good judgment."  Or tell me I 
don't know what I'm talking about.  Throughout my 22-year marriage to 
my first husband and later when I was struggling to make it alone. 

And it continues.  Even now, when I am fifty-nine and he is eight-four
and my concern for his and my mom's well-being is sometimes 
overwhelming because there is so little I can do.  I feel so helpless.  
Even now, when I say something he doesn't understand or agree with, he 
tells me I don't know what I'm talking about. 

I should be able to laugh it off, or dismiss it.  If it didn't come from
my father I probably could. It took me such a long time, really, to 
come to understand that I actually do have good judgment.  In fact, I 
feel really good about my ability to identify and solve problems.  But 
it took me forty years to understand and know this. 

I told my father so today before I left.  I told him I realized he
didn't share my good opinion of me, but that I would match my common 
sense and logic in problem-solving with just about anyone I knew.  
Raising four children plus a lifetime of introspective thinking has 
produced a certain thinking process that works well for me and has 
become second nature.  Basically, it's just identify the problem and 
then figure out one or more ways to solve it.  Not really rocket 
science stuff.  Mostly common sense. 

Example:  My dad needs help caring for my mother.  I have suggested
this.  He doesn't agree, of course.  Instead, he will most likely die 
attempting to take care of her all by himself.  Unable to see in one 
eye, partial vision in the other, high blood pressure, and 120 pounds 
soaking wet -- he nearly needs someone to take care of him.  Though he 
would be offended if I said this. 

And then I wonder, "Why is he so stubborn?" 

Lack of  self-esteem is only part of it.  He grew up during the
Depression.  Before Social Security.  Even though times were tough and 
jobs were scarce or non-existent, it was a matter of honor and 
integrity for a man to take care of his wife and family.   My father 
always took that responsibility seriously and managed to provide what 
was needed for his family.  Other than a car or house, he never 
incurred a debt he couldn't pay within a few weeks. 

To my futile attempts at trying to reason with him and explain that we
both need help in learning how to deal with the awful Alzheimer's 
Disease that is consuming the sweet, loving person that has been my 
mother, he had replied, "I don't need any help.  All I need to do is 
keep your mother happy and safe." 

Of course, the problem is he can't keep her happy.  She gets upset. 
Inexplicably and for no reason. There is no way to know when or why.  
It's not her fault. 

Getting her back from that place she goes to with increasing frequency
-- that place that exists only in her dysfunctional mind -- to what is 
real is taking its toll.  The constant stress of care-taking elevates 
the high blood pressure he has been fighting since middle age. 

Appeasing my mother.  That's all there is to do he says.  Sounds simple,
but it isn't.  I'm afraid he will die trying. 

And there's nothing I can do.  Especially this time, this visit, I see
that he resents my suggestions as interference.  I have to let it go. 

Months ago he told me he intends to make arrangements for me to handle
their affairs in case of an emergency.  So that I can take care of her 
if something happens to him.  But he keeps putting that off too.  I 
think it's partly denial and partly resentment of anyone else managing 
his affairs.  His self-sufficiency and pride in his ability to take 
care of his family, his business clouds his judgment now.  It is one of 
my concerns that he keeps putting off this decision. 

The reason he got angry with me today is the fact that I made the
mistake of saying, "Daddy, please, don't be upset about this.  I can't 
help the fact that you're 84.  We need to face some issues here." 

But he was.  And insisted that his being 84 had nothing to do with
anything.  There was nothing he couldn't do now that he hadn't always 
been able to do.  Having just returned the day before from cataract 
surgery on his one remaining good eye with a blood pressure reading 
during the process that reached 200/100, he didn't convince me, 
however. 

I am hurt by his anger.  I gather up my things, give them both hugs and
say, "It's all right.  Everything is all right.  I just need to leave 
now." 

I drive away and cry for the first 30 minutes of my trip home.  Then I
get angry.  That's when I realize I've been seeking his approval all my 
life.  And still haven't gotten it.  And won't. 

So let it go.  Stop caring.  Some things I can't fix.  And this is one
of them. 

I think of my friend, Anne.  Sometimes I feel bad that she is estranged
from three of her five children.  Most of the time I envy her the peace 
and acceptance she has found.  You can be hurt just so much and then 
you just have to shut down your feelings.  To survive.  And then you 
have peace. 

Which is what I want at this stage of my own life.  I'm tired of caring
for people who hurt me or let me down.  As I think about this I realize 
something else.  The people who do this to me are my father, my 
husbands (which have been two), and sometimes my children. 

My friends don't treat me this way.  They listen when I need them to
listen but don't judge.  Otherwise, they leave me alone.  They accept 
me.  I don't have to fulfill any expectations for them.  They let me 
say what I think and feel and don't condemn me.  They may have a 
different opinion, or may not agree, but they treat me with respect. 

And respect is what we all need and want.  And so often don't get from
the people who mean the most. 

Why is this so? 

Is it me?  Have I just bungled things so badly that I don't deserve the
respect of my father, my husband, children?  I don't think so.  
Whatever I've done or not done, is no better or worse than most other 
children, wives, mothers. 

So that's not the answer. 

I think of my father . . . my first husband . . . my present husband . .
. my children.  I think of how much I have loved them.  At one time or 
another I have given them all I had to give.  Sometimes it was enough.  
Sometimes, it wasn't. 

One adult daughter lives close by and we have always been able to talk
openly and honestly with each other.  I was confiding in her that it 
hurts me when my children occasionally treat me in a condescending 
manner.  As though they have to make allowances for their wacky mom 
(apparently because they are conservative and I am liberal). 

I remember a conversation I had recently with her.  We had just returned
from a four-day camping trip with her husband and my two sons and their 
families.  I was telling her my feelings had been hurt by some of the 
comments they had made as we sat around the camp fire one night.  They 
had questioned and ridiculed my politics, my reasoning, my philosophy.  
She said it was partly because as children they never learned from 
their father to respect me.  He didn't.  So they didn't. 

As I drive along crying, thinking, trying to figure out why I am hurt, I
realize something else. 

The three most significant men in my life have not been strong,
confident men.  Not my father, not my first husband, nor my present 
mate. 

I wonder, are there no strong men out there?  Is there something in me
that seeks out weakness?  What is a strong man like?  I would like to 
find some and talk to them and see how they have dealt with life and 
with women. 

It's taken me a lifetime to become who I am.  To figure out that I am a
reasonably strong person.  I know this now.  But it has been a hard-won 
battle.   Why should a woman have to suffer -- or pay -- to become 
strong? Why is a woman becoming strong such a threat to a man?  But 
that's another subject, another article. 

* * * * * 

In the past two years, I have been attempting to research and chronicle
the events in my parents' lives.  Recently I have begun writing stories 
about them.  Particularly my father, 

since he has been able to provide the most information.  I am developing
some wonderful essays about a way of life that no longer exists. 

I love my father and admire him for many reasons.  I've never thought he
was a self-confidant person but learning about his childhood has helped 
me understand some of the whys. 

Thinking about this as I drive home today helps me understand my pain,
why I am hurt.  My pain and anger turn to indignation and I want to 
face him and shake him and say, "Why do you think so little of yourself 
that you will let taking care of my mother kill you?  How can you take 
care of her when you're gone?" 

Of course I can't do that.   He is the way he is.  Rigid.  Stubborn. 
Sometimes cantankerous. These defense mechanisms were developed a long 
time ago to help him cope.   It is a lifetime pattern; part and parcel 
of who is he and has been most of his life. 

I need to stop being hurt by seeking his approval which I will not get. 
I will stop caring; then it won't hurt.  But it seems a high price to 
pay. 

My friend Anne has paid it.  And she is serene. She is at peace with the
way things are.  And that's what I want. 

* * * * * 

June 11th, 10 p.m. (Wednesday evening) 

I was sitting at the computer in my parents' kitchen.  (My dear, grumpy,
old dad spends much of his free time at his computer with its 2.5 
gigabyte hard drive, inputing financial data for himself and a few 
clients -- he is a retired accountant -- or converting old 8 mm movies 
into videos with titles, sound, and music).  My folks were in the 
living room.  I overheard my dad tell my mom that since he was going to 
the doctor in the morning, he was going in to take his shower. When he 
returned to the living room, I could hear them talking.  My mother 
sounded angry.  I got up and went in the living room to hear better.  
My mom was upset with my dad for taking a shower "in my father's 
house." 

This was the first time I saw this side of my mother's disease.  She was
berating him.  She said he had no business taking a bath in her 
father's house.  He should have waited till they got home.  Foolishly, 
I intervened and tried to say that he was home, this was his house, and 
that grandpa had died several years ago. 

She got very angry.  She had no idea who I was except that I had no
business being there either and no business telling her what to do.  
This was her house, her father's house. 

My dad and I tried to tell her I was her daughter, Dawn.  She got even
more angry.  Her voice was strident and she kept pointing her finger at 
us for emphasis. 

"That is not my daughter.  That is not Sarah.  I don't know who she is,
but it's not Sarah.  And she has no business telling me what to do.  I 
know who my daughter is.  And this isn't her.  I don't know who she 
is." 

My dad went over to the couch and put his arm around her.  He spoke
calmly and lovingly.   "Mary, this is our house.  We live here.  Your 
dad died several years ago.  This is our daughter.  She came here to 
help us.  I have to have my eye operated on in the morning and she came 
to help us." 

"No, she's not.  And this isn't your house.  It's my dad's house.  And
my house.  It's my house and my dad's house.  But not yours.  And you 
shouldn't be taking a shower in his house. " 

This went on for several minutes.  I got up and went into the kitchen. 
I was overcome with grief and started sobbing; gut-wrenching sobs that 
sounded like groans.  I don't know why I reacted so strongly. 

After a few minutes, my dad came in and put his arm around me.  I
apologized to him.  I kept saying, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I know it 
isn't her fault.  I don't know why I'm crying." 

Then my mother came in.  Wherever it was that she had been, she wasn't
totally there anymore.  She still didn't really know who I was but she 
reacted to my sobs with concern.  Her normal tender-hearted personality 
reasserted itself and she put her arm around me and patted me and kept 
saying, "Don't cry.  Why are you crying?  Did I say something to make 
you cry?  If I did, I'm sorry.  I don't exactly know who you are but 
please don't cry."  And then she began to cry herself. 

Eventually, we all recovered in our own individual ways. 

When we left the eye clinic the next morning after my dad's surgery, he
was given a prescription for two pills; one to be taken at 2 p.m., the 
second at 8 p.m. 

During the procedure, my mother and I had sat in the waiting room.  We
had been told it would take about forty-five minutes so I became 
concerned when nearly two hours had passed and he was still in there.  
Finally a nurse came out to explain.  My dad's blood pressure had been 
quite high during the procedure so they had called his doctor, gone to 
the pharmacy to purchase the necessary medication, administered it, and 
then kept him in their recovery area to make sure it came down before 
releasing him. 

They told us to take his blood pressure again as soon as we got home and
if it went back up he was to go directly to his regular doctor.  I was 
very concerned.  Whether it's my own or someone else's, I have this 
unreasonable panic about blood pressure. 

Under the circumstances, I thought it best to take him directly home. 
Then I would go out and get the prescription and a few groceries we had 
intended to get on the way home. 

After we got home, I fixed lunch.  He had not eaten yet and I knew
eating would help him feel better.   Then I started making a list of 
groceries to get.  My dear little mom got lost again.  She didn't know 
who I was and thought she should be the one to get the prescription 
filled.  And the groceries they needed. 

My dad wanted to pay for the prescription with a check so he would have
a record of the purchase.  But he wanted to give me cash for the 
groceries.  Because he couldn't see to write the check, he realized he 
needed to have mom sign it.  He tried to explain all this to her but of 
course she couldn't understand. 

She kept insisting she should get Bill (the next door neighbor) to drive
her to the store where she would get the prescription and the 
groceries.  She was back to saying I had no business getting his 
prescription.  She didn't know who I was.  She was his wife and she 
would get Bill to take her and get his prescription. 

I tried to tell him it would be better to just pay cash for everything. 
Her problem of signing the check and remembering what she was to do was 
not solvable.  She could not get through the process.  And never should 
have been expected to. 

As it was, she couldn't remember what it was that needed to be done but
kept insisting she be the one to do it.  My dad tried to show her where 
to sign her name on the check but he couldn't see where to point to for 
her to sign.  I tried to show her.  She got mad at me for interfering.  
Finally, she wrote her name on the check.  It was in the wrong place.  
It would be funny.  Except it wasn't. 

Eventually we made her understand where to sign the check and she signed
it again.  She was very agitated with me for interfering.  She kept 
asking my dad to tell her what to buy.  He kept telling her I had the 
list.  She kept saying she didn't understand why I had the list and why 
he didn't let her take care of getting the food and the prescription.  
Then she would forget what we were talking about and ask the same 
questions again.  Her confusion upset her also.  We went round and 
round and got nowhere except upset. 

Had I been in charge, I never would have involved her in the first
place.  I tried to tell my dad this later in private but he couldn't 
hear what I was saying and she came back in the room before I could 
explain further. 

The next day she went next door to return a plate and I tried one more
time to explain what I meant to my dad.  I told him I had learned a lot 
about children in raising four of them myself.  Some things you allow 
and encourage, some things you don't.  One of the things you don't do 
is you don't involve them in decision-making processes that are beyond 
their comprehension.  He couldn't,  or wouldn't, understand what I was 
saying.  And resented the fact that I was comparing my mother to a 
child.  She came back at this point, so that ended that. 

She is a child, of course.  In her ability to reason and perform tasks. 
In fact, I would put her about at the level of a 4-5 year old at this 
point.  Does it get worse? 

She has enough comprehension at times to realize someone else is taking
charge of things that used to be her responsibility.  And she feels 
resentful.  Which is understandable.  But she doesn't have the ability 
to think through one complete thought or task.  And shouldn't be put in 
the position of having to do so.  Which was what I was trying to tell 
my father.  But he couldn't or wouldn't see the point. 

He kept insisting his only concern is to see that she is safe and happy.
I tried to suggest that 45 minutes of what we just went through was not 
keeping her happy. 

My mother getting upset with me didn't bother me.  My father getting
upset with me did. 

He got mad at me again as we drove to the eye clinic the next morning
for his after-surgery check-up.  Apparently, he had some vision.  How 
much I don't know.  He had given me directions earlier so I pretty much 
knew where to go. 

We were on one main street approaching a big intersection at Highway 45.
 No cars were in front of me as I came up to the intersection and my 
light was green.  I didn't know how long it had been green, however, so 
I slowed down and stopped at the light to get my bearings.  Traffic in 
all directions was stopped. 

My father kept saying, "Go on, go on.  Make your turn."  He got upset
because I didn't. 

There was no green arrow and I didn't want to be out in the middle of
the intersection when the light turned red for my lane of traffic.  I 
also didn't want to make my turn into oncoming traffic and get hit.  I 
stayed stopped there at the intersection till the next change of lights 
and then made my turn. 

My father was quite irritated.  He had just read an article in the paper
by someone in the police department saying it was against the law to 
stop the way I did.  He said the article said that was what caused so 
many accidents. 

Later I tried to explain to him why I did what I did.  He just got mad
all over again and told me I didn't know what I was talking about. 

I decided I had overstayed my welcome.  That's when I packed my bags and
left. 

What I would have liked to have said to him is this: 

"When you come to an intersection and your light is red, you stop.  When
it turns green, you wait for the green arrow -- if there is one -- or 
you pull into the intersection and wait for the chance to complete your 
turn.  Sometimes traffic is so heavy you end up completing your turn 
when your light is turning yellow.  That's okay.  That's what you're 
supposed to do. 

"On the other hand, if you are in a strange town, unfamiliar with the
traffic signals, and you approach an intersection with no cars in front 
of you and the light is green for your direction of traffic and you are 
planning a left turn, you do not plow straight on through until you 
determine what the lights are getting ready to do. It may be Go or it 
may be Stop. 

"With no green arrow lit, you don't know whether an arrow has finished
the cycle, going to start its cycle, or whether the green light is 
about to turn red.  The proper thing to do is stop before proceeding 
into the intersection to assess the circumstances.  Being in the middle 
of that intersection is exactly the wrong thing to do and could 
precipitate an accident.  If a police officer saw this, I'm sure it 
would warrant a ticket. 

"And if you don't know the difference, then you don't know what you're
talking about and you shouldn't be driving." 

Of course I actually said none of this. 

The truth is, he shouldn't be driving regardless.  He drives in the
middle of the road! 

* * * * * June 16th (Monday) 

Yesterday, Sunday, June 15th, I called my dad to wish him happy Father's
Day and learned the card I sent did not arrive Saturday as I had 
expected. 

We talked about various and sundry things.  He told me my mother had
tried to make him leave the house the night before.  It happened at 
bedtime.  She didn't want him sleeping there.  She went next door to 
get Bill to come over and make him leave. 

Her disease is getting worse. 

In talking with my dad, I wanted to make sure things were still okay
between us.  Because of my abrupt departure two days earlier.  I told 
him I hoped he knew that everything I said or did was motivated by my 
love and that it wasn't my intent to interfere.  He said he understood. 


And then he said something that astounded me.  He said, "because we've
always had something very special between us and I wouldn't ever want 
anything to happen to change that." 

I nearly fell on the floor!  If I'd had more presence of mind, I would
have said,  "say that again" or "what do you mean" or "do you know 
you've never ever said anything like that to me before?" 

We talked a few minutes more and then said our goodbyes.  I don't know
if he said this to me just to make me feel better or if he really meant 
it.  I want to believe he really meant it.  I must ask him about this 
again some time soon. 

I cannot describe how happy I feel.  A burden has been lifted from my
heart. 

Does this go on between all aging parents and their children?????? 

* * * * * 

Later That Same Night 

I just finished watching a public television program called P.O.V.
(Point Of View).  It was a documentary by a son entitled, "Nobody's 
Business," which was about the son's family; in particular,  his father 
-- an irascible, ornery, stubborn, opinionated, contrary old man. 

I could not believe what I was seeing!   It was my father and me all
over again.  Except I'm not a son and we're not Jewish. 

This wonderful, difficult old man had agreed to let his son do a film
about his, the father's, life.  Except the old man thought it was all 
nonsense.  And told his son so.  On camera.  "What a waste of time this 
is.  You, you're so intelligent, you're so well-educated.  Why don't 
you take up a legitimate profession.  Taking pictures!  Of someone like 
me!  I'm just an ordinary guy.  Nobody special.  No one wants to see 
pictures of me and my family.  No one wants to listen to my opinion.  
Nobody's interested in my business.  So why are you wasting your time 
and mine this way." 

This was not false humility on the part of the father.  It was obvious
he really felt this way. 

Listening to the questions the son asked the father, hearing the
father's replies, looking at the pictures of the family through the 
years that the father and son had taken, it was like looking at a 
reflection of my own family. 

The son had done something wonderfully marvelous and universal with his
little film, which his father vociferously deprecated.  This wasn't 
just a film about him and his dad.  It was a film about every son and 
daughter, every mother and father. 

Contrary to what the old man said, it was a film of significance and
enlightenment.  A film that would touch the hearts of sons and 
daughters and fathers and mothers everywhere. 

Sometimes it's hard to love a parent.  Sometimes it's hard to love a
child.  But what else can we do? 

* * * * * 

When I went to bed that night, once again I asked God to bless and keep
my family safe, especially the grumpy old man who is my father. 


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