I struggle to have this conversation with you, but it is the one that is so very much in my mind these days.
I promise to turn the page, at least for awhile as I don’t want to make these conversations all about me and my parents, but I do know that so many of us are living some version of this right now.
My parents want to die.
At least, they say they do.
And, I believe them.
I was in Peru all week trying to figure out if there is a better path forward.
In the past, these kind of conversations would have rattled me deeply because I would have turned it into, “I am not enough.” I am older and wiser and realize that while I am a part of this whole puzzle, its not about me, and not about me being enough or not enough.
My mother is at a stage of Alzheimer’s where she is reliving painful moments every day. “Where is my mother?” She asks me, confused and concerned. “I adored my mother, where is she?”, “you know where she is, don’t you?” I say.
“Did I bury her?” she says trying to remember.
We walked a lot with my mother this past week. Always hand in hand. I am not worthy of the amount of love she has for me. Just as she has disregard for my father, which is not fully deserved, she, in a similar way, was this overwhelming regard and love for me, that is also not fully deserved.
I don’t say that with humility or a lack of gratitude. I know she loves me, and I am so happy that the thought of me gives her such complete satisfaction. I just know nothing is ever perfect, and I know where I let her down.
Regardless, we walked hand in hand, and talked. She looks up to me with her curious and searching eyes, looking for answers and for certainty.
“AmI crazy?” she asked me one night as I was lying with her.
“Why do you ask me that?” I said.
“Because people are treating me as if I am.”
“No, mama, you are not crazy and people are not treating you as if you were. You are just forgetting some things, that is all.”
As we were walking to the elevator, she told me, “I want to die!”
“Why?” I asked her.
“My mother is dead. My daughters are dead. And, you, you are so far away. I just don’t want to live anymore. I am so sad.”
I am proud of the level to which I embrace harmony in my life, and these kind of statements are like kryptonite. I find myself falling into “WISHING” she didn’t feel that way, wishing she wasn’t sick, wishing I was closer. And, I quickly regain my altitude and anchor in on a more reasonable WANT. I want her to know that she is not alone, and that I am not that far away. At least, not right now.
So, I hug her tight.
I feel her in my embrace in such a similar way as we felt our children when they were young. Clinging onto us not just for the momentary sense of connectedness, but for reassurance, for safety, for protection.
I do a good job normally of managing my own emotions. (At least I think I do.)
But, with my mother, I feel this sadness that I can’t fully control. I feel this sadness that sweeps through me as I try to accept her situation and her reality.
I imagine her in her bed or in her room, curled up, her mind and eyes active trying to understand exactly how she got here, and what is going on.
I imagine her feeling alone and scared and sad.
And, the sadness fills me.
Spanish language and culture can be brutal at times. I remember my mother saying about her mother (who also suffered of Alzheimers). “I want to eat my mother up.” She would say. “I want to eat her up so that I have her inside of me and protect her forever and take her away from this.”
I know it sounds weird and barbaric if you think of it literally, but figuratively I know exactly what she meant.
My father, is very conscious and mentally doing fine. He remains independent. He lives very much in the past, which I know is normal for older people.
We had a good week, and he has been more gracious and grateful with me than ever before.
This week he even said, “ I am so proud of you, and so proud of how you love your parents.”
Possibly the most powerful thing he has ever said to me. No… no….
DEFINITELY the most powerful and moving thing that he has ever said to me.
And, the thing is, I really think he meant it. My father, with the best of intentions, is so very ego centric. The world revolves around him. He can’t help himself.
And as he has gotten more lonely and seems to see death closer, he has become more gracious.
We went out to dinner just the two of us this week. He talked and talked about the people he’d met in his life, all of the things he wants me to remember him for,… and I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. I was just enjoying his presence. I was just enjoying knowing that he was happy in this moment, and knowing that he has given it his all in his life. He has always loved me as best as he possibly knew how. It was never his fault that he didn’t love me or communicate with me differently. I get that. Poor guy. I have been so very hard on him for so long.
The last night in Peru, we spent all day running around visiting people, my dad and I. Father and son, spending the day together.
When we got home, whereas usually I would have rejected my dad’s attempt at connection, I embraced it.
I made him a Martini and we sat and had a toast while he repeated for me once again about all the places he’s acquired the paintings and porcelain’s in his apartment. He has literally run through this list with me 4,567 times. The reason he probably still runs through them is not because he forgets, but because he knows that I still couldn’t tell him 90% of it, because its just not what I tend to care about.
Me, I was watching him and smiling, Not necessarily listening to the repetitive inventory, but just watching him and enjoying knowing that he was happy.
Then he looked at me, with his sad eyes and said, “I am not depressed, but I want to die. I have nothing left to live for. I have no children, no wife, no job, nobody.”
Again, these would have been conversations that I would have taken personally years ago. I am stronger now.
We talked about all the things that he truly enjoys now. “You are independent, you are social, you are working with the disabled kids at the Rehabilitation institute planning their X-mas party.” We talked and talked. And, he said he knew all those things, but he just didn’t want to be alone anymore. He said going to the movies, to parties, to dinner without my mother just had no purpose.
It is so ironic to me, so sad to me, that he was so unable to connect with the person in his life that he was most devoted to (other than himself). They truly spoke different languages. It’s like you spend your whole life loving someone and speaking in Chinese, and they speak in Italian. You think that its all going well, and then you either realize or suffer from the reality that you spoke different languages for a lifetime and they didn’t hear most of what you were saying.
He was serious, I believe.
He has lived a full life, and the energy that it takes to live is greater than the energy that he has to rest and be done.
Why do we think we are supposed to live as long as possible.
I think to myself, at what point is life a function of quantity versus quality? I know it happens the moment we stop dreaming, the moment we stop wanting, the moment we stop learning, the moment we stop having some meaning or purpose.
I want a life of quality, not quantity. Hopefully, you can have a long life of quality… but a long life by itself is not a pleasure.
I remember lying down in my own bed years ago, afraid of the day my parents would die. I feared being alone. I remember looking out the window late at night from the 15th floor near Rockville Pike wanting to see their car coming home, knowing that they were safe, so I would be safe.
I remember that dependent feeling, afraid that I would not survive without them.
I am so grateful that they lived long enough for me to find my own way and my own wings.
I know that one of the reasons my dad struggled in life is because his dad died when he was only 4.
It confuses me to know that I am the only solution. When my parents are around me, they don’t want to die. While my parents enjoy and appreciate my visits to South America, I also know that they make my parents more aware of my absence. They seem so much sadder when I leave.
I have always known that proximity is one of the greatest and under acknowledged luxuries of life. PROXIMITY to those you love is something that I have always struggled with… it is a gift.
I know that I am possibly the only solution to their unhappiness, and I am not a solution. Unless, I don’t know how to be.
I can travel to Peru every few months and just help them navigate the times between.
I don’t know how I could afford to bring them to the United States, and feel like maybe I should try.
This is where I feel a little disharmony… I wish I had more time. I wish I had more time to deal with this. I have my family, my work, my stuff…
And, yet, my parents likely don’t have too much more time. My dad is almost 87, and my mom has 1 year, maybe 2 before she doesn’t recognize anyone.
Has my detachment gone too far? Am I lacking empathy? Should I be working harder to try to figure out if they could come to the US? Would they really be happier here? I am not that available period. I am not available enough to my wife and kids right now, how could I be available to them as well?
I wish for days when life all happened in one geography.
I realize that is no longer the case, so I quickly revert to my absolute truth as it is today.
My parents want to die.
My mother begs me to pray for her death.
And, part of me wants them to die to. At least, I think I do.
I think it would be selfish for me to want them to live so that they can be there for me to feel better when I go back to see them.
And, its not just me. My parents have brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces and so many friends in Peru that care about them and love them. Many of whom are very involved and helping in their lives today...
But, its about their mindset.
If they are truly lost or sad in their loneliness, if they truly have no purpose or meaning left in their lives that makes them happy to get out of bed, would they be happier resting peacefully forever?
Where does my responsibility as their son end, in terms of trying to fight to find them some meaning?
Am I being a coward and wanting them to die, so that I don’t have to feel the smaller sense of guilt that I still feel, for living my life in the United States?
I don’t want them “to die”. I want them to “be happy”, to “rest”…
I want them “not to hurt” anymore.
Suffering is the basic pillar of Bhuddism. We are supposed to expect and embrace suffering.
So, maybe I just need to embrace that they aren’t supposed to be “happy” until their final breath.
Maybe their suffering now is exactly the life they are supposed to be living.
Maybe their suffering now is just the way that they will impart in me new and greater lessons about life, so that I may have a better and happier life then they did.
I will miss them when they are gone.
I appreciate them more and more everyday.
I realize how much they gave me and the invaluable lessons they taught me.
I don’t want the “to die”…
But, what I want for them I can’t control.
So, maybe that is the lesson and the sliver of harmony that I must embrace myself and find protection, and warmth and peace of mind…
Harmony begets harmony, I believe that.
I need to show up today and do what I can do to help them.
I will call them, I will tell them I love them.
I will remind them that I am only a phone call away.
I can’t change the fact that they are old.
I cant change the fact that they feel alone.
I can’t change the fact that my mom is more and more confused everyday.
I can only show up and make the best decisions that I can for them that fit within my absolute truth.
Is that selfish? Yes, and that is real.
I feel a sadness that I can’t fully control.
I don’t want them to die, until its their time to die. And, that is not in my control either.
I don’t own their happiness. I never have. And, I never will.
That is the truth.
I only own the way I show up with them, and the extent to which they know and feel my love. And, I do believe that they feel that and know that.
Perhaps that is as far as I can go as their son, and anything else is just wishing…
I don’t know.
I am still learning… Thank you for helping navigate this with me.
And, to all of you out there that have or are dealing with your parents aging… my heart is with you… It is a part of all of our lives.
Yours in harmony,
Nestor