This just in from the department of: OMG (or insert emojis: blue-faced screaming, hand smacking the head, eye rolling frustration, zipper lipped face… repeated for an entire line…)
I called my 84-year-old father today. This was a longer than normal conversation, a whole 20 minutes. He’s never been one to chitchat on the phone, but since last summer when politics drew a poignant and painful line between us, our check ins only last long enough to tick off the obligatory check list: say hello, discuss the day’s weather, kids, my lack of a paying job (Dad: Well, how are you guys going to make it. Me: We’ll be fine.…but I find your lack of faith disturbing), comment briefly on his confusion as to why I am going for a Masters in Religious Studies at a non-Catholic institution (Dad: So you’re going to be a minister? Me: (again), not really. Dad: Oh)… and of course, find out which nun, priest or person he knew decades ago made it into the Irish Catholic Dailies – the obits. I know for sure someone died when I hear, “Hey – do you remember that kid (insert how we are connected, like ‘down the street, you went to school with, etc.). Death or d-i-v-o-r-c-e of actual close family or friends warrants a specific call… “Well… I’ve got some bad news…”
On this day, he has news… but it was “no big deal”. He was just coming out of an appointment with the Ophthalmologist.
Me: Did you tell him about the flashing in your left eye from last summer?
Dad: Ooh yes I did (he said proudly)! They put drops in my eyes and gave me a shot!
Me: A shot? For what?
Dad: … I don’t know… but I told them the flashing was no big deal… I used to just close my eye when the flashing would start while I was driving… but it’s gotten a little worse in the last three months (aka: he started freaking out). So now, I just drive with my hand over that eye – which works great because my right eye is so much clearer…
… hello?
…Maur–een…?
Are you still there?
Me: (pause: WTF???) Yes … (consciously dialing down the WTF tone)
…But what about your periphery vision on the left side?
Dad: Oh – see that’s only a problem when I’m on the highway… so I just move into the left lane and stay there the whole time…until I need to exit.
Me: … you mean, the “fast lane”???
Dad: …well, it’s not really *that* fast…
…hello??
Maureen??
Are you still there??
Me: (repeat all the same emojis from above)
That story sums up who my father is today. His life has boiled down to whatever is easier, whatever keeps him from being alone. He still ardently believes the ability to drive gives him life – not just independence – but his actual life. Two years ago, before my sister and I pushed him to sell our family home and move into a gated senior community, his life was bigger. Freer. That was a difficult but necessary change a long time coming. It’s not that he couldn’t live by himself; physically, he’s in great shape. It’s that he so desperately did not want to be alone, he was making decisions that eventually put his own mental and physical health in jeopardy. At the time, his companion of 12 years was fighting a losing battle with Alzheimer’s. He had become her main caregiver both because he in fact cared for her, but also because he didn’t want to be alone at our family home. He wasn’t sleeping or eating, and the stress was causing him to become confused and agitated. He kept telling us he could handle it; it was no big deal. Until one weekend in December the two of them came for a visit in Chicago. Not long after midnight, I heard the chime our front door makes when opened. I flew out of bed, ran to their room, saw the empty space next to him and shouted, “Dad, get up!”
“Is she gone?” he asked, without me even telling him what was going on, which told me this was not the first time she had disappeared when no one had eyes on her. The front door was open. She was nowhere to be found. Vanished. Gone in less than 60 seconds. Twelve terrifying minutes later, with my husband, barefooted in pajama pants running up and down the snow covered and icy streets, my neighbor appeared down the sidewalk with her. Apparently, she had been going door to door, ringing every bell, holding a picture of my parents from 20 plus years ago, taken shortly before my mother passed. She said, “I’m trying to find him” as she pointed to the much younger image of my father in the photograph. I said, “You’re trying to find Tom,” putting my arm around my trembling father, who was now standing next to me. Angry and frightened, she looked right at the man she had been sleeping next to for the last few years, who fed and helped dress her every day, and said, “No, that’s an old man! That old man is trying to get me! I’m looking for Tom!”
You better believe I had some serious “parenting” conversations with my father the next day, filled with a whole lotta accusations and ultimatums. Hard Parenting. He was in no way equipped to handle her care on his own anymore, which begot an additional parenting conversation with the less than forthright daughter of the companion. Aside from the obvious life-threatening danger to her, my dad’s health and well-being were also now in jeopardy. But baring an obvious scenario like this one, the dilemma of knowing when to keep the conversation going, trying to persuade or steer them in one particular direction or another, or when it’s time to start parenting your senior parent is challenging and is specific to each circumstance. As they get older or more compromised, those conversations come more frequently. Too frequently. And frankly, navigating it can be exhausting. It’s a fine line between your respect and concern for them. It doesn’t help that, historically, the women in my family are not known for their ability to modulate their tone. Everything is critical mass. And once you’ve been yelled at, patronized and demoralized in the same voice and volume for everything from an infected hang nail to your memory challenged partner walking out in the middle of the night, you tend to just tune out the tone.
Having been on the receiving end of an untold number of those diatribes, I’m abundantly aware of how easy it is to dismiss them. Even (and especially) these days. After 40 plus years with my mother, my father has never even acknowledged my sister’s version of it, which is why, I have to be careful when and how I “parent” him. Too little and he won’t take the situation seriously, not enough emphasis on the severity of the situation and he will shut down completely. Now, am I okay with him driving with one eye closed or covered with his hand? No. No, I am not. But I also live 2 states away and am not planning on moving home anytime soon, nor is he planning on moving in with us in Chicago. I could really clamp down on him in the conversation, point out the obvious stupidity and danger of his workaround and then demand he stop driving, but he’s not my child. He’s my father. And no senior parent wants to be treated like there are their grown child’s teenage son or daughter.
By most accounts, change becomes increasingly difficult as we age and downright scary for aging seniors, who thrive on stability. The natural aging process alone chips away at independence. Taking away their car is taking the keys to their kingdom. It’s scary for everyone involved. AAA reports that with the exception of teenagers, aging seniors have the highest death crash rate per mile. But baby boomers are now outliving their ability to drive by 7 to 10 years. So how will they get around, go to church, see their friends? This requires conversation, a plan… parenting of a different kind.
For more on when, where and how to negotiate the specific challenge of taking away the keys, check out these three links.
When and how to take the car keys from elderly parents | PhillyVoice
Taking the Keys Away: What to Do If a Senior Won’t Stop Driving – AgingCare.com
I found AAA’s website particularly helpful:
Senior Driver Safety & Mobility – AAA Exchange
On it, you will find links to a Driver Planning Agreement, made with your parent or grandparent on benchmarks to be aware of, like issues with eyesight, hearing, etc. There’s also a Senior Transportation Mobility Planner, which helps all of you navigate how your senior family member can and will continue to get to all the places that are important to them. Finally, there is a written Online Defensive Course your aging family member can take in the privacy of their own home… Yes, I would have to set it up for my dad – in person – and then walk out of the room. By the way, usually when we are talking about accessing anything related to the internet or electronics, I have my kids interact with him. He’s much more receptive and they are totally delighted to help Papa and show off their smarts.
I have to ask myself when I’m speaking to my father (just like when I’m dealing with my kids or colleagues), is the problem that has come up a crisis? Potentially catastrophic? Then by all means… yes, step in. If there are steps that can be taken to address the issue, where wiggle room for independence of mind, body and soul exist, then by all means, try talking, suggesting, persuading, compromise. I try to remember, not only has he been child before, he’s been a parent. My parent.
Not surprisingly, my dad could not tell me what the Ophthalmologist thought was wrong or when the test results would be in. The day’s information had been disseminated and my father’s patience for chitchat was coming to an end. His plan is to get the new (rose colored) prescription glasses and his entire eye issue will go away. End of discussion. Still, I managed to ascertain who this brilliant Ophthalmologist was so I could look him up and track him down if necessary. Then, as I often do with him, I tried negotiating a compromise, while also driving home my very real concern about him being behind the wheel…
(warning: an old politically incorrect joke coming your way)
Me: Well… let me know when you get your new glasses and just be careful until then… Maybe no driving at night.
Dad: I only drive when I go to see my friend (one of several new companions – plural) … there isn’t very much traffic. (alert all potential roadkill and signposts) But yes, maybe you’re right about the night driving until my new glasses come in.
Me:…By the way, do you remember that joke about the grandfather and his driving…
Dad: (silence)
Me: …It’s the one where someone says, ‘when I die, I want to go peacefully like my grandfather… not like the passengers in his car, screaming, as he drove off a cliff with a smile on his face…because he couldn’t see where he was going’
…Hello?
…Dad?
…Are you still there?
Too much?
Dad: Tell the kids I love them.
(code for: you, not so much right now)
😊
Update: Two Weeks Later Dad calls with this report (insert singsong lilt and slight snark…)
Dad: Hey Miss (…my childhood nickname used when he’s in good spirits) just picked up my new glasses…and boy are they great! I’m driving with both eyes open.
No rose colored tint. And I don’t have to ask him to pass the ketchup for a full plate of crow.
Loved reading this, Maureen. We need a long conversation soon about all of this.
Having been a care giver for my own parents as well as in-laws I am very grateful for your humor yet also guidance and patience you have with your father. Also as someone who had a senior position as Chairman of a couple of large Catholic churches, I was very aware of how many had given up their own lives, to become care givers to their loved ones. As I struggled as a care giver on a daily basis and all of the issues that arise ranging from personal needs that they have to loss of control and anger management and confusion, I became more sensitive to others who have simply incorporated this into their lives. This is especially acute as parents become less ambulatory and also begin fading. The final year or 2 can be very tough. Again my thanks for highlighting this central issue especially with millions of aging baby boomers, the most self absorbed generation in history that will not go softly into the night.
Love this, Maureen! It really hits home!!!
Maureen, I finally read this, and it brought back tender memories of my relationship with my Mom when she and I were in a similar stage. Her stubborn streak, which no doubt was responsible for keeping her alive for many decades, was also responsible for her telling me, “If you make me give up my car, I’ll just buy another one. You know I can.” Being the eldest, my sisters were counting on me. Being closest in age to Mom, and of like temperament, I would NEVER take away her car. But, I did know that she was paying money for insurance, and car payments, etc., which weren’t necessary because she had other transportation options, and being a child of the Depression and WWII, she could not abide wasteful spending, and that was the answer for us.