I have a confession to make.
I’m a bit of a pack rat. I don’t know why throwing anything away is so hard for
me, but there it is. Every once in a while, I need help. This past week end, I
closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and since it was her weekend off work, asked
my daughter to please come and clean/clear out my office.
She decided she’d do the deed
on Sunday. There was a reason for that. She knew I had to go into the city to
the nursing office. Then my beloved and I planned to have lunch out before we
went grocery shopping. Those chores on the agenda guaranteed that we would be
gone while she got a good start on the job.
Two days before the appointed
day, when she was here, I started to tell her about how I wanted a few things to
be arranged...and she told me to hush. “You’ve asked for my help. Now you must
let go and let me help.” My response to that—aside from calling her a cheeky
wench—was to wait until she left. Then I sorted through what was in my immediate
work area, and took care of everything in that small space. I could live with
her arranging the bookshelves, and completely replacing the one small bookshelf
that I used for sundry items (our unopened boxes of coffee pods for the Keurig
and my entire liquor supply—a small collection of bottles, most of which are
several years old).
I wasn’t the only one being
ordered about. Our daughter told my husband he must put together the
unopened wooden shelf kit so that she could install it in place of the somewhat
bowing one that had been there for a couple of years and that she intended to
replace.
I let my daughter see that I
was somewhat concerned when she arrived Sunday morning, and the first thing she
did was to open the contractor-sized garbage bag she brought with her and grin
like a maniac. I was going to ask her to use the recycling bin when possible,
but I knew what that request would net me. She’d do what she liked, regardless.
I wasn’t really worried that she would throw out anything important. She has a
pretty good sense of what I want/need and what I don’t.
My daughter and I pretty much
see eye to eye on most things. There is, however, one area in which we do not
agree, and I would say the fact this is so, was inevitable.
I know my daughter believes
that she and I are making “the transition”. Those of you who are in your
thirties or forties with elderly parents know what I’m talking about.
There comes a point, if you’re fortunate enough to have your parents still alive
as you move into your middle years, when you begin to assume some responsibility
for them. As they age and their faculties begin to wane, you begin to do little
things to help them. You check on them and see to it that they’re well. Maybe
you make sure of their medical appointment schedule, get them there, or make
sure their medications are up to date. You check the fridge to see that they
have the food necessary to eat healthy meals.
And as you perform these
services it almost seems as if you become the parent to your parent who’s now
like your child. That’s what I call the transition.
That’s where my daughter’s mind
set is heading and all I can say to that is a good, old-fashioned Southern
“bless her heart”.
Yes, I’m 61. Do I have trouble
walking? Oh, you bet I do. Every step is a challenge especially right now, as I
begin to work at regaining my stamina after three weeks of being less mobile
than usual because of my surgery. But do my physical limitations translate into
metal or intellectual feebleness?
Hell, no.
My daughter does have a good
heart. She works as a nurse’s aide. She gives to her clients in the
community—most of them elderly—and often to a degree that is above and beyond
expectations. There have been a few in the local nursing home who don’t have
family visiting them, and she makes sure they have a gift at Christmas—and yes,
it comes out of her own pocket.
I am sure that when the time
eventually comes for me to have someone “supervise” me, she’ll do a really good
job.
But that day is far from now.
In the meantime, I am happy to have her work for a day cleaning, clearing, and
feeling superior as long as at the end of the day, things are easier for me to
manage.
Love,
Morgan
No comments:
Post a Comment