Letting go


I’m on a Jewish mindfulness retreat in New Mexico where I’m not supposed to be in contact with the outside world.  It’s Shabbat, a day when we particularly are encouraged not to look at electronic devices.  It’s early evening.  I glance at my phone.  I have six messages from my wife, J, who has Alzheimer’s disease and who recently moved to a continuing care community.  I can’t help myself.  I listen.

1:18:33 PM:  “I need help.”

1:20:04 PM:  “One.  One.  Yes.”

1:23:31 PM:  “I … hemm…uh…it’s…uhhhh….”

1:31:16 PM:  [No sound.]

1:56:11 PM:  [Unintelligible background noise.]

5:50 PM:  “Oh, fuck.”  [Unintelligible.]

It is two hours earlier for me than in the East, where J and I live.  The latest message is two hours stale; the earlier messages are almost seven hours old.  I launch into action anyway.  I call the nurse’s station.  The certified nursing assistant on J’s floor doesn’t pick up.  I call the main desk.  The security guard promises to get the CNA to answer.  I call again in five minutes.  The CNA lifts the phone and immediately puts me on hold.  She eventually comes back and I explain the messages from J.  She says she has already gotten her ready for bed and everything was fine.

I nonetheless call J.  She miraculously picks up.  (She often doesn’t.)  She is clearly frustrated about something.  She says it’s in her hand. “Is it the remote?” I ask.  “No.”  “Is there a problem with the radio?” “No.  It’s in my hand.  I only have three.”

I have no idea what she is talking about, and I am getting upset.  I’m 2,000 miles away and I feel powerless.  One of the caregivers who took J on outings when she lived at home is getting together with J the next day.  I text E and explain that J needs something, but I don’t know what.  I ask her to investigate.

E texts the next day and says J greeted her with, “I have a problem.”  J showed E her dresser drawer and that she only had three Depends (even though I left her with a large supply.)  J said to E, “A lot more!”  So E made a CVS stop and all was well — except that I had spent an agitated evening because I thought I needed to swoop in and save the day.

So what is the lesson from this scenario?  I have to accept that I am not J’s full-time caretaker anymore.  I have entrusted her to a community I fully vetted, and I can’t fix everything.  One of the joys of living at the CCR for J is that she has greater control than she did at home.  I have to let her learn to solve her problems, which she obviously would have done without me if I had been able to trust her.  It’s a lot like having children and letting them go.

Many of my friends and family said the transition from home to continuing care would be harder for me than for J.  They are right.  Like so much in life, it is a process.

 

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