My car has reached that unfortunate state where the repairs and anticipated repairs mean I need to replace it. Ugh. I am leaving for vacation in less than a week. I wasn’t planning on taking my car, but the multitude of decisions necessary to get a new one will have to wait until I get back.
The problem is, I have things I need to do before I go. Things that involve me going places and doing things. I need groceries. I need food for the puppy. I need to pick up something for work.
I need my car.
My car doesn’t work.
I don’t consider myself to be a super independent person, but this is annoying. Every task I would do without thinking now has to be strategized and organized and sometimes involves me going, hat in hand, and asking for a favour. It’s frustrating and embarrassing.
But it’s only for a few weeks.
I started to think about elders and their independence. Losing your car is only the first of many losses. What if I also lost my mobility, my ability to think clearly and my independence in the bathroom? In thinking about the residents I serve, I am struck by the grace and patience with which they accept their limitations.
One of my residents is blind. She sees only vague shadows, and can’t find her way around. She calls on her friend, and they go everywhere together because her friend can see. I’ve never heard her complain, except to state in the most matter of fact way, “I can’t see.” She has a sense of humour and an enthusiasm for life that inspires me. When she comes back from the hairdresser and I tell her how nice she looks, she grins and says, “I’ll take your word for it.”
When I grow up, I want to be her. I want to face my disabilities with grace and humour, and never complain.
Remind me I said this.
As care partners, we need to develop a sensitivity to elders who struggle with shrinking abilities. Especially when you work in the industry, it’s easy to become desensitized, and not realize how difficult the losses are. We need to extend grace, patience and love to those who struggle. Imagine what it’s like to live in their bodies and give them the gift of understanding. Maximize their strengths and the abilities they still have, and give them opportunities to use them. Respect their limitations, and don’t expect what isn’t possible.
I have chronic arthritis. One day, and for several weeks, my right knee will hurt like the dickens when I walk. Without notice, the pain will shift to my left ankle, and I’ll be hobbling even worse than before. Or I will go to grab something, and my thumb joint will remind me that it’s there. I hate being slow and limping and looking pathetic, but that’s my life at the moment. I can’t help it. Often, on my commute, I will hear the impatience of people behind me on stairs or going through doors. I try to wait until most have passed, but I have to get to work, too. When I sense someone hovering and trying to hurry me along (“why don’t you just pass–there’s plenty of room?”) or making an impatient noise as they rush by me, I want to say, “Would you like to travel for an hour in my body?”
As a care partner, I need to extend that grace to the elders I serve. I may not fully understand their challenges, but I can extend the gift of empathy.
Every day.
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