By Warren Wolfe, retired StarTribune staff writer, now a community volunteer.
When you’re in the midst of caring for an elder, sometimes things seem so dark, so oppressive, that it’s hard to see the light.
I was the primary family caregiver for my dad in his last six months, after my mother died. At age 93, he was not a happy man. Still, in those final months, he taught me a profound truth about caregiving – though that certainly was not his intention.
In an assisted-living facility 45 minutes from me, Dad had deepening dementia and had lost his wife of 68 years, his license to drive, his jug of vodka for martinis and his matches to light his cigarettes. Life was bad and he wanted to die. And it was all my fault.
“Warren,” he said to me one day when I picked him up for a doctor visit, “I’m so disappointed in you.” Why? I asked. “Well just look at what you’ve done to me.”
I was stunned – certain that it was the disease speaking, not Dad, but still pierced by the profound anguish that he laid at my feet.
My mother-in-law had lived with us for more than three years, also with dementia. But she was happy, even joyful, much of the time. She marveled at the beauties of trees, birds, sunlight, friends and her supportive family. Why couldn’t Dad have seen the beauty in his final months? And why blame me?
It’s been seven years since Dad died, and slowly a new way of looking at that experience – Dad’s final lesson, maybe one of his most profound and one I might not have understood without his despair – has emerged for me.
Why was I caring for Dad in the first place? Not to earn his praise, or because I had to (even though I am the oldest child), or because my wife did such a good job caring for her parents.
I was there caring for Dad because I was raised in a loving family where we cared for each other, where my parents modeled support, understanding and love in an atmosphere of humor, music, books, church, and a social conscience for the well-being of everyone.
I was demonstrating my love for Dad in those final months, just as for years he had shown me his love. And when his dementia no longer allowed him to see the world as he had, he was teaching me that love and family relationships can transcend illness, depression — even a father’s anguish and hurtful words.
And in the end, what greater gift can there be beyond loving and being loved.