Recently on the Tricycle “Aging as a Spiritual Practice” forum which I moderate (http://community.tricycle.com/forum/topics/aging-as-a-spiritual-practice ) there has a been a lot of discussion about elderly and aging parents. Certainly there are a myriad of practical problems that come up—nursing homes, dementia, medical decisions, and so on—but underlying these there are more basic spiritual issues. How do we feel about the sudden reversal of role, when we are essentially parenting the people who once parented us? What do we do when parents become angry at us, when they resent our efforts to help, when they resist our difficult decisions and, essentially, make it hard for us to love them?
In the Buddhist teachings on Metta, or loving kindness practice, it is advised that we avoid, at least at first, trying to practice Metta on people who are difficult for us, particularly people who are close to us, such as family. This advice recognizes that Metta is most difficult with people whom we know well, or with whom we have a long and complex relationship. Spouses, partners, and parents definitely fall into this category.
And yet the difficult work that we do to care for our aging parents comes from love, even though we may have a complicated history with our parents that includes many other emotions besides love. This is a perennial human dilemma, made more complicated by the fact that, unlike in traditional societies where caring for the aging and infirm is shared by the whole community, we are often alone in this work—or if not alone, having to contend with other siblings or family members who may have different ideas about what to do.
It is important to recognize, in these situations, that the person who may need Metta the most is not our parents, but ourselves. We can practice in this way:
In caring for my parents, may I be filling with loving kindness;
In caring for my parents, may I be free from suffering;
In caring for my parents, may I have happy and at peace.
That can be our aspiration, and if in some measure by doing this we find some space for equanimity and peace within ourselves, that can radiate out to our parents, siblings, caregivers and caregiving and institutions, and help us cope.
May it be so.
I’d be interested in hearing from blog readers about these issues, and perhaps my next post can follow up on your comments.
Much of how I treated by parents was influenced by what I saw in their treatment of my grandparents; tradition in our family dictated that respect for elders was observed,no matter what was happening. They might need us, but we were aware at all times we were there to serve, not our wishes, but theirs. To ask them what they wanted, and try to accomplish this, was the goal; ego begone, and all is well.
Lewis, your point that Metta is especially difficult with spouses, partners, and parents, made me think about my relationship with my husband. Our parents died young, before the age we are now, so have been spared–or missed out on–the experience of being with our parents in their old age. But as my husband ages, he has slowed down a lot and gets forgetful and inattentive. I am beginning to understand that I need to change my way of being with him. It doesn’t help to ask him repeatedly to do something (getting a little more urgent each time), or to remind him once again where things go, or what my plans are for the day. He just gets defensive or aggressive, and it doesn’t help either our relationship or the smooth running of the household. I realize I have to treat him as if he were an elderly parent, or maybe a young child. Not to be condescending, or infantilizing, but with a kind of hidden compassion. It will be good practice to start now, because it’s not going to get easier as the years progress. I wish I didn’t have to reason myself out of resentment and into greater kindness. I’d like to feel it instinctively.
The combative relationship of my father ended as it had lived. Six months in a hospice 3000 miles from my home, Dad whispered for me to come close to hear his last words.
He spoke with a vulgarity and abuse never before heard from his mouth. Shocked and not a little confused, I spoke with his physician who kindly, compassionatly told me that when Dad was in the war he most likely was around that kind of language and in final stage dementia, all sorts of hidden pockets of memory can surface.
I knew in my heart that Dad loved me in his own, unique and particular way, that the words of benediction I longed for at the end of his life would have to come from my own heart.
I am a certified grief counselor and have found that the survivors need forgiveness more than anything else. And that it is only ourself that can provide that.
Metta is the way of forgiveness and it is us who is usually the last on the list to receive.
Yes, Dot, we are there to serve – but responsible serving often involves saying “no”, to aging parents just as to young children. This does not mean a lack of respect or concern, but it does mean – for example, in the case of my mother, saying “It’s time to leave New York” and “It’s time to stop smoking”. As Maura points out, this is terribly difficult. A good example of why we need to practice metta for ourselves. And to use the aspiration Kate Lila Wheeler taught me, “May I allow myself to be imperfect.”
I found it helpful to discuss openly with my Mother the role reversal problems – not as a formal discussion, but in an ad hoc way. For example, when a trusted companion started persuading my Mother to write checks to the companion, I took over the check-book, explaining why. When she had trouble making a decision, I’d say, “Why don’t I handle that and decide – you spent a good part of your life making decisions for my welfare – now it’s time for me to do that for you.” We played these scenes out over a long period. Due to short-term memory deficits, she couldn’t remember these specific occurrences, but she was able to develop new habits, and was able gradually to accommodate herself to our new roles, and I think she never felt I’d become a dictator.
Peter
More than a decade ago, when my mother was alive and living in a nursing home. she greeted my arrival there with,
“Am I your mother or your daughter”?
And I replied ,”both’”, which formed the wonderful and fluid relationship we were able to have at the end of her life.
Rico, I am so moved by your story, and the observations and advice that you end it with.
A theme running through all these recent comments is that metta is directed not only to others but also to oneself. I notice that it often takes someone else, someone practicing metta toward others–whether they know it or not–to remind us that this is so.
(From Rome, Italy)
Thanks for everyone’s comments. The role reversal aspect is one that catches many people by surprise, because we no longer live in small communities where all the middle aged people are now caring for elderly and infirm parents. So as with many things in modern society, we have to consciously learn what was once intuitive in the human community.
Thanks, Peter, for pointing out that short term memory loss need not be a hindrance to communication, if patience is used.
Has any one mentioned, either in another part of this blog or in the Tricycle Community Aging group, the importance of letting a parent know that it’s all right for them to die? Many people need permission in order to let go and accept what’s happening anyway. While we become a parent’s parent in a sense, the parent is still a parent, and often needs reassurance that the survivors will be OK – sad, yes, missing the parent, yes, but OK.
Peter
So many useful strategies have been offered here for issues that I am now encountering! My father (with Alzheimer’s) has always been “on the same wavelength” with me and we have no conflict in these challenging times. My mother, who is with him in their tiny assisted care apartment, provides so much more challenge and I haven’t done a very good job with bringing equanimity to many of our conflicts. It’s like walking a tightrope in balancing saying “no” or “you need to do this, or stop doing this” with respect and I repeatedly get “hooked”, as Pema Chodron would say, on my own need for her to change behaviors, and react before I can catch it. Powerful, old, conditioning, and different world views, different spiritual perspectives emerge over and over; we have always clashed. She causes harm to my father, adding to his distress at losing capability, and causes herself so much additional suffering. She is not doing this intentionally; she wants to change the negativity, fear, critical attitudes, so I try to help however I can (with mixed results, and realization I mirror many of these traits).
In our favor are new “practices” we do: reading to them from their fundamentalist Christian traditions (sometimes adding some words!), singing old hymns with them (their memories are good with this), reading from Buddhist advice with slight editorial changes (I lead them to believe they are Christian books–yes, I deceive them on this, because I haven’t found such relevant, specific help in Christian books), teaching my mother some breath work for her pain (she has learned to use it effectively, and we don’t use the word “meditation”), lots of hugs and touching when we visit once a week. It’s not nearly as difficult as so many people describe with their parents; it is helpful for me to see how others can work with very powerful emotions directed overtly at them from parents.
The role reversal–taking over all their affairs–was shocking, about a year of near-trauma, but it has settled down now.
Thank you for the self-directed metta, Lewis. I think this may be very helpful.
I don’t think I’ve seen this mentioned, Peter, and I’m glad you did. Dying is their last act as our parent–of course they want to know that this too was ok.
I can add very little to the very moving comments above. My father went to the hospital and passed away before I could cross the 400 miles to get there. My Mother spent the last few months in a nursing home. For medical reasons, the Dr. did not think she could make the trip to our home. The difficult part was moving a person to a care facility when all they want to do is go home. I was only able to visit about once a month. Most of the burden fell on her younger sister. I think about that day she left the intermediate care center ,and I had to tell her that she would be able to go home as soon as the Dr. cleared it; knowing it was not to be.
ho, friend,
glad to learn of your blog!
busy now with ‘normal’ activity plus prep for high holidy days. more later
aloha, jo
I like the thought of metta for ourselves. When my Mom was in the nursing home because she could not walk and kept falling; she said I put her there. She let everyone know that and I had nothing to do with it. My Dad was still alive and stayed with Mom day until night at the nursing home. She wanted to come home and dad took her home, of course I asked him how he was going to take of her? Not a question I should of asked. He took care of her and did not want help. I would go to visit and had a hard time to stay a long time. My sister would stay longer and my brother was more like myself, having a hard time to stay long. I wish I had practice during this time. I new I loved my mother and father; but my mother was being cared for by my Dad and he was happy to have her home. She lasted 4 months and passed. I learned from my Dad how to be with death and still live a happy life. I just wish I would of understood more at that time; buth I did the best I could with what I had. I love you Mom & Dad.
Darlene
It is interesting to note the vast cultural differences that I observe between the west and the east (generally speaking of course). In our eastern culture, we venerate our parents deeply just as Brahmas of our homes. We feel very indebted to our parents and anything we can do to bring them happiness becomes our responsibility. In doing so, we do not feel so burdened as we derive much happiness serving our parents when we see that that smile on their faces, much so, when we know the reason behind their smile. We do not have problems radiating metta to our parents. In fact, they are the easiest ones to radiate our loving kindness. When our parents responded in ways that we least expect, we can easily forgive them when we reflect upon the suffering that they endure bringing us up. There are times when their reaction maybe a bit “unreasonable”, we choose to practice equanimity without compromising our love for them. My parents are no longer with us, and I wish I had done more that I did for them. They are a true source of happiness for our practice.
leonard cohen recounts his elderly teacher addressing a crowd by starting with, “apologies for not dying”.
aging parents are a wonderful opportunity for acceptance and forgiveness, for remembering what we did get, not just what we didnt, for embracing our own limits and for extending them to places we never thought we could. i will never forget the gift i was given to wash my mother, as she washed me and to make sure she had the ice cream she loved in the hospital refrigerator.
taking the discussion to the next stage – the death of our parents…has its own slippery slopes as well. my mother protected me from her own death, she left the planet as she wanted, privately. i felt terrible that i wasnt there,1500 miles away when she died, but a nurse there said she had witnessed so many deaths and that if my mother wanted me to be there- she would have waited for me to get there.
my brother, in his 50′s at the time and i, in my forties, commented that now we were orphans.
My parents died when I was in my late 30s without experiencing long, debilitating illnesses. But I did have occasion to get that sort of world changing sensation that so many have had when they realize that they are changing roles with their parents.
My mother was dying of emphysema and had been placed on a respirator before I reached the hospital. She had told me many times that she did not want such measures to be taken, but had never completed a health care power of attorney that would have authorized me to make that decision.
Despite the fact that she didn’t appear conscious, she clawed at the respirator tube while I sat by her bedside in ICU. A nurse told me that she had been resuscitated the previous night. When I said that she didn’t want that, the nurse told me I would have to speak to the doctors who had already made their rounds that day.
I went back to the hotel where I was staying. I kept thinking I would be able to talk to her, but the respirator made that impossible. Finally, I realized I would have to make the decision alone (I am an only child and my mother had been divorced for many years). I would have to rely on what she’d said in the past. I wouldn’t be able to talk it over with her or get her permission.
I spoke to the doctors the next day. They both said she’d die without the respirator. I drafted a short statement agreeing not to sue them and she was removed from the respirator. She lived another 24 hours and died peacefully.
I was grateful to be there holding her hand as her life ebbed. We had a rocky relationship after I reached my teen years and we were not close. But I knew that I had crossed a bridge into new territory that day.
Death ends a life, but not a relationship and so I still have a relationship with my mother, but that was the day that I became the decisionmaker, the day I had to help my mother and take responsibility for what happened.
Rebecca, this must have been one of the most difficult things you have ever done–will ever do–in your life. I’m glad you had the support of the doctors, in the end, and it sounds as if your mother was grateful and close to you, as she died. There is a great difference between letting someone go gently and keeping them with us a while longer with respirators and defibrillators, especially when they feel obvious distress, and have made their wishes known. I know some might think that we should use all means to prolong life, because life is good, and because not to do so might imply a lack of love and hope (I know there are people in my family who believe this).
What is the Buddhist view? Would there be general agreement among Buddhists on this question? I think we have to find the way that is more loving and kind, and more understanding of the value and essential emptiness of our bodily forms and relationships, the path that creates the least harm. But that could lead us in either direction. Maybe the Buddhist view would be to pay attention to all the particulars of the individual case–as you did–and to decide accordingly, and then accept the manifold karmic reverberations of your decision.
Maura,
Thank you for your supportive comments. It was a hard day. I only hope that when I’m ready to go that I will be allowed to do so.
Thanks Swas Tan for illuminating the cultural differences between East and West on this issue. I don’t know why that is; maybe here in America a lot has to do with mobility, and the fact that we all move around and move away from our parents’ towns and states.
What is the Buddhist view? Lacking a Vatican or a Pope, we have no nuncios from Buddhist central to guide us. To quote Maura, a “way that is loving and kind” would probably be the basis of it, along with a sense of flexibility–there is no one way, no one view.
Swas Tan, thank you for your cultural difference, which is beautiful and something to learn. We are different in the cultural ways toward our parents; but we our learning, I know I am to be more mindful toward the elder and all people I meet. I have a lot of growing and looking at the way I see and think of people.
Thank You again.
As I reflect upon the aging of my parents, I see my own circumstance, aging with a daughter already wanting to take care of me, with concern of my well being, though she hides it.
And how shall I behave when she demands that I have to eat something, but I am not hungry and just play with the food? Will I return her loving kindness as she wipes the dribble from my chin as I did to her and she giggled back at me?
How will I feel when my daughter has to change my diapers? She delighted her changes those many years ago. Can I show her the same delight?
As I take my last breath will she be there looking at wonder as I did upon her birth and she took her first breath?
I attended to my parents through their death in a very intimate way. My mother showed her love to the end. Her last words to me when I asked her if she knew who I was, she answered, “Of course, you’re my baby.” She died early that morning.
My father died after her. The hardest decision I have faced came very early that morning. He had been revived from heart failure several times during the night, but could not be stabilized. His heart had deteriorated so over the previous months that it was wondrous he survived its profound weakness to the extent he did. He was not lucid the last I saw him. I gave permission not to continue to revive him. My heart tore, but my attitude and posture carried me across that decision fearless that he was also ready to pull up and move on and his body was letting us know. Will my daughter have the same love and kindness seeing this body fail without a life force left? Just let it go.
So this is about exchanging ourselves for our parent, but with a twist, not as a caregiver in a parental role, but going into the very root of giving and receiving. How I treated my parents is surely the condition I will bring to my own care relationship with my daughter.
The love I have known and shown will shine upon her difficult time as I die.
Until their end our parents teach us about ourselves and we can pass that on to our children.
I still clearly recall the night my father died. My mother had died seven months before, a long drawn-out suffering. Dad had been doing well following her death until that last week. He was admitted to the hospital because his cardiologist could not get his heart to settle into a regular rhythm, despite his pacemaker. I had visited him until late evening that day and left the hospital expecting to return the next morning. Three hours after I left, there was a call from the doctor telling me I needed to come. When I arrived, they had been using the paddles to keep him going and were using a “bag” to help him breathe. As I passed the open door to his room, I said: “No respirator,” in a very firm voice. The relief that passed over the faces of the crowd of medical staff was palpable. The doctor told me Dad’s situation, I called my siblings. We were all in agreement as this was something we had discussed long before either parent was ill. I returned to the room and stayed with my father until he was gone.
To this day I do not regret those words: “No respirator.” I can only hope that when the time comes, I will also have a merciful friend to do the same for me.
These posts explore the pain at the very center of what life is, and what love is.
Thank you all.
Well, this topic has garnered more posts than any other, so I think I’ll continue on this topic for a while in the next couple of posts.
Thanks for all who commented, and let’s keep the discussion alive!