Compassion or Duty

I do care for my mother.  I still feel love for her, despite the burden I carry on a daily basis.  Yet, I am not entirely convinced I do what I do out of compassion.  I do care about what happens to her.  I don't want her to die, as my aunt fears, because I have taken her out of her home, away from her cat, away from us, and away from her few remaining belongings.  She has already lost so much.

Yet I can't say with complete honesty that I have the patience and devotion a true care giver would have.  If she gets mean with me, what is best for her is if she does not incite anger, nor receive extra attention because of her behavior.  Then the emotion of frustration and discontent can pass.  Yet, I have not always, always treated her as I should when she has mocked my requests, or refused to let me help her.  Exasperation at her making my job even more difficult has got the upper hand and I have had words with her.  Some of this is probably mother/daughter.  She has not forgotten that she is the mother and I the child.  But some of it is being stretched just that little bit beyond the boundaries of my sense of compassion and concern.

There is no question that I will do this if and until keeping her at home clearly is not benefiting her as much as a assisted living with 24 hour care would.  There was never any question when Poppy died that I would figure out how to take the next step.  There was never any question that she would come to Evergreen so I could get to her easily in bad weather.  There was never any question that once she wasn't able to live on her own, that she would live in our apartment.  When we looked for homes here, the only ones that I truly considered were ones with attached mother-in-law (mother?) apartments.  There just has never been any question.  My parents cared for me through my infancy and youth; when they can no longer care for themselves, I will do what I can for them. 

Fulfilling my duty isn't loveless.  In fact, the act of honoring my duty engenders love in me.  It reminds me she and I are tied by threads of common experience, DNA, and in my mother's case, gender.  I share her values because she imbued me with them.  We share the hope for grand children and great grandchildren, the value of family and the comfort of home.  But more than that, she was my lifeline as I grew.  To me, she was the most beautiful and wonderful mother in all the world.  Those emotions did not disappear when we lived our separate adults lives although they were far below the surface.  Now loving here is constantly re-enforced by my daily interactions with her.

But compassion is something else altogether.  For me, the feeling of overwhelming sadness as my mother loses more of her independence and capability is not based in duty.  An incident that happened this morning illustrates what I mean.  I came in to tell her I was going to get groceries and take Gary to work when I noticed her sitting on her bed holding some of her disposal panties.  She is not incontinent, which is a blessing I accept with gratitude each day, but unable to tend to her hygiene without help.  The disposal panties help her maintain hygiene under these circumstances.  This is the second time I have come in to find the panties near her or in her hands.

I asked if she needed to change her panties.  Even though I needed to take Gary to work, helping her seemed far more important.  She indicated she wanted to change her pants.  I have learned this means she has had a bowel movement.  So I immediately took her in to guide her through her hygiene.  Her panties were not messy, but when she began to clean .. well, that was what she actually needed.  She struggled with it as she always does.  I have not assumed that it is my responsibility to clean her, but instead have encouraged her to care for herself in this way by handing her wipes and reminding her of what needs to be done each time I hand her a new one.  Today, the struggle was harder; she was distressed more than usual, confused more than usual, dissatisfied with her performance more than usual.

So, I offered to clean her.  This was a hard step for me - treating my mother as if she were an infant, but clearly, she was different today.  My compassion overrode my innate aversion to tending to her physical needs in such an intimate way.  This is my mother we are talking about, an exceedingly proud and private person and I am no more than her annoying daughter telling her what to do.  The fact she let me was an indication of her exhaustion and need.

Once done she was clearly more confident and at ease.  I walked out to the car, my heart aching.