Parenting Our Parents

An incident I witnessed on a vacation many years ago continues to shine a light on one of the hardest tasks of caregiving.

During our hike through a national park, our family stopped in a picnic area to have lunch. As I made sandwiches for my three young sons, I could hear wails from the picnic table next to ours.

“But Mom, it’s my money.” The little boy’s face was red; his eyes were swollen.

An older girl and another boy, siblings, I’m sure, looked almost as sad. They watched the mom as she said, “John, I know you worked hard for this money. But you aren’t taking good enough care of it. If I hadn’t seen it and picked it up, your allowance would still be back there on the counter in the gift shop. You can spend it, but I’ll carry it with me.”

I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t escape hearing John’s next plea: “But Mom! I’m old enough! I’ll do better. Please?”

monkey parent“Johnny,” his mom answered, and I’m pretty sure I heard tears in her voice, too, “I don’t want you to lose everything you worked for. If you lose it, all of us will be unhappy. I’ll take care of it for you.”

I remember how sorry I felt for Johnny. But I hurt for his mom as well. We want so much to make our children happy, but there are times when we just can’t. Sometimes we have to say no.

Since my children are grown now and have children of their own, I thought I was free from having to make those hard choices. I was mistaken. Like many caregivers, I had to step back into the parenting role again.

Parenting my parents.

Mom was in her sixties when Dad realized she could no longer balance the checkbook. Mom had always paid the bills; Dad took over that job, too. As pots and pans were scorched on the stove because Mom forgot about them, Dad became the cook. When he ran out of clean clothes, he started doing laundry. They went to the grocery store together; Dad did the shopping while Mom wandered up and down the aisles, stopping to look at greeting cards or artificial flowers or bars of soap.

Dad kept these changes to himself for as long as he could, but eventually Mom’s behavior became so bizarre it could no longer be hidden.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Dad?” I asked after one of Mom’s harder days.

“Now Katrinka, I wasn’t hiding anything. I figured your mama just wasn’t interested in her old routines anymore.”

Balderdash. You don’t raise your children or your parents without coming to know them inside and out. And I know that, inside, Dad was 1) afraid of the possibility Mom was ill, and 2) determined that if she was ill, he would keep their home running just as it always had. “Normal.” That’s what he wanted. The two of them living in the pink brick house, taking care of each other, as they had ever since they were married.

help when you need it

While they did stay in their home, “normal” became me spending my days with them in the pink brick house. At first I helped Dad take care of Mom. Later on, when macular degeneration rendered Dad almost blind, I found myself more often in the role of parent, mainly to Mom, but sometimes to both of them.

Remember when you put things like scissors and knives and matches away, out of sight and out of reach of your children? That’s one of the first things I did when I discovered Mom had Alzheimer’s. I hid anything I could imagine might cause her harm if she used it incorrectly.

And that was just the beginning.

Dad and I had to watch closely to make sure Mom didn’t turn on the range or other appliances. Once I found her using one of Dad’s screwdrivers to open a package of paper table napkins, so the tools were moved to a safer place. We no longer left Mom at home alone, even when she insisted she’d “be fine.” She would sit right where she was, she said, while I drove Dad to the bank or the post office. But I had to say no; Mom had to come with us. She didn’t cry like little John did. She became angry, shouting and waving her arms. We’d wait, ask her later if she’d like to go for a ride, and sometimes she said yes. When she said no, Dad and I postponed our errand.

Out of desperation, sometimes I treated Mom as I had treated my sons when they were children. I often bribed her with ice cream or lunch at her favorite café if she’d go to the doctor with us first. Sometimes I made up stories about the magical powers she would gain by taking the medications she didn’t want to take.

Like Johnny’s mother, I knew I had to take charge. Certainly Mom, and often Dad, too, simply weren’t capable of using good judgment when making choices and decisions. Mom, of course, was impaired by Alzheimer’s.

rabbits eye to eyeDad’s judgment was impaired by his love for Mom.

The no’s to Dad were always hardest. No, it wasn’t a good idea to plan a big party at a restaurant for Mom’s birthday. No, taking Mom camping “one last time” in their bright yellow tent might be fun for him, but not for her. No, I didn’t think it was wise to take a long trip in their travel trailer. No. No. No.

Like Johnny, Dad made promises. He promised to ask people to be quiet at the party. He would gladly pat Mom’s back ‘til she fell asleep in the tent. He was sure she’d love a trip in the trailer, but if she asked to come home, he’d bring her home, right away. He promised to tell me when he couldn’t see well enough to drive.

normalFrom Dad’s perspective, I’m sure it didn’t seem too much to ask for simple, normal life. How I wanted to give him just that! And I tried. But from my perspective, it was a struggle to maintain whatever modicum of normal we could hold on to.

Of course, Alzheimer’s was the problem. Both Dad and I tried to say no to Alzheimer’s. Neither of us was successful…except in one regard: somehow we managed to say no to the disease stealing all our joy. Specifically, I kept my eyes and ears and heart alert for the occasions when life felt like old times. I made sure Dad noticed on mornings when the three of us sat at breakfast with toast and tea. I rejoiced openly when we arrived home from the store and Dad and I put away groceries with Mom telling us what to put where. I prayed with gratitude as my husband and I watched Gunsmoke with my parents: Mom asking the name of each character, Dad answering her and then offering everyone something to drink.


As I held on to as many of the routines as I could, I also held on to my temper. Usually I was able to resist the frustrated tone that tried to creep into my voice; instead, I held on to the respectful attitude I had learned from my parents. There was no question in my mind that each of them deserved my respect as much at this time of their lives as they ever had.

Easy? No. Whoever said, “The hardest thing about everyday life is that it’s every day” spoke truly. And most caregivers recognize the words as an extreme understatement.

But let’s also be sure to recognize the bigger truth of caregiving:
As we work to preserve what we can of the “normal” life of the past, we’re also safeguarding—in the present—something even more precious: our loved ones’ dignity.

Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right.  “Honor your father and mother,” which is the first commandment with promise: “that it may be well with you and you may live long on the earth.”   (Eph. 6:1-3 NKJV)

Father, help us to be patient with those we care for as You, Father, are patient with us.

Unlikely Weapons

Inside a home where Alzheimer’s lives, any victory over the disease is cause for celebration.

Caregivers, therefore, are not shy about choosing our weapons for the battle. We use what we need.

China cups, for example. Invented memories. Straws.

My mother grew up in an English household where tea was consumed like water. As a child, I learned that tea was the ultimate antidote for worry. It dispelled fear and nourished courage. Tea and cookies celebrated an A in math or a date for the prom. A cup of tea could soothe the pain of a scraped knee; a pot of it could see you through the night when your heart, not your knee, was hurting.

Though Mom learned to love coffee after she and Dad married, Alzheimer’s took her back to a time when only tea would do. Since neither her judgment nor her motor skills could be depended on to keep her safe, I let the tea sit out of her reach until it had cooled to lukewarm. If she lost patience waiting, I added milk to cool it faster.

The small china teacup came on the battleground when Mom’s hands became too unsteady to hold the heavy brown mug she loved. I found the pretty little weapon behind the candlesticks in the china cabinet. Though its handle was small, Mom had grown accustomed to holding her mug with two hands; she could hold the teacup the same way. But before I could deploy the new weapon, Alzheimer’s attacked with one of the most powerful tools in its arsenal: resistance to change. Though we admired the purple pansies on the sides, the scalloped base, and the gold rim around the lip, Mom refused to drink from the teacup, insisting she must use her mug.

We retreated only momentarily before the solution presented itself to me. It came in the form of a seemingly random thought, but I knew right away it would work. I had experienced such miracles before: flashes of insight that, if I trusted them and used them, almost always led to success.

This time, as I stood beside Mom with the china cup in my hand, I “remembered” something.

“Mama,” I said with my eyes on the pansies and a hint of surprise in my voice, “I just thought of something! This is the purple pansy cup! Remember? The one Granny loved so much? The one she was hoping you would use? Oh, we finally found it! Thank You, Lord!”

When I looked back to Mom, she was staring at the cup. Slowly, her lips widened into an uncertain smile. I seized the opportunity: poured her tea, stirred in some milk, and set the cup into her two hands. Still smiling, she held it with ease.

While she sipped, I reflected on what I’d told her. No, I had never heard Granny say this was her favorite cup. But I believed Granny could see us, and I was certain she would love any piece of china or pottery or wood or stone that could bring comfort to her daughter, my mother.

The purple pansies brought Mom comfort for many weeks, until her hands grew too unsteady even for the little cup. Thankfully, I was prepared for this eventuality. My weapon in this battle? Straws. On the days when Mom was in the mood for tea, I held a neon purple straw—to match the pansies, of course—upright in her cup and she sipped. Another victory! A miraculous victory that I know Granny, too, was celebrating, with tea that was simply divine.

Like miracles, weapons against Alzheimer’s don’t always come with labels. Often they arrive disguised as small everyday objects or even random thoughts. It takes hope, the biggest miracle, to remove the disguises. Then we need faith to use the tools we’re given. Things like china cups, purple straws, a new idea.

Sharing information and help with other caregivers gives everyone more hope and faith and strength. If you’ve had success with unlikely weapons against Alzheimer’s, please consider sharing with us here. You can do that by means of a comment in the space below or send me an email at kbrown.writer and I’ll post your success.

Today I have made you a fortified city, an iron pillar and a bronze wall to stand against the whole land—They will fight against you but will not overcome you, for I am with you and will rescue you,” declares the Lord.   (Jeremiah 1:18-19  NIV)

Give us hope, Father, so that we watch for You and the help You have promised us. Give us faith to help and protect our loved ones, and to stand with other caregivers in the fight against Alzheimer’s. May our efforts always glorify You.