Counting On Kindness

Counting on Kindness

The Dilemmas of Dependency

WENDY LUSTBADER

THE FREE PRESS

NEW YORK

THE FREE PRESS

A Division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

www.SimonandSchuster.com

Copyright © 1991 by Wendy Lustbader

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

THE FREE PRESS and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

First Free Press Paperback Edition 1994

Manufactured in the United States of America

printing number

10

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lustbader, Wendy.

Counting on kindness : the dilemmas of dependency / Wendy Lustbader

p.  cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 0-02-919516-0

ISBN-13: 978-0-0291-9516-1

eISBN-13: 978-1-439-11849-8

1. Dependency (Psychology) 2. Dependency (Psychology) in old age. 3. Sick—Psychology. 4. Aged—Psychology. 5. Care of the sick—Psychological aspects. 6. Aged—Care—Psychological aspects. 7. Helping behavior. I. Title

BF575.D34L87   1991   90-44842

362.4—dc20   CIP

For Barry, David, and Lauren

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

ONE A Desert of Time

Nothing to Do

Waiting

Time and Distance

TWO The Quality of Mercy

Necessary Powers

The Prevention of Resentment

To Be of Use

THREE Bodily Terms

Gratitude or Bitterness

Dry Tears

At a Loss for Words

FOUR The Worth of the Past

Accumulations

Risking Recollection

Telling Stories

FIVE Parents Dying

A Different Light

The Uses of Regret

Second Sight

SIX Unlived Life

A Matter of Life and Death

Conversions

Yielding

SEVEN Refusing to Be Demeaned

Medical Contempt

Vital Defiance

Contradictions

EIGHT The Fiction of Independence

Staying in Place

Friendship and Exhaustion

A Genius for Life

NINE Prospects for Revival

Discerning Purposes

Agelessness

A Full and Final Emergence

CONCLUSION The Measure of a Good Life

Aging Well

Kindness

Generosity and Hope

Notes

Index

Preface

This book explores the time of life when we are forced to depend on others for help with our daily survival. To a greater or lesser degree, we are always dependent on others, but these contacts are voluntary. We can approach or avoid other people according to our inclinations. But when we can no longer get our own groceries, prepare our own meals, or take care of other necessities on our own, we enter into a period of life that is distinct from all the others. This book highlights that distinctiveness, attempting to portray both its hardships and compensations.

The chief consequence of dependency is that we are forced to count on the kindness of others. The vulnerability aroused by this situation awakens the basic questions of our lives: Am I worthy of love and loyalty? Are people capable of true generosity, or do they live mostly for themselves? Since an accident or illness can, at any moment, remove anyone’s capacity to function independently, this exploration addresses hopes and fears belonging to all of us.

Viewed one-sidedly, illness and disability are a wasteland of degradation. We see only the loss of the freedoms and satisfactions that make life bearable, and we expect disappointing answers to these questions. In the last decade, the suicide rate of people sixty-five and older in the United States has been increasing more rapidly than that of any other age group. Asked to comment on this phenomenon, a gerontologist stated, [Older people] are projecting what’s ahead, and just don’t want to go through it.¹

I have spent most of my working hours for the last ten years listening to people in situations of dependence. My profession as a medical social worker has taken me to hospitals, nursing homes, outpatient clinics, and private homes. It turns out that there are many more dimensions to illness and disability than are encompassed by our dire images. This book is a direct reply to all who claim that little of worth happens at this time of life and that dependency is to be dreaded, no matter what the circumstances or the consolations.

The first chapter lays out the major themes to be covered in the rest of the book: feeling angry and helpless in response to dependency, making the transition from an active life to confinement, handling thoughts and reflections about the past, noticing shifts in key relationships, realizing that time is running out and options are shrinking, and finding ways to live well in spite of all of these changes. The subsequent chapters expand on each of these themes, drawing them out and identifying ways to prevail.

My hope is that this book will be passed back and forth between dependent people and those who assist them. Both sides may be relieved to recognize the universal aspects of what would otherwise be misperceived as personal pain. They may also be able to convey their feelings less hurtfully to each other through the printed page than the spoken word. Ultimately, seeing each other’s position may make it easier to find a balance point in the center of chaotic emotions and unpredictable circumstances.

For those who provide care to dependent people, the question of how much time to spend arises repeatedly. There is always something else that can be done on a dependent person’s behalf. Some people let the boundaries of their own lives slip until virtually nothing remains. They take little time for themselves, and they never insist that the ill person consider their needs. It is as if they die in his or her stead, giving up whatever would have been pleasurable or life-enhancing. Others go to the opposite extreme, with-drawing from all but the most minimal tasks in a rigid effort at self-protection.

For people in need of help, the complexity reaches parallel proportions. Some surrender entirely to the whims of their helpers, believing that they have lost their entitlement to self-assertion. Others feel so degraded by the idea of being beholden to helpers that they conceal their disabilities and risk injuring themselves in order to avoid asking for help or appearing to be in need. Through surrender or concealment, they sacrifice much of what formerly made their lives worthwhile.

Often, we have to go from one extreme to the other until we find solutions to these dilemmas. With society providing fewer and fewer rules to guide those who give and receive care, the burden of choice is often more wearying than the tasks themselves. How much assistance to expect and how much to give have become private negotiations rather than culturally prescribed actions.

Throughout, I try to let the voices of people in situations of dependence be heard rather than to develop theoretical formulations. These accounts are presented in the form of vignettes, with identifying details omitted for the sake of both brevity and privacy. In some instances, I have merged the insights of several people into one, or have altered the surrounding situations, but each vignette remains faithful to the spirit of what was told to me. Any close resemblance to an actual person or circumstance is therefore coincidental.

At this writing, I am neither elderly nor disabled, and I do not presume to know these situations in the way that those living these circumstances know them. Ludwig Wittgenstein, the philosopher of language, depicts how someone entering a foreign land begins to understand what its citizens are saying:

Someone coming into a strange country will sometimes learn the language of the inhabitants from ostensive definitions that they give him; and he will often have to guess the meaning of these definitions; and will guess sometimes right, sometimes wrong.²

I have often had to guess in learning the language of dependency. My method has been to offer my own words and then wait for correction. Occasionally I have borrowed descriptions from one person and tested them on another, finding that people were intensely grateful to hear that someone else had experienced the same feelings or come to the same realizations under entirely different circumstances.

Words such as waiting and boredom eventually began to acquire a special meaning for me. Activities such as going to the bathroom or selecting items at the grocery store began to assume significance. Observing and helping people cope with their loss of autonomy, I gradually became conversant with their experiences. Yet my position outside the world of illness and disability has, I hope, enabled me to describe its contours with the impartial eye of a visitor.

Illness and disability alter our lives in basic ways. As soon as our mobility becomes impaired, changes occur in how we spend our time and conduct our relationships. Having time on our hands soon becomes more of a burden than a privilege, and depending on others for help quickly becomes wearying. Self-esteem often erodes along with our physical capacities, and we may be further hurt by the degrading reactions that others have to our frailty. Regret for wasted time and unfulfilled dreams may nag at us, causing us to question the priorities around which we had previously organized our lives.

There are rich prospects for revival within these difficulties, but they require a reconstruction of our internal world. As we struggle with each downturn in an illness, our emotions become increasingly raw. Fixed aspects of our personality may begin to loosen. The courage to accede to such changes tends to arise slowly and fitfully. Eventually, our attitude toward our remaining years may transform, but not until we have revised our view of ourselves and our comprehension of the past.

My goal is to foster this process of revival at the same time that I render it intelligible to bystanders. Adult children taking care of aging parents, as well as relatives and friends assisting younger people with debilitating illnesses, will find that their capacity to be truly helpful enlarges with their understanding of these struggles. People in the predicament of dependency may recognize themselves in the stories quoted throughout the book, perhaps hastening their own renewal by gathering clues from what others have experienced.

Until recently, women took care of those who could not take care of themselves: the very young, the disabled, and the very old. Now that women have been liberated from the home along with men, no one may be at home to give care. Generally, the only people inside the houses of America during the day are the old and the sick, and they tend to be by themselves. A fifty-two year-old woman told me about trying to keep her full-time job while caring for her disabled husband at home:

He had a really bad stroke when he was forty eight years old. Now he’s fifty-five. It’s been seven years. I don’t know how I’ve done it. I have to wait until my supervisor goes to the restroom so I can call him and check up on him. Sometimes he leaves the burner on after lunch and I have to remind him to shut it off. I live in fear of the house burning down. For a while I had a supervisor who let me do my calls without sneaking, but the one I have now is awful. She acts like we’re not supposed to have any other life but the work we do here. Its crazy, because I’d have my mind more on the work if I could get rid of my worry by making my calls.

The difficulties of old age may come sooner than we think. The increasing prevalence of AIDS, cancer, and other potentially incapacitating diseases calls upon all of us to prepare for the day when we may need other people s assistance with our daily survival or may need to render such help. The fastest growing population group in our country is people over the age of eighty-five, and the prevalence of disability in this group is fifty-eight percent.³ The majority of people over the age of sixty-five are able to take care of themselves, but most live in fear of eventual frailty. Few of us will be exempt from the experience of illness, either through giving or receiving care, hut we can strengthen our endurance by learning all that we can about the inner workings of dependency.

Acknowledgments

The major contributors to this undertaking were the people whose stories are quoted throughout the book. I have developed the themes of each chapter around their accounts, rather than starting with my own view and searching for verification. For this reason, the book has been a true exploration, and I owe my greatest thanks to my patients over the past ten years and to those whose published statements I have quoted.

I also want to thank my preliminary readers, those who took home early versions of the chapters and scribbled their reactions in the margins. Without them, I would not have been able to weed out confusing passages or find the nub of ideas that needed further development. My gratitude goes to Jana Ostrom, Donna Radcliffe, Barbara Bachtell, Rose St. Amand, Fred Lippert, Betsy Lieberman, Nikki Nichols, Christine Bagley, Joan Truskoff, Tom Heller, Alisa Malloch, Ed Ryan, Scott Glascock, Joyce McCollough, Victoria Toy-Gibbs, Joe Martin, Peter Londborg, Jill Bailey, Mark Fleming, Tom Watson, Kerry Harpster, Anne Danford, Julie Rush, Gloria Albetta, Sonja Cain, John Freeman, and Lauren Grosskopf.

Special appreciation is due to Gregg Zachary and Valerie Trueblood, professional writers who read and commented on the manuscript with considerable care. Their suggestions and encouragements were especially vital.

Energetic dialogue is also necessary to a writer. For this, I am grateful to the group at Ross Manor which met every Tuesday during the last year of the writing process. Our discussions were a consistent source of perspective, fresh ideas, and laughter.

Certain people participated in the book from the start, by helping me believe in the importance of the topic and in my capacity to see it through. For this, I am indebted to Patricia Richert, Marta Richardson, Marli Martin, Sue Tomita, Kathy Sullivan, Doug Noble, Stan Henry, Linda Hermans, Richard Goldman, David Barash, and my grandmother, Dorothy Bobrow.

Finally, I want to thank my husband, Barry Grosskopf. He read several versions of each chapter and never offered praise unless he felt the text deserved it. Many times I handed him a chapter and eagerly awaited his response, only to return to the manuscript an hour later, deflated. His characteristic frankness became as generative in the book as it is in our lives. Out of this repeated process of creation and revision, elation and dejection, a book emerged that I am pleased to offer to a wider public.

ONE

A Desert of Time

A woman who found herself confined by illness in her eighties writes:

Age is a desert of time—hours, days, weeks, years perhaps—with little to do. So one has ample time to face everything one has had, been, done; gather them all in: the things that came from the outside, and those from inside. We have time at last to make them truly ours.¹

The capacity to enjoy a homebound life may have more to do with our lifelong habits than our personality traits. Those who have always made the time to write, read, garden, make paintings, practice crafts, or play music reach their years of frailty with these routines firmly in place. So long as their ailments do not interfere with their skills, such people often thrive with time on their hands. The writer May Sarton writes, Growing old is certainly easier for people like me who have no job from which to retire at a given age. I can’t stop doing what I have always done, trying to sort out and shape experience.²

The rest of us face a difficult transition when our days become sedentary. We are forced into learning how to live with inactivity and how to keep ourselves engaged despite the absence of schedules and obligations. Kathleen Fischer, a counselor and theologian, asserts, "In the later years we are asked to value being over having, but life has not trained us well for being."³

At any point in the lifespan, physical incapacity can compel us into being rather than having, and into depending on others rather than doing for ourselves. We are then subjected to other people’s timing, to what our helpers choose to give us and to the rhythms they impose. Time for being may become time for raging, to the extent that busy friends and relatives keep us waiting for hours on end. Additionally, our own body may thwart and disappoint us as we persist in trying to do things for ourselves. This chapter probes the process of adjusting to a captive dependence, examining the altered experience of time and relationships that ensues.

NOTHING TO DO

Working people yearn for days to do as they please. They relish the absence of commitments during weekends and vacations, believing that this ease awaits them when they retire. Leisure seems to hold the promise of unlimited pleasures and chosen involvements. They are usually unable to foresee the trial that free time actually becomes when there is no end to it and when options for filling it are circumscribed.

Ill and retired people have access to a paradoxical truth: it is easier to live with the mandatory activity of work or child-rearing than to create voluntary purposes every day. In the long run, days that are empty of obligation are exhausting. We have to push such days forward, while days that are full of commitments seem to move along by their own propulsion. A newly retired man describes his disappointment with the way he has used his first six months of open time:

There has been no instant, miraculous opening of bright new paths…. Am I now squandering time because I have no real vital push to seize and exercise that freedom?⁴

This man lost his vital push once his leisure became boundless. He found that his experience of time slackened into lassitude. After