Note from Helen:This following story from Jerry Bower is a good for us all, as we all have aging friends, or are aging ourselves. I just had to share it with you. Be encouraged.
It was a poignant scene, one that touches the heart. An elderly lady was sitting in the lobby near the registration desk at the nursing home I often visit. She was sobbing, with the intermittent cry, “I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.” Her daughter was at the desk signing her in. She went over to her mother and said once more, “Mother, we’ve gone over this again and again. You can no longer take care of yourself. You will be all right here. They can take care of you.
We will come to see you.”
The mother continued to cry and to plead “Please take me home. I don’t want to be here.” There I was, only a few feet away, frozen in my tracks, watching this drama unfold. And of course I always have the right thing to say! I wanted to quietly intervene and say a word of comfort to the one about to be incarcerated, as she saw it. But I didn’t know what to say. I passed on, thinking I might visit her later.
When I was visiting with Marie, one of those I had come to see, I told her about what I had seen in the lobby. I told her how I pitied the poor soul, but didn’t know what to say to her. “Now, Marie, you’ve been in this place for nine years, and you know your way around, and you’re in a position to say the right word. What would you say to her.” That's when Marie taught me an important lesson.
“Come on, there’s nothing to say to her. I’d sit down beside her and cry with her.” There's a similar story about my wife's mother, whom I always called Mother Pitts. Back in 1944, the year Wife and I married, Mr. Pitts suddenly died of a heart attack, after the trauma of helping a man who had accidentally shot himself while the two of them were out hunting. It was a tragedy that substantially affected Wife’s and my life, for we always felt a certain responsibility for her and, at last, in her advanced years and failing health—either Alzheimer’s or Senile Dementia—we took her into our home for the last decade of her life.
Those years proved to be very difficult for my wife—and sometimes for me.
Her mother had a way of falling in the most inauspicious places!
At the time she was widowed, she had two children still in school. She had always been a stay-at-home Mom and had no marketable skills. What would she do? How would she make it? It was a shocking, wrenching time for her. Friends called and offered condolences. Church folk were there for her. But of all those that called, Mother Pitts often told the story of one Hamby Kelpen who called on her during her time of grief. Hamby was one of those sweet, gentle souls that everyone liked. He started an ice cream business, making his own. One could see signs across several small East Texas towns—“Kelpen’s Ice Cream.” He was a successful businessman. In my mind’s eye, I can see his smiling face to this day, and it has been 64 years. Hamby, too, died young.
Mother Pitts told how Hamby called at her front door, quietly entered and sat down near her, all without a word. She said he just sat there in silence, but his anguished face spoke volumes. He at last stood, held her hand for a moment, and was gone. He never said one word! For the rest of her life she recalled that visit as especially comforting.
I'm not telling these stories to suggest that we should not sometimes speak words of comfort. The Scriptures urge us to “Comfort one another with these words” I Thessalonians 4:18. Words fitly spoken can be powerful, touching the heart as well as the mind.
But I am saying that the message is to be the same, whether in silence or in words, and that message is, “I feel your pain.” If we feel the person’s pain, he or she will sense it, words or no words.
That's what Marie taught me in the nursing home. In crying with the dear, frightened soul she was saying, “I’ve been in this stinking place for nine years, and I know what its like, so I cry with you.” They call that empathy. I watched the sad scene with sympathy, still a virtue, but not on the gut level as is empathy.
As for Hamby’s silent presence before Mother Pitts in her time of grief, he didn’t have to say anything. Words might have even detracted. He at least teaches us that we might sometimes say too much. Remember, it’s the message that is to be conveyed—“I feel your pain.” If you have to use words, well and good.
An interesting instance of this is the story that Charles Allen, then pastor of a large Methodist church in Houston, told at a North American Christian Convention. One of his parishioners, a prominent businessman, had suddenly lost a young son, run down by a truck. Charles told that when he called at the man’s home he didn't try to say any of the usual platitudes, such as “He’s now in the hands of a loving God.” He just sat with him for a time, then at last said, “Jim, I don’t see how you stand it!” The man then opened up and began to talk, for he now saw that his pastor felt his pain.
Back to that nursing home. Perhaps I could have found helpful words after all. I could have sat beside her, taken her hand and said, “My name is Leroy and I can see that you’re hurting. I’ve got good news for you! I have a Friend in this nursing home, a very special Friend—so special that He died for me, and He died for you. And yet he lives, and he’s right here in this God-forsaken place. I’m asking my Friend to watch out for you. He never sleeps. Even when you’re in bed at night crying, He will be there to wipe away your tears. He’s your Friend, too. You can talk to Him and tell him how you feel, however bad it is, and it can’t be so bad but what He listens.”
Perhaps I have her attention. I go on: “I want to be your friend, too. Would you let me visit with you? What's your name?”
Notes About My Wife's Condition:
Now that the staff here at the nursing facility knows that Wife has been diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s Disease (AD), they're supplying me with data on how to care for an AD patient, including: Do’s and Don’ts.
Don’t reason.
Don’t argue.
Don’t confront.
Don’t remind them they forget.
Don’t take it personally.
Do accept the blame when someone is wrong, even if its fantasy.
Do respond to their feelings more than to their words.
Do be patient, cheerful, and reassuring.
Do remember that an AD patient is scared all the time.
Do elevate your level of generosity and graciousness.
Beside this wisdom, I take what may well be our Lord’s most significant advice for living in a troubled world, “Be not anxious about tomorrow; tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.” These days I live in day-tight compartments, taking the days one at a time.
I pray with Wife every morning, “strength for today, hope for tomorrow.” I somehow find strength for each day. I don’t let myself worry about next month or next year or where all this might lead.
Though I still keep her somewhat active—walking, church, our home study group, eating out, she is now almost totally non-responsive. But when I tell her I love her, which I do several times a day, she always responds, “I love you too.” And sometimes she says when I am doing something for her, “You are so good to me.” But her words are few.
From Jerry’s website: Heart-to Heart
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