Travels With My Father

“When a person merits continuous blessings from his parents, he succeeds above and beyond his normal capabilities.” (The Garden of Gratitude)

I’ve been travelling quite a bit with my octogenarian father recently; not to faraway, exotic lands, but just locally in a wheelchair, now my father’s only means of transport. It’s a relatively new  “job” [he introduces me to people as his “chauffeur”] and I had to do a self-taught crash course in navigation to avoid running innocent passers-by over or tipping my father out of the wheelchair, which I once unceremoniously did because he wasn’t wear a seat belt – through HaShem’s kindness he fell very gently into a foetal position and was rescued by two lovely Chinese people who ran out of a herbal medicine shop, while I stood there wondering what had happened and if I had just lost my place in the World to Come.

It wasn’t something I’d planned doing – caring for my father and, by extension, my mother.  I suppose if I’m honest it was something I rather dreaded in a distant sort of way; something that might happen sometime but not now.  But now is relative because time never stands still, in case you hadn’t noticed. And so now 10 year’s ago became now, today, or in my case two years’ ago.
 
One of the things I noticed initially was my own and other people’s responses. On a couple of occasions, when I was asked by acquaintances what I was doing these days, I found myself mumbling something to the effect that I was looking after my father. On both occasions, their response was, “oh, that must be hard” and I heard myself concur with their view of the situation.  I say “I heard myself concur” because actually it rather jarred with what I was feeling. In fact, it hasn’t been hard at all. So why was I agreeing with them?  And why was I feeling slightly uncomfortably admitting to being a carer; after all it was kivud av v’eim?
 
On another occasion, a Torah teacher who I had known for many years asked me how things were going; I replied that my father had been ill, and he responded, “Refuah shleimah, and then you can move on”!  I have to admit that I metaphorically reached for a boxing glove at that point; even though he meant well, he just completely missed the point!
 
Obviously, everyone’s situation is different.  Someone caring for a parent, a disabled child – fill in your own situation – will have a unique set of dynamics to work with, their own personality, family set up etc. and no-one can say how they will respond in any situation until they’re actually in it. I think one of the reasons I felt uncomfortable was something to with social conformity, even in the Torah world.  Before, I had been working for a Torah institution and sometimes an element of “frum glamour” associated with “working in outreach” crept in, even though I, and I think most people, did it out of idealism. However, now I was, well, just looking after someone. Maybe I felt others would think I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile or that I was wasting productive years or, worse still, I was leading a constrictive life. And as to it being hard, it’s never been that, although there have certainly been crises and a moments of stress; yet I found myself going along with others’ perspectives and sentiments because actually if the situation was reversed I’d probably say something similar.
 
Talking to a friend in a similar situation I was quite shocked at her experiences too.  She was told by a non-religious parent at her son’s school that she “doesn’t do old” when she found out about my friend’s situation; my friend feels that she is somehow odd for devoting her time to her mother’s needs along with her own family. Maybe my friend should awaken this parent to the fact that she is not exempt from growing old and she had better hope that her children learn the laws of honouring parents from someone, otherwise she maybe in for a rude awaking.
 
So why has this been a fulfilling experience? Well, you know what I’m going to say next, don’t you?  Of course, it’s emuna.  From the outset I found myself naturally accepting the situation, which was a surprise to me.  For the first few months I felt unusually calm; the lull before the storm, I thought.  But the storm never came and I came to realise that I was relishing the challenge that HaShem had sent me. I felt that this was an avodah.  That this was something HaShem personally tailored for me.  That is was bringing out a hidden potential.  Maybe that’s why I felt a dissonance in myself when confronted with other people’s attitudes.  Perhaps I felt a bit “guilty” for feeling a sense of accomplishment and confidence in dealing with medics, medicines, logistical challenges as my father’s situation continued to change.
 
And then there was the change in parental/child dynamics. Parents are supposed to be parents no matter what: they give, the child receives. That’s how it is. However, when a parent becomes infirm through age, the dynamics change.  Suddenly, the roles reverse; the child becomes the giver and the parent receiver. The adjustments can be difficult; the parent can feel vulnerable, unconfident, frustrated at not being able to do what they used to.  On the other hand, only through giving to my parents, particularly my father, have I merited to see previously hidden attributes of nobility, resilience, acceptance, as they’ve coped with the changing situation. I’ve seen how my father always smiles, no matter what, how gracious and grateful he is to anyone who helps, be it my mother, me, the medics, or often even strangers in the street, people who help me when the wheelchair gets stuck on a loose pavement, kerb etc, or just passers-by who say hello for no obvious reason.
 
And so, this is something I am meant to do and I’ve decided not to be apologetic about it.  With Hashem’s help, maybe this avodah will give me the spiritual “fuel” to bring me, and who knows, maybe even my parents, home to Eretz Yisrael!