Dear Readers,
Quite recently, I had a chat with Rawbaw (a.k.a. Robin) that was a real surprise for me. Rawbaw, age 82, is my younger sister, and I am her live-in caregiver.
She rattled me by saying that she had grown depressed about not having mastered her prosthesis, following the loss of her lower right leg about seven years ago due to complications of Type 2 diabetes.
Due to her advancing dementia, she has no recollection of the many times the Visiting Nurses (a group of physical therapists and occupational therapists) came to her home to help her learn how to walk on (what she referred to as) her “fake leg.”
Each time they came, they took her through a number of exercises to strengthen her physically. I would then try to put her through the same exercises in their absence, but she never once made that effort.
She absolutely does not remember how hard the PTs, OTs, and I worked to engage her in the group effort to get her walking. For reasons no one may ever be able to explain, Rawbaw also would not work with the prosthetist we saw at his clinic many times, too. She simply could not find it within herself to cooperate with him—even though he had a “fake leg,” himself, and was a true inspiration.
Frankly, I was shocked when Rawbaw described herself as “depressed” about being stuck in a wheelchair. She had never used that word to describe herself before. In fact, she has often declared that she's never been depressed in her entire life.
But I think a plan of action is now forming in my aging mind…
I'm pretty sure our general practitioner won't recommend her again for in-home therapy to master a prosthetic leg. (Physical therapists have also told me that most candidates for a “fake leg” can never quite muster the required resolve to accomplish that.)
Well, folks, when you get lemons, you make lemonade. You do what you can with what you've got. I now see my role as Rawbaw's live-in caregiver is to do everything I can to help her accept her senior-citizen situation and make the most of it.
I can start by getting her the Cadillac of all wheelchairs—an electrically powered unit with all the bells and whistles.
I can also have her kitchen modified for wheelchair access, so she can cook again and be the chef she once was.
It is also high time she taught me how to play the piano. It will be a real morale-builder for her to start telling big brother what to do!
There is also religion. I would describe myself as a religious primitive, a term that I think also applies rather well to her. We can both wax philosophical about our respective end games…and thank our Maker for allowing us to live quite comfortably in sleepy little Appleton, Wisconsin, at a time when so many of our fellow Americans are just scraping by.
Caregiving has humbled me more than I ever thought possible.
Rawbaw often says to me (in jest, she claims), “You are only being nice to me now to make up for how mean you were to me when we were kids!”
She has a point. What a monumental guilt trip that girl has laid on me. It sure builds character!
I figure it's never too late to improve my game, just as I hit my mid-80s and may be stripped of my driver's license!
I will keep you in the loop.
—Michael E. Hearons
