In Someone Else’s Shoes
Yesterday, while preparing lunch for my children, fielding phone calls for my work, and planning the upcoming visit with family, I stopped to think of my mother. I contemplated her existence at the memory care unit, pictured her sitting in one of the lounge chairs vaguely concerned, vaguely happy, very confused. And I considered that that is her life; that, not just while I am thinking of her or visiting her, but all the time she is relegated to a reality she never would have chosen. Every moment I don’t think of her, am not there with her, am not there for her, she still is continuing to languish in a world she no longer understands.
And, of course, immediately, I felt guilty for not being at her side all the time to help her navigate the stormy waters of dementia, to cheer her up and embrace her with all the love I feel for her. Certainly I know I cannot give up my life to become my mother’s 24-hour a day caregiver, but that does not keep me from feeling guilty that I don’t.
Yesterday, also, my husband told me about the recent study of college students at the University of Michigan, which found that members of the Generation “Me” are 40% less empathetic than college students from the ‘80s and ‘90s. And I am beginning to wonder where this decrease in empathy is coming from? My cousin (in her 60s) spoke of her generation as the generation of inflated egos, where parents told their children how wonderful and fantastic they were. But don’t we all do that? And didn’t those kids turn out to be quite compassionate? Could it be that we simply don’t have enough time to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes?
On the third floor, in my mother’s reminiscence care unit, residents are quite aware of each other – whether it is the ladies halting their nonsensical conversations to observe a good-looking young man cross the room, or one resident snatching the pillow from under another’s sleeping head, or even the few gentlemen jockeying for the most advantageous position among the ladies. Sometimes, you can even see a resident helping another resident, picking something up for them that has dropped on the floor, or covering somebody else up with a blanket, being empathetic. (Sometimes, of course, they actually are in someone else’s shoes.)
I cannot put myself in my mother’s shoes at all times, although I am well aware that only such a permanent commitment could give me the hope of understanding the challenges she is facing. However, I sincerely hope that getting glimpses into her life when visiting allows me to maintain the empathy and understanding I need to stay connected. And maybe those are the key words: to stay connected. Are we as a society to disconnected to be empathetic? Or are we not empathetic enough to be connected?
I loved what you wrote here about your mother and how very true it is. I see mom slipping by much faster now then she was 6 months ago. It’s so hard to see how she forgets things we tell her just a few moments ago or yesterday. I can only inmagine what life for your other and you must be, so much harder to see and do something when you can’t to help. I only hope to have your graciousness and comapsion when my mother gets to this point as you have.