Being a caregiver can be one of the most honorable tasks one could ever assume. It can also be one of the most disappointing and stressful, with the illness, and all that it demands, being the least worrisome aspect of all. Sometimes, a caregiver's most lingering problem is people. When dealing with people, particularly difficult ones, balance is mandatory.
In a caregiving situation, with people coming and going, phones ringing, and conversations being had, you learn a great deal more than you even want to know about the friends and acquaintances, personal business, and daily routines of an ailing person.
In a caregiving situation, with people coming and going, phones ringing, and conversations being had, you learn a great deal more than you even want to know about the friends and acquaintances, personal business, and daily routines of an ailing person.
If
you're a live-in caregiver, you may find yourself not only wearing lots of hats, but embroiled in a bit of a
soap opera.
You can also become a target. Your presence is a hindrance to people who previously had, and hoped to have plans for the resources of an ailing person. Your presence can be perceived as a blockade to what was once unrestricted access. You become privy to information people don't exactly want you to have. You learn who has been genuine in their concern, and who has been unscrupulous in their pursuits. You learn who has been helping themselves to the ailing person's fixed income, good credit, vehicle, food, etc., and using them for services ranging from babysitting, to laundry, to lodging, to storage, because of course, they're old and they're not going anywhere. They're just sitting or lying there. There's a school of thought that says they don't need their stuff, time, or space. They won't see it. They won't miss it. They won't mind. The ailing person's home becomes a venue, a repository, a stopover spot, a thrift store.
As a live-in caregiver, you may learn that you are in someone's way and they don't like it. Illness demands that routines change. Some people don't get it. People will attempt to make a caregiver's life miserable. It's not the caregiver's home. Why should they care if the caregiver gets sleep or rest, or an opportunity to enjoy a meal in peace? Why not drop in before dawn and or at dinner time? Many people see the caregiver as a maid or butler. They're serving the ailing person, so why not serve everyone else who happens by? A caregiver shouldn't be surprised if schemes are hatched to paint him or her as untrustworthy or incompetent. Busybodies don't want the job, but they don't want the caregiver to have it, either.
I don't know why some people think caregivers have somehow hit the jackpot as if care giving is synonymous with being at a luxury spa. It's work--often sunup to sundown work. Why people endeavor to make it unbearable is beyond me.
It is so important for a caregiver to maintain his or her own friendships and support systems. The friends and acquaintances of the ailing person don't always prove to be allies in the effort. They can be gigantic thorns in the side of a caregiver as they micromanage from afar, disrupt routines, sabotage dietary restrictions, make thoughtless suggestions, and hinder more than they help.
As a caregiver, you learn how the ailing person feels about everyone. You soon associate names with faces. You have to know who to let inside, and who to speak to through the locked, storm door. Your presence, as a caregiver, can be downright resented. I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard, "Oh, she's there?". "She", said with contempt, as if I'm not a blood relation, but some crackhead stranger who wandered in off of the street. "She", said with skepticism, as if I'm lollygagging and mooching and not fulfilling a legitimate, specific need to assist an ailing, elderly relative. "She". Yep. That's been me.
It's particularly dangerous when people have no idea what you know, or what you've seen and heard. People have no clue if the ailing person even knows their names, or what the ailing person has said about them. If they did, they'd steer clear of, or be much nicer to the caregiver. Friendship with the ailing person does not translate to friendship with the caregiver--unless people demonstrate, in word and deed, that they really are trustworthy, committed friends. Unfortunately, many caregivers can testify to long stretches of time spent alone, with no help at all, and becoming the focus of the ailing person's frustration with their condition or mortality.
Where do these "friends" disappear to when times are difficult? Why do they emerge when they think a funeral is imminent or there's some Kodak moment, like a birthday? What makes people so antagonistic when it comes to an ailing person's family? Family caregivers can be some of the most burdened people.
I've been in a care giving situation, off and on, for the last 10 years. I thank God for people who've understood, quietly helped, and encouraged me. I've also learned just how horribly callous, clueless, thoughtless, dishonest, selfish, deceitful, greedy, nosy, insensitive, and inconsiderate some people can be (sadly, people whose names appear on church directories). I could be one extremely furious, stressed out individual-- if I allowed myself to be. I've silently endured more disregard and disrespect than I care to admit, all while caring for my Dad. I see, now, why people abuse drugs and alcohol. I don't want to adopt any new vices, but I surely do understand how a person can be driven to them.
I was raised to be polite and nice; to temper my speech. My late mother, a wise, graceful woman, insisted upon it. She was an English teacher. My educational life, even in elementary school, was full of wonderful, skilled wordsmiths: Vivian Thompson. Flora Bertman. Elaine O'Colmain. Elizabeth Golibart. Sr. Elizabeth Charles Durbano. Eugenia Collier. Julian Mayfield. Tritobia Benjamin. Raymond Dobard. I know the power, weight, and impact of carefully placed words. I also know that little "Sticks and Stones" ditty we all learned as children, is a damned lie. Words and names do hurt.
As I gazed at a photo of my mother that my sister posted on her facebook page, I recalled my mother's words: "Don't make waves". "Don't make a scene". "Don't embarrass yourself". "Don't be loud". "Let some things go". "Pick your battles". "Be a lady".
That Sunday, however, I forgot almost everything I was taught about tact. In the interest of my father, who can certainly take care of himself in a verbal exchange, I intended to make sure the bully I faced exited here knowing she had picked the wrong senior citizen to leech onto--and the wrong sister to intimidate.
After years of taking crap off of people, and short of cursing, I said everything I'd been wanting to say--at least I think I did.
It's a little startling, to those who know you as even-tempered, peace-loving, and quiet, to see you suddenly angry, so I imagine it was quite a scene for my older sister and a close family friend who was there watching it all unfold. Uncharacteristically, I wasn't backing down, shutting up, or crying. I didn't feel weak. I wasn't camera or church-ready, either. No makeup. No wig. No weave. No heels. No bling. No usual smile. No sweetness. None of my late mother's style, temperament, and grace was anywhere to be found. I was Fed Up Caregiver Girl, armed the with words that had filled my private journals but had never been spoken; words that only my eyes had seen, and I knew them by heart. There I was in my ashy bare feet, clad in black sweats, my untwisted, untamed hair all over my head and falling onto my face, covering my tired eyes. I'm sure I was a sight! I don't think I've ever made anyone cry, and seeing tears in the eyes of a loud, crass, too-familiar, bully didn't move me to sympathy. She would think twice before disrespecting the wishes of a family ever again. She would think twice before assuming rights and privileges where she had none. She would definitely think twice before underestimating another individual's ability to go toe-to-toe with her. My levees broke. I'd obviously had my fill of her, and people like her, and diplomacy was no longer in my repertoire.
That Sunday afternoon, after a weekend of being in hospitals with my Dad, and thankfully making it home through a snowstorm with a fairly good report about his health, I know my mind and body were shot. Unfortunately, the last intrusive "straw" in a LONG, ten year-old line of intrusive straws, showed up unannounced at his home, acting as if we shared DNA, demanding information, gossiping, being critical, and generally proceeding to throw her weight around as if she had a stake in our family's affairs. It was like some demonic spirit had appeared, disturbing the peace that had characterized our morning. I'd tried to stay in another room, but then she began bragging about how she'd been cleaning my Dad's house. God knows that's a task I know all too well, and help is always welcomed. The mistake she made was not knowing I visited him on the same days she said she'd been there, and I could always see that nothing had ever been done. I don't know what invisible products and tools she'd been using, but she was taking money from my Dad for doing nothing. My mouth and feet stopped listening to my brain, and I went into the kitchen. I wanted her to see my face. Perhaps her tune would change.
I detest those who take advantage of vulnerable seniors. I guess I struck a nerve when I said, "I appreciate people who want to help my Dad, I just hope that they would actually do what they say they're going to do." I hadn't raised my voice, but her true colors came shining through. She stood up and attempted to loud-talk me in the presence of my Dad. THAT was not going to happen, certainly not in my parents' home. I could tell it was her thing-- intimidating people, being snarky, bossy, interrupting, and throwing shade. I wasn't surprised. No one likes being caught in a lie. My usual volume, reserved for singing, arrested my speaking voice. If my mother taught me anything, it's how to clean up. What the lady had been doing was taking inventory, and planning to move her family into my father's house. She hadn't inquired whether or not the senior citizen she'd targeted had a family who cared about him. She hopped on the wrong bandwagon. Where she got the idea that he was alone and abandoned by his no-account children, and needed her to come to the rescue, I don't know. I wondered where she's been in the last ten years! I could have used some help numerous times.
That Sunday, I realized that bullies become awfully apologetic, docile, and sensitive when they get a taste of their own medicine from someone they view as inferior or a pushover. That Sunday, I shed my pushover uniform and watched a bully backpedal, back down, and leave in tears. I can't say, however, that I feel any pride about it. I wondered whether my mother's silence, meekness, and regal demeanor in the face of mean spirited, intrusive, envious, inconsiderate, hateful people was also her undoing. Stress will kill you. People do what you allow and she allowed a lot. Some things you have to nip in the bud. Used properly, words can be your friends. Used improperly, there's no editing; no taking them back. You need a fine balance.
I hate arguments. I hate conflict. I'd always excused myself when difficult people showed up--no--I've always run from difficult people. I hate to admit that I've silently left situations where difficult people were in great supply. All my life, I've abandoned places, forfeited opportunities, and even separated from people I liked in order to get away from the impact of bullies and those whose attitudes can only be characterized as combative and nasty. I know what God won't allow me to say that others seem to be able to say freely. I know what he won't allow me to store in my mind and heart to use at a later date. He knows what's on the tip of my tongue. He's been there with me in the situations that make me wish I could tell everything I know, or pray one of those terrible Davidic prayers. Sometimes, you just want to say, "Sic 'em, Lord", and watch as a ninja Yeshua makes mincemeat of your enemy. I've seen God work on my behalf where bullies are concerned, so I should be confident when faced with them; confident that he'll do it again. Sunday, I pushed the Lord aside, and decided to handle a bully myself. There was no balance. I went from zero to 120. It felt great...temporarily.
People on the defensive can be rather irresponsible with the truth and words, if it means redeeming themselves or getting bullies off of their backs. Words can be ammunition, and difficult people make you want to stock up. Difficult people are positively draining. I adore peace, but that fateful Sunday, I think I stopped caring for a minute, and honestly, it was liberating. Still, I knew inside, I was doing more harm to myself than I could ever do to that woman.
I've seen one too many people using my Dad, and felt powerless to do anything about it. He's an adult, and timid is not a word I'd ever use to describe him. That Sunday, however, I lost it. Not one more imp was going to be allowed to bulldoze all over my siblings and me. We had kindly asked if people would not visit, but apparently someone felt that didn't apply to her. She got the full brunt of everything I had been rehearsing, storing, and suppressing for ten years. I got tired of biting my tongue. That Sunday, I wasn't afraid of the possibility that no one would defend me. I was determined to speak up. It hadn't been the first time I wanted to briefly dismiss the words of my late mother, but I'd ALWAYS kept quiet.
I certainly don't want anyone telling me who to befriend, and my dad has been on this Earth a lot longer than me, but some of the people who call themselves his friends, however, have consistently demonstrated no regard for his family. We, in the spirit of our late mother, have tolerated it. It was time to stop waiting to be defended and rescued, and supported, don the big girl panties, and fight for myself. I learned, if I have to, I can. I'd never been encouraged to, and it felt odd. I don't want to be the loud, ratchet, out of control girl, always mean-mugging and ready to fight, but she's the type who people don't tend to mess with. Why do you have to get out of character? Why can't you assume a neutral stance and get your point across? Why do you ever have to reach in, and pull out your inner hood rat to get some people's attention? Is fluent Hoodrat in glorious surround sound, the only language some people understand?
I've consulted God so many times, knowing what his take on the situations like that one would be: "No. Keep your mouth shut. Let me handle it". I realize his glory is always at stake. I realize my witness suffers if I don't behave or speak in a way that represents Him. There has got to be a godly way that he approves of; a lady-like way that my Mom would have allowed, to say, "Mind your own business!", "Leave my family alone!", "Get out of here you lying, manipulative banshee!". God says, "No. leave it to me". I've reminded Him of his Son. "Hey! What about whip-wielding, turning-over-the-tables-in-the-Temple Jesus? HE was off the chain, and effective! Didn't he also refer to someone as a dog? Didn't he refer to a whole generation of people as snakes? God, can't I just wile out and be like HIM, every now and then? What about a little good old-fashioned righteous indignation?" God says, "No. Focus on the principal thing, and let me fight for you. If you're angry or frustrated, you'll just make things worse.
At times, as a caregiver, I've felt as if I had no advocate, no one to trust or turn to, but God reminded me that he has my back, and all I have to do is cast my cares upon Him. I know all of this, but sometimes, if I thought I could punch some people squarely in the mouth, and get away with it (with my Christian card intact), I'd wind up and swing-- and keep on swinging. However, that's how innocents get hit and hurt.
I admire direct people, who have no problem with confrontation; who can just say what they need to say and be done with it. In my ears, some people's words always sound so curt, abrasive, unnecessary, and unkind, but they surely do see through and shut down the rhetoric of difficult people, liars, and cons. (Maybe that's why I like Judge Judy). God still says, "No". You can't be like everyone else. You can't just unleash on people, even if it's deserving; even if your brand of unleashing is mild compared to what others do.
That Sunday afternoon, my usual filter was missing in action. Patience was gone. Ten years of pushy, difficult people and there was a brand new one, even pushier, louder, and more unbearable than the rest. I meant every word I said in the interest of my Dad, and perhaps, to unburden myself. He's 88 years old, frail, and I'd protect him again, but I wondered today about how I spoke. I was tired, but was that an excuse or a symptom? Caregivers need care.
As a live-in caregiver, you may learn that you are in someone's way and they don't like it. Illness demands that routines change. Some people don't get it. People will attempt to make a caregiver's life miserable. It's not the caregiver's home. Why should they care if the caregiver gets sleep or rest, or an opportunity to enjoy a meal in peace? Why not drop in before dawn and or at dinner time? Many people see the caregiver as a maid or butler. They're serving the ailing person, so why not serve everyone else who happens by? A caregiver shouldn't be surprised if schemes are hatched to paint him or her as untrustworthy or incompetent. Busybodies don't want the job, but they don't want the caregiver to have it, either.
I don't know why some people think caregivers have somehow hit the jackpot as if care giving is synonymous with being at a luxury spa. It's work--often sunup to sundown work. Why people endeavor to make it unbearable is beyond me.
It is so important for a caregiver to maintain his or her own friendships and support systems. The friends and acquaintances of the ailing person don't always prove to be allies in the effort. They can be gigantic thorns in the side of a caregiver as they micromanage from afar, disrupt routines, sabotage dietary restrictions, make thoughtless suggestions, and hinder more than they help.
As a caregiver, you learn how the ailing person feels about everyone. You soon associate names with faces. You have to know who to let inside, and who to speak to through the locked, storm door. Your presence, as a caregiver, can be downright resented. I wish I had a dollar for every time I heard, "Oh, she's there?". "She", said with contempt, as if I'm not a blood relation, but some crackhead stranger who wandered in off of the street. "She", said with skepticism, as if I'm lollygagging and mooching and not fulfilling a legitimate, specific need to assist an ailing, elderly relative. "She". Yep. That's been me.
It's particularly dangerous when people have no idea what you know, or what you've seen and heard. People have no clue if the ailing person even knows their names, or what the ailing person has said about them. If they did, they'd steer clear of, or be much nicer to the caregiver. Friendship with the ailing person does not translate to friendship with the caregiver--unless people demonstrate, in word and deed, that they really are trustworthy, committed friends. Unfortunately, many caregivers can testify to long stretches of time spent alone, with no help at all, and becoming the focus of the ailing person's frustration with their condition or mortality.
Where do these "friends" disappear to when times are difficult? Why do they emerge when they think a funeral is imminent or there's some Kodak moment, like a birthday? What makes people so antagonistic when it comes to an ailing person's family? Family caregivers can be some of the most burdened people.
I've been in a care giving situation, off and on, for the last 10 years. I thank God for people who've understood, quietly helped, and encouraged me. I've also learned just how horribly callous, clueless, thoughtless, dishonest, selfish, deceitful, greedy, nosy, insensitive, and inconsiderate some people can be (sadly, people whose names appear on church directories). I could be one extremely furious, stressed out individual-- if I allowed myself to be. I've silently endured more disregard and disrespect than I care to admit, all while caring for my Dad. I see, now, why people abuse drugs and alcohol. I don't want to adopt any new vices, but I surely do understand how a person can be driven to them.
I was raised to be polite and nice; to temper my speech. My late mother, a wise, graceful woman, insisted upon it. She was an English teacher. My educational life, even in elementary school, was full of wonderful, skilled wordsmiths: Vivian Thompson. Flora Bertman. Elaine O'Colmain. Elizabeth Golibart. Sr. Elizabeth Charles Durbano. Eugenia Collier. Julian Mayfield. Tritobia Benjamin. Raymond Dobard. I know the power, weight, and impact of carefully placed words. I also know that little "Sticks and Stones" ditty we all learned as children, is a damned lie. Words and names do hurt.
That Sunday, however, I forgot almost everything I was taught about tact. In the interest of my father, who can certainly take care of himself in a verbal exchange, I intended to make sure the bully I faced exited here knowing she had picked the wrong senior citizen to leech onto--and the wrong sister to intimidate.
After years of taking crap off of people, and short of cursing, I said everything I'd been wanting to say--at least I think I did.
It's a little startling, to those who know you as even-tempered, peace-loving, and quiet, to see you suddenly angry, so I imagine it was quite a scene for my older sister and a close family friend who was there watching it all unfold. Uncharacteristically, I wasn't backing down, shutting up, or crying. I didn't feel weak. I wasn't camera or church-ready, either. No makeup. No wig. No weave. No heels. No bling. No usual smile. No sweetness. None of my late mother's style, temperament, and grace was anywhere to be found. I was Fed Up Caregiver Girl, armed the with words that had filled my private journals but had never been spoken; words that only my eyes had seen, and I knew them by heart. There I was in my ashy bare feet, clad in black sweats, my untwisted, untamed hair all over my head and falling onto my face, covering my tired eyes. I'm sure I was a sight! I don't think I've ever made anyone cry, and seeing tears in the eyes of a loud, crass, too-familiar, bully didn't move me to sympathy. She would think twice before disrespecting the wishes of a family ever again. She would think twice before assuming rights and privileges where she had none. She would definitely think twice before underestimating another individual's ability to go toe-to-toe with her. My levees broke. I'd obviously had my fill of her, and people like her, and diplomacy was no longer in my repertoire.
That Sunday afternoon, after a weekend of being in hospitals with my Dad, and thankfully making it home through a snowstorm with a fairly good report about his health, I know my mind and body were shot. Unfortunately, the last intrusive "straw" in a LONG, ten year-old line of intrusive straws, showed up unannounced at his home, acting as if we shared DNA, demanding information, gossiping, being critical, and generally proceeding to throw her weight around as if she had a stake in our family's affairs. It was like some demonic spirit had appeared, disturbing the peace that had characterized our morning. I'd tried to stay in another room, but then she began bragging about how she'd been cleaning my Dad's house. God knows that's a task I know all too well, and help is always welcomed. The mistake she made was not knowing I visited him on the same days she said she'd been there, and I could always see that nothing had ever been done. I don't know what invisible products and tools she'd been using, but she was taking money from my Dad for doing nothing. My mouth and feet stopped listening to my brain, and I went into the kitchen. I wanted her to see my face. Perhaps her tune would change.
I detest those who take advantage of vulnerable seniors. I guess I struck a nerve when I said, "I appreciate people who want to help my Dad, I just hope that they would actually do what they say they're going to do." I hadn't raised my voice, but her true colors came shining through. She stood up and attempted to loud-talk me in the presence of my Dad. THAT was not going to happen, certainly not in my parents' home. I could tell it was her thing-- intimidating people, being snarky, bossy, interrupting, and throwing shade. I wasn't surprised. No one likes being caught in a lie. My usual volume, reserved for singing, arrested my speaking voice. If my mother taught me anything, it's how to clean up. What the lady had been doing was taking inventory, and planning to move her family into my father's house. She hadn't inquired whether or not the senior citizen she'd targeted had a family who cared about him. She hopped on the wrong bandwagon. Where she got the idea that he was alone and abandoned by his no-account children, and needed her to come to the rescue, I don't know. I wondered where she's been in the last ten years! I could have used some help numerous times.
That Sunday, I realized that bullies become awfully apologetic, docile, and sensitive when they get a taste of their own medicine from someone they view as inferior or a pushover. That Sunday, I shed my pushover uniform and watched a bully backpedal, back down, and leave in tears. I can't say, however, that I feel any pride about it. I wondered whether my mother's silence, meekness, and regal demeanor in the face of mean spirited, intrusive, envious, inconsiderate, hateful people was also her undoing. Stress will kill you. People do what you allow and she allowed a lot. Some things you have to nip in the bud. Used properly, words can be your friends. Used improperly, there's no editing; no taking them back. You need a fine balance.
I hate arguments. I hate conflict. I'd always excused myself when difficult people showed up--no--I've always run from difficult people. I hate to admit that I've silently left situations where difficult people were in great supply. All my life, I've abandoned places, forfeited opportunities, and even separated from people I liked in order to get away from the impact of bullies and those whose attitudes can only be characterized as combative and nasty. I know what God won't allow me to say that others seem to be able to say freely. I know what he won't allow me to store in my mind and heart to use at a later date. He knows what's on the tip of my tongue. He's been there with me in the situations that make me wish I could tell everything I know, or pray one of those terrible Davidic prayers. Sometimes, you just want to say, "Sic 'em, Lord", and watch as a ninja Yeshua makes mincemeat of your enemy. I've seen God work on my behalf where bullies are concerned, so I should be confident when faced with them; confident that he'll do it again. Sunday, I pushed the Lord aside, and decided to handle a bully myself. There was no balance. I went from zero to 120. It felt great...temporarily.
People on the defensive can be rather irresponsible with the truth and words, if it means redeeming themselves or getting bullies off of their backs. Words can be ammunition, and difficult people make you want to stock up. Difficult people are positively draining. I adore peace, but that fateful Sunday, I think I stopped caring for a minute, and honestly, it was liberating. Still, I knew inside, I was doing more harm to myself than I could ever do to that woman.
I've seen one too many people using my Dad, and felt powerless to do anything about it. He's an adult, and timid is not a word I'd ever use to describe him. That Sunday, however, I lost it. Not one more imp was going to be allowed to bulldoze all over my siblings and me. We had kindly asked if people would not visit, but apparently someone felt that didn't apply to her. She got the full brunt of everything I had been rehearsing, storing, and suppressing for ten years. I got tired of biting my tongue. That Sunday, I wasn't afraid of the possibility that no one would defend me. I was determined to speak up. It hadn't been the first time I wanted to briefly dismiss the words of my late mother, but I'd ALWAYS kept quiet.
I certainly don't want anyone telling me who to befriend, and my dad has been on this Earth a lot longer than me, but some of the people who call themselves his friends, however, have consistently demonstrated no regard for his family. We, in the spirit of our late mother, have tolerated it. It was time to stop waiting to be defended and rescued, and supported, don the big girl panties, and fight for myself. I learned, if I have to, I can. I'd never been encouraged to, and it felt odd. I don't want to be the loud, ratchet, out of control girl, always mean-mugging and ready to fight, but she's the type who people don't tend to mess with. Why do you have to get out of character? Why can't you assume a neutral stance and get your point across? Why do you ever have to reach in, and pull out your inner hood rat to get some people's attention? Is fluent Hoodrat in glorious surround sound, the only language some people understand?
I've consulted God so many times, knowing what his take on the situations like that one would be: "No. Keep your mouth shut. Let me handle it". I realize his glory is always at stake. I realize my witness suffers if I don't behave or speak in a way that represents Him. There has got to be a godly way that he approves of; a lady-like way that my Mom would have allowed, to say, "Mind your own business!", "Leave my family alone!", "Get out of here you lying, manipulative banshee!". God says, "No. leave it to me". I've reminded Him of his Son. "Hey! What about whip-wielding, turning-over-the-tables-in-the-Temple Jesus? HE was off the chain, and effective! Didn't he also refer to someone as a dog? Didn't he refer to a whole generation of people as snakes? God, can't I just wile out and be like HIM, every now and then? What about a little good old-fashioned righteous indignation?" God says, "No. Focus on the principal thing, and let me fight for you. If you're angry or frustrated, you'll just make things worse.
At times, as a caregiver, I've felt as if I had no advocate, no one to trust or turn to, but God reminded me that he has my back, and all I have to do is cast my cares upon Him. I know all of this, but sometimes, if I thought I could punch some people squarely in the mouth, and get away with it (with my Christian card intact), I'd wind up and swing-- and keep on swinging. However, that's how innocents get hit and hurt.
I admire direct people, who have no problem with confrontation; who can just say what they need to say and be done with it. In my ears, some people's words always sound so curt, abrasive, unnecessary, and unkind, but they surely do see through and shut down the rhetoric of difficult people, liars, and cons. (Maybe that's why I like Judge Judy). God still says, "No". You can't be like everyone else. You can't just unleash on people, even if it's deserving; even if your brand of unleashing is mild compared to what others do.
That Sunday afternoon, my usual filter was missing in action. Patience was gone. Ten years of pushy, difficult people and there was a brand new one, even pushier, louder, and more unbearable than the rest. I meant every word I said in the interest of my Dad, and perhaps, to unburden myself. He's 88 years old, frail, and I'd protect him again, but I wondered today about how I spoke. I was tired, but was that an excuse or a symptom? Caregivers need care.
Since the incident, I've had remorse. I've even been exhausted. Was it worth it? No. Will that lady repeat her antics? Probably not--not with my family anyway. Is her scheme aborted? Yes. Is there a scathing story going around about me, among her friends, and at my Dad's church, with her spin on it, that questions my Christianity and crowns me as a mean, unbalanced, crazy person? Probably. Do I care? No. Was there a time when I would have cared? Absolutely. Maybe that's one of the perks of having an AARP card in your wallet. You stop caring so much about what people think.
My Dad's health issues aren't over, and so, neither are my days as a caregiver. I have a feeling this particular "Difficult People" test will be administered again...soon.
I have got to pass it, and remember: Goliath had brothers.
I'm taking a break. I need one. I'm glad my older sister is still in town. She's one of those direct, no nonsense people I admire so much, and I'm glad she has my back. But she cautions my compliments of her difficult people skills by saying, "Girl, those people don't bother me. I can deal, because I know I'm going to be getting on a plane and going back to my house. You'll still be here."
Shutting up isn't always an option. Some things need to be said, some plans need to be stopped, some rotten habits and behaviors need to be exposed, but there's got to be a happy, godly medium, a fine balance that leaves room for reconciliation. I have a new enemy now, I guess, and I don't even know her name. If my name comes up, she won't chime in with the usual, "Oh she's so sweet!" that I've become accustomed to hearing from strangers. That Sunday, Sweet Vanessa wasn't interested in making friends.
When you've taken all you can take, deferring to God's way can be a challenge, but it has to be done.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment