My gag reflex has gotten much less intense over the years. Oh, it’s still present, but I can manage it much better than I could. Holding my breath, vicks vapor rub under the nose, whatever it takes to get the job done.
My first experience with a bowel explosion ended with me sprinting through the room, out the patio door, and vomiting behind the bush in the flower bed. As soon as I opened the door to the bedroom, the aroma hit my nostrils and with the first breathe my body began convulsing, my only instinct was to run before I added to the mess. I bolted straight through the room, out the patio door, doubled over the closest shrub, and emptied my stomach in a way that felt both primal and strangely appropriate in the moment.
That, I have dubbed as my initiation.
Fast-forward a few years. My stomach has toughened up. I’ve changed sheets, scrubbed floors, scoured walls, and wiped down toilets and trash cans more times than I can count. Often it is a daily routine. At times I have to battle a deep inner frustration and thought, “Can you not just make your way to the bathroom earlier instead of waiting until the last minute?” Then there are moments of deep compassion and care for the helplessness we are experiencing. This has often been accompanied by a strange satisfaction and joy that comes in serving at this level.
There’s a rhythm to it now, a kind of grace in the midst of the mess.
I’ve hit another new milestone in my caregiving chronicles: the first time showering my mother.
It happened just an hour — one hour — after the homecare worker had left from bathing her. “What a ‘wicked’ sense of timing,” I thought, “the least she could have done was do this before the homecare worker arrived!”
I had walked in from outdoors and the aroma that immediately confronted me told me all I needed to know. Dread filled my heart and mind at the prospect of walking through the entry and into the main living area. What I saw as I walked from the entrance, past mom’s bedroom door, through the kitchen to living room where she was sitting revealed that this was NOT going to be a fix-it-with-wipes situation. This was ‘shower-worthy.’ First, I panicked. I can’t do this! I cringed at the very thought of taking on this responsibility. It just didn’t feel right or proper. After a few moments of internal wrestling, I swallowed hard, and gently said to mom, “Mom, let me get you to the shower, it looks like you’ve had an accident.”
While we were walking the bathroom, I was hit by the incredible awkwardness of the situation. Not because I didn’t want to help — I love my mom — but because this was the kind of intimate, exposed moment we don’t script into the parent-child relationship. I mean, that last time I saw my mother’s nakedness I had just passed through the birth canal! And neither one of us remember that moment, thankfully. But here we are, in this moment, with an incredible reversal of roles. The one that used to bathe me, I was now preparing for the shower.
She was quiet. Yielding. Sheepish, even.
I was nervous, like my first dance with a girl. “Where do I put my hands? Oh gosh, I can’t touch there, or there, or there.”
My hands were tentative, I kept my voice soft and gentle as I gave instruction on how to undress, sit on the shower bench, and slide over into place. I finally said, “Mom, I’ll spray you down and gave her instructions for washing her private areas. As best as I could in the moment, I tried to preserve what remained of her dignity.
We didn’t speak much. There’s just something about those moments that begs for quiet and demands a hush.
But yes, I’ll admit — in the midst of this I was frustrated. Frustrated that this happened just after homecare had visited and showered her. Frustrated that I was now adding “shower technician” to my already extensive resume of support.
But mostly, I was once again reminded at how fragile life truly is. This once independent woman was now laid completely bare before me in the most vulnerable way possible. I was hit again with the impact of this and the things that have been lost. Memory, independence, privacy, and even simple personal care and routine.
I did my best to curb my frustration and instead show compassion and understanding. Not because I’m a saint, or some extra special person, but because I’ve learned that in this kind of care, frustration is a luxury you set aside so you can carry something heavier — loving service to another in need.
Since that first time a couple months ago, I’ve showered mom an additional 8 times. Yes, I am counting. If I can say so myself, I’ve gotten much more efficient, smoother in the process, and less awkward in doing so.
During our last shower this past week, Mom looked at me while we were drying her body and asked, “Do you enjoy doing this?”
Like, how do you respond to that question in that very moment?
“No absolutely not! I wish you could do this yourself!” I could have, it would have been honest, but instead I smiled and replied, “Mom, I don’t do this because I enjoy it. I do it because of need. You need help, and that’s why I’m here and you’re living with us.”
Mom responded, “I don’t like it much either, I wish I could do this on my own, but I do appreciate the help.”
Some Shower
- If mom could do it on her own, I’m sure she would choose to do so.
Mom never asked for this disease or to be in this position. I continually remind myself of this fact. This is not by choice, but she trusted us as a family and has become very vulnerable. That is a sacred trust.
- Despite the long goodbye, there are many new hellos.
Walking with a parent through Alzheimer’s is often described as the “long goodbye.” It’s also filled with strange and beautiful “hellos.” Hello to new roles. Hello to deeper compassion. Hello to deeper forms of humility and servitude. Hello to being stretched into the kind of person you never thought you could be — or would have to be.
- Your stomach (and soul) will toughen up.
First time? You might gag. Maybe even puke behind the shrub in the garden. That’s okay. Every caregiver has a first mess. You build resilience by facing what you once thought you couldn’t. I have had a lot of those and am certain there will be a lot more. - Patience is a muscle. And like any muscle, it hurts when it’s growing.
Especially when it’s the second shower of the day, again. - Humour isn’t disrespectful. It’s necessary.
You just cannot carry this kind of emotional weight without laughing a little – or a lot- even if it’s about poop. Especially if it’s about poop. - Caregiving is sacred. Even when it’s gross. Maybe especially when it’s gross.
Love lives in these awkward, inconvenient, tender moments. The sacred doesn’t always smell like a fragrant flower. Sometimes, it smells like . . . . something quite different. - Caring for a parent with Alzheimer’s is never tidy — physically or emotionally.
Somehow though, even in the middle of a mess, gives you a deeper strength, a greater love, and a quieter kind of heroism. Not the movie kind that is fleeting and momentary, but the kind that shows up, again and again, even when you would rather run out the patio door.
So if you find yourself where I was — holding a shower wand in one hand and a towel in the other, staring down at the person who once bathed you — breathe. And if you can, smile, there is the slight possibility that they have changed more of your diapers than you’ll ever return in kind. Maybe keep a towel close by and if possible avoid the bushes in the garden.
And if your mom gives you that look that says, “I can’t believe this is happening,” just wink and say: “Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll forget this ever happened. . . . . . . . Eventually. . . . . . Hopefully!”
Written in the hopes that our journey somehow inspires and helps others on the same path of care with parents
Gregory Bland