Life keeps moving

Yesterday my brother and I drove separately into the countryside in order to spend some time with our father and attend a meeting with an executive of the agency that provides his live-in carers.

Although it may sound glaring obvious, when a close family member reaches his tenth decade one becomes aware that one’s relationship with him – and indeed the organisation of his life – is a constantly moving target. This is not a novel phenomenon at all because, of course, anyone who has ever been a parent has been wrestling with the issue, from Day One and all their life.

This is in the nature of the human condition – certainly as it is lived by males, if my own experience is anything by which to judge.

What happens is this. When a kid manages for the first time, for example, to say a recognisable word; to crawl; to stand upright; or even to use a spoon, fork or knife, you register the milestone … and, as it were – having taken the ‘snapshot’ of how they are at the time – tend to treat them as being ‘at that stage’ for a while.

Almost certainly a while that is far longer than appropriate, i.e. until you register another milestone (perhaps that they can now not only stand but climb onto things) but only because say they’ve climbed up onto a sofa and then fallen off it and hurt themselves.

In other words – to be blunt – in my own experience, having registered that each of my children – born 14 months apart – had reached the stage of being eighteen months old [I’m afraid that I cannot, from this distance further on, list today what the average eighteen month old can do physically or mentally], I then proceeded to treat them at an eighteen month old … until, a long time later, they suddenly did something a three year old could do … at which point I then began treating them as a three year old.

Until they were about five, when they probably did something new consistent with being a five year old, and I noticed that. And so on all their lives.

That’s why parents and teenagers have such a terrible time of it tolerating each other.

In my day, when you reached puberty-time, say somewhere between twelve and fourteen, by then you knew all about the facts of life, alcohol, girlie magazines and the latest fashion, music and outrageous TV shows or cult films for young people.

Meanwhile your parents were still treating you in public and amongst their friends as if you were aged somewhere between 9 and 11 and it was bloody frustrating.

Not to say totally embarrassing in front of your mates.

Ah, the origins of conflict.

In 2018, of course – not that I know much about it – it must be even worse than it was when I was young.

No doubt the average ten year old girl or boy today is constantly on their smartphone, doing ‘stuff’ on Twitter, What’s App (or is it What’s Up?), Facebook, Snapchat, FaceTime (or is it Skype?), probably swapping nude photographs of each other, sexting, trying online dating and whatever else have you.

Meanwhile their average middle-class, affluent, ‘modern’ mid-thirty-something (to forty maybe max) parents – who are doing some or all of the above and, of course, regard themselves as up to date with the latest trends in youth culture and social media – are already anything but.

It’s called life.

When it comes to old age, similar applies. We register our parents as 70 year olds – and then treat them as such – until … out of the blue we begin to register that they’re slightly less energetic – and perhaps more forgetful – than they used to be … at which point we’ ‘twig’ they’ve reached 75 (this probably when they’re actually on the verge of 80).

And so it goes on.

Such is the state of my father’s memory at the age of 92 that he can barely retain information passed to him in conversation for more than half an hour afterwards, which is why yesterday we were constantly being asked “What day is it?” or “Is it Friday?” and “What time are these people coming?” (“Some time after 2.30pm, Dad”) … [pause for three or four minutes then looking at his watch] … “So they’re coming at 2.30pm, are they?” (“Yes, Dad … or possibly some time after that?) … [pause for three or four minutes] … “What time are these people coming …?”

And so on.

Once a human being passes the age of 90, you cannot allow yourself to get frustrated at the fact they may ask you the same question two or three times in less than half an hour.

You cannot get prickly (“For eff’s sake, Dad, you asked me that only ten minutes ago!”).

Why?

Because that’s what 90 year olds do. And by the time (if) they ever get to 91 or 92 they’re going to be asking you the same question two or three times in less than ten minutes, not less half an hour.

You just have to relax and go with the flow. As the carers keep counselling us, you’re not dealing with your parent as he was ten or fifteen years ago. Just try to treat him as a 92 year old – and (all things considered) he’s doing pretty well for his age compared to some of his peers.