Frustration

Of course there are many many frustrations when caring for an elderly parent or spouse, especially if they have memory loss and other symptoms of dementia.  How many times do you have to tell them the same thing?  Or have to listen to them tell you the same thing?  The only way to handle it is to expect it and treat it like you would the clouds in the sky or the earth under your feet—as a natural part of the order of things.

I was fortunately able to do that with my Dad when I was his primary caregiver.  I didn’t mind answering the same question over and over, or hearing him say every time he entered my house, “This is a really nice place you have here.” 

Yet, I cannot seem to get used to my husband Adrian’s forgetfulness.  He does the food shopping for our household, and when I make a list, I expect him to get it all exactly the way I want it.  If he brings home the wrong cereal or milk or salad greens, I cannot seem to restrain myself from complaining about it.

“If you treated me that way,” my daughter told me once, “I’d tell you to do your own shopping.  Can’t you just be glad he’s doing it at all?”

I do really try.  And before I even open the packages, I tell myself that I will not complain.  And yet, there’s always that one thing that catches me off guard and exasperates me, like his purchase of three containers of fresh pesto the other day, all of which needed to be refrigerated and used up quickly.  How much pesto does he think we can eat?

“If I don’t criticize him,” I sometimes say in my defense, “how will he know not to do it the next time?”   

Hah, I should know the answer to that one.  He won’t remember what I told him about the pesto or zucchini or spring mix in any case.  We’ve had that conversation before.

“Honey, I told you to get the butter separated into quarter pounds, not in one big lump like this.”

“Oh, I forgot,” he’ll say.  Or, “I didn’t notice, I just saw that it was cheaper.”

When we were visiting our kids last month, I pointed out to him that his son had bought flowers for his wife for no reason at all.  So this week he bought me flowers—two small bouquets “because I know you don’t like flowers of all one kind,” he said.  Did you remember, I thought, that I’ve showed you what kind of flowers I like and that I like them with bright colors, and these flowers are all faded blah and look like they’re wilted already? 

But what I said was, “Thanks, hon, that’s so sweet of you.”

“Are you sure they’re alright?” he asked.

“Yes, they’re fine.”

Two days later when I had to throw them out, he admitted he had bought them on sale.  I need to buy my own flowers, I thought, because this isn’t working. 

But I’m stuck in my ways, too.  I don’t like shopping, and that’s why I send him.