Browjan's Blog: The Long Good-Bye

Being a caregiver is a selfless task and I am not selfless. You will see this fact is true, when you read about Mom and the Missing Cake Book.

Sometimes, Mom’s mind is like the lady on TV who says, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!”  She gets in a thought and it intrenches her as if she is saying, “I have fallen into this one thought and I can’t get out.”  These trap-like thoughts grip the mind and won’t release their prey until they are resolved or replaced.

Last week the thought that ensnared her was all about a missing photo album of cakes.

It started quite innocently. We were discussing what kind of cake to make for an upcoming birthday celebration.

“I used to make cakes!” said Mom.

“That’s right, you made beautiful cakes,” replied my husband. “You were the cake decorating queen!”

“In fact,” Mom continued to reminisce, “I had a cake book. It was full of photos of cakes that I made.”

Mom was remembering that phase of her life when she took the Wilton cake decorating class with her friend Ann Spurling. Afterward, they started their own little cake business. They made cakes for all occasions–birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, and weddings. Some of their wedding cakes were quite elaborate–complete with fountains and revolving cake tops that played Pachebel Canon in D.  When it came to cakes, Mom went all out.  It was a happy memory for her, and I was glad that she was recalling it.

But then the obsessing began, she fell into the thought and she couldn’t get out.

“I wonder where that book is?” she said aloud. “George, do you know where my cake book is?”

“I don’t think we packed it when we moved,” he replied.

Now, I should have left it at that. I should have allowed Mom to think that the book no longer existed or that it was given to Goodwill or some other family member. But NO, I had to correct him. I had to say,

“Oh, no Dad. We have it! I packed it in one of the boxes.”

Now, the truth is I did think I packed it, but I had no idea where it was now. I didn’t recall unpacking it, and perhaps another family member saw it in a box and took it. Or maybe I just thought about packing it, and it was one of those things that I eventually sorted to the give away pile. Anyway, I wasn’t one hundred percent certain we had it. Regardless, the missing cake book was digging a trench in Mom’s mind, and that simple statement on my part–“We have it!”– was just the little shove that pushed her on into the trench.  She had to find that book. She had to have it. She needed to see it now.

“Don’t worry, Mom. I am pretty sure we have it. It’s here.  I’ll try to find it sometime.”  I figured Mom wouldn’t remember this discussion in ten minutes and I was safe. I wouldn’t have to worry about the cake book. I didn’t have to help her out of the trench.

The following day, Dad was upstairs looking through drawers and book shelves. What are you looking for, Dad? I asked.

“Oh, just Mom’s cake decorating book. She keeps asking me about it.”

“Tell her I have it somewhere and not to worry about it.” I replied a bit absent-minded. I had a lot of important things to do. Cake books were not at the top of my task list.

“Well, I would but she doesn’t believe you. She thinks you are hiding it from her.” Dad said in distraction as he rummaged around the desk.

The hair on the back of my neck raised ever so slightly. She doesn’t believe you?

” What do you mean Dad, why would I hide a cake book from Mom?  I imagined Mom thinking of me as some sinister cake book snatcher who secretly delights in hoarding photo albums of vintage cakes. I was offended. Moreover, I was a teeny bit irked.

“I know its silly,” he replied wearily, “But until she finds it, she won’t let it go.”

Knowing that Mom now viewed me as the Cake Book Burglar just put me in a mood. I decided I wasn’t going to help them search. Mom could just sulk in her downstairs apartment.  I was not going to get involved.  She could stay in her little thought trench…I wouldn’t help her out.

Later in the evening, Dad was rummaging again. This time he was searching for a phone number in one of his old address books.

“Whose number are you looking for, Dad?”

“Ann’s. You know the lady she did the cake decorating with.”

“Why do you want Ann’s number?” I asked.

Only I asked it with attitude. Like it was really inconveniencing me and didn’t he have better things to do than inconvenience me?

“Well, Mom wants to call her and talk about the cake decorating book.” Dad thumbed through the pages, his hands trembled as he searched for the correct phone number.

“You have to be kidding me. Don’t you dare call her and bother her about that book!” I scolded Dad as if he were a child.

Down deep, I was appalled at the idea of phoning Ann. What would she think?  How ridiculous this was getting to be!

“Well, Evie thinks that maybe Ann knows where it is…” began Dad wearily.

“Dad,” I interrupted, ” Ann moved away long ago. She can’t possibly have the cake book. Plus I think I remember seeing it. Really, Dad…don’t call her.”

But they did call Ann. And Mom talked to her for about ten minutes about cakes and photos of cakes. In truth, it was a healthy and fun conversation for Mom, a good time of remembering that lifted her slightly out of the trench.

I shouldn’t have discouraged the call. But I wasn’t thinking about Mom and how she felt, I was thinking about how I felt. I was embarrassed and irritated because Mom couldn’t stop obsessing over the book I supposedly stole from her.  The book that we still hadn’t found.

The next morning, Dad was back upstairs rummaging around and looking for the book.

“Dad, just let it go.” I was still put out by it.

“Well, Evie wants us to pray about it. She is asking God to help her find that book. I am really concerned.” replied Dad. I looked at him and saw real tears in his eyes. He was worn out from looking for the book, hearing about the book, discussing the book, and searching for the book some more.

And I had showed him no concern.

My heart did a u-turn. To me, this book was a minor irritation. It was something I could look for in my spare time. It was not at the top of my “To Do” list. But for Mom, this was everything. It was consuming her. And thus it was concerning to Dad. Dad’s ultimate pleasure in life is to make Mom happy, to meet her needs, to take care of her wants and desires. Mom’s mind could not rest until that book was found, and thus Dad would not rest until he found the book. Dad is the ultimate caregiver.

And sometimes the caregiver needs a little care.

In that one moment I saw myself in a very selfish ugly light. “Oh Lord, forgive me for being so selfish and irritable. Forgive me for not showing concern. And please–dear God–don’t let me have thrown that book in the Give Away pile.”

The Cake Book went to the top of my To Do List, and I went upstairs to the boxes that were opened but had no place to go. Boxes of odds and ends…this and that…and thank the good Lord–a book of cake photos. It had taken me all of five minutes to find something Dad had spent days looking for. Days of concern that I could have alleviated if I had shown the caregiver a little care.

I hurried back downstairs. I was ecstatic like the woman who found the lost coin or the missing contact lens in the swimming pool. I got to the top of the basement stairs.  Mom’s electric chair lift was there–the one that takes her up and down the stairway. I set the book on the chair and pushed the button. The book began its journey down the steep hallway.

“Who is that coming?” I heard Dad say.

“Someone’s using my chair,” said Mom.

“Oh look,” exclaimed Dad. “There’s something on the chair!”

“It’s my book!” replied Mom. “I knew I left it somewhere!”

Dad looked up the stairway and beamed me a smile of gratitude.  I knew he’d spend the next hour or two looking over all the cakes in the book and listening to Mom describe them. As I said, being a caregiver is a selfless task. It means you give care to the person and what concerns them.  You give of yourself in a sacrificial way without expecting gratitude in return.  I am nowhere near any of these things.  I have a lot to learn.

But I also have a really good teacher.

I have no one else like him…who genuinely cares about your welfare. Philippians 2:20

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