Behavior Modification

Raising children is exhausting because a parent constantly monitors kids' behaviors in an effort to keep them safe and healthy. One can never be completely braced for the transition that occurs when she turns monitoring away from her children, towards an aging parent. The similarities are remarkable, yet there is still the revere that is held towards elders.

When my own children were growing up, I remember learning that, when given choices, kids feel more autonomous. Instead of issuing a direct order, "Eat your vegetables," offer alternatives, "Would you rather eat all of the carrots, or eat half the carrots and half the peas?" I tried, but it got tiresome. Eventually, I resorted to telling the kids, "Okay, you have a choice: Clean your room OR I'll beat your ass ,and you still have to clean your room." My children grew to understand, if not appreciate, my warped sense of humor.

Years later, my mother was having her own battles with her father. He was always a strong-willed man with a commanding presence, and mom never broke loose from his control. Even as a woman over the age of 70, she constantly sought approval from him, and was hurt by his lack of appreciation for her extraordinary efforts. Yet, she never gave up.

After he fell and broke a hip, he moved into my parents' home. He recouperated well for a 96-year-old man, and was able to walk and climb stairs. A year later, he fell out of bed in the middle of the night, and injured his other hip. Mom called for an ambulance; the technicians were able to get my grandfather back in bed, but he refused to go to the hospital. The next day, mom called me at work. She was concerned because he had a huge bruise on his lower back, he couldn't move without pain, and he certainly couldn't get out of bed. I said, "Well, he might not like it, but call the ambulance anyway!" Mom was fearful that her father would be mad at her. She was just as scared as he was stubborn.

I left work, drove to mom's, and went straight up to see my grandfather. "Hey there," I said. "I hear you have fallen and you can't get up!" He laughed, "Yeah, well, I'll be alright." I sat on the bed next to him and held his hand. "Papa, that's the problem - we don't think you'll be alright if you stay here." I began to outline the impending doom. "If you lay in this bed, you will not get better. Your joints will stiffen up. You have a terrible bruise, the size of a dinner plate, that could cause a clot to go to your lungs or heart. When you don't move, your lungs do not work as well. They will fill up with fluid; it will get infected; you will then have pneumonia, and at your age you WILL die." My grandfather cut his eyes at me, but managed a skeptical smile. I explained that we could not take him to the doctor to be checked because he could not walk down the stairs, and we certainly couldn't carry him. Even if we did manage to get him to the car, he couldn't sit. The only option was to call an ambulance. "Papa, laying here and dying is not an option," I said. "Mom doesn't want you to be mad at her, so I have come to negotiate." He laughed. I went in for the bottom line offer: "We are going to call an ambulance. Period. You can like it, or not, but it would be nice if you'd cooperate and agree to us calling them."

"Well," he said, "If you put it like that ... yeah, I guess you may as well call them."

I felt like I had been through NATO negotiations.

When the ambulance arrived, they had to call for back-up from the local fire department. The stretcher couldn't be negotiated around the steps and carrying my grandfather with a bedsheet was going to take extra hands. My personal thrill came when four muscle-bound men walked through the front door - Greensboro's finest I fondly dubbed Mr. January, Mr. February, Mr. March, and Mr. April ... but I digress. My point is, to reduce the chances of impending insanity, I look for a silver lining whenever possible. Mom, dad, and I stood in the foyer while these young bucks strode up the stairs. I didn't hesitate. "Wow, Mom," I said, "Who knew that when we got up this morning, we'd have this great eye candy to consume today!" The men blushed, and mom laughed. She earned it.

My grandfather passed away almost two years ago, and now I find myself in similar situations with mom. No longer am I the mediator; instead, I am in the authority of reason. Mom thinks I am a dictator. More on our adventures later ...

(Photo: My grandfather holding my granddaughter - his great-great-granddaughter, September 2007. He was 98; she was a few weeks old)