Thoughts from the Deep End of the Pool
There was a time when the phone lit up like clockwork. When my dad had money — when I had money — the calls came without prompting. When Dad or I had something to give — money, help, a ride, advice, or contacts — the calls weren’t quite so discretionary. Or seasonal.
Now? Silence has its own schedule. I’m not bitter. Just noticing. The shift in attention and retention has its own currency — and love doesn’t seem to be the tender.
Empty pockets don’t attract flies.
I admit I haven’t made the calls, either. I don’t maintain contact with those people because my life is lived in a very specific space — a caregiving space. And a distant one. Out of sight, out of mind. The habit of keeping in touch faded with time, and not just because of caregiving or dementia. Life weighs heavy on both sides of the scale. It doesn't tip — it sinks. And I can't fault people for that. I'm as much to blame as anyone. I didn't keep the contact going. And just because my dad is elderly now, with dementia, the habit of them calling him has long since faded out.
Those people will live with regret after my dad passes. They’ll think of him more often, wish they’d done more, and suffer over it more than they did during his last days and years. I know they will.
Because whenever my dad is in the hospital, they call. They post. They check in.
When he’s home — alone, with me — there’s silence.
Priorities of the mind. Preparing themselves to grieve.
And no one grieves for the living … apparently. Not when there isn’t a chance of something to gain.
The thing about people who ask or beg — who take, who accept — is they rarely offer the same in return. Not without reminding. Not without prompting. Sometimes not without blackmail — emotional or evidentiary.
I've never been the type to ask for help, financial or otherwise — not from family. I write things, say things that detail our struggles and needs, and if people don’t offer, I don’t ask.
I've accepted help from my father, sure, and I’ve given help in return — money too. He never asked me. I never asked him. We just offered. That’s just our nature, I guess.
When we could help, we did help. Even when we got taken advantage of, we didn’t stop helping — not when the need was legitimate.
If it doesn’t occur to someone to offer help, that’s just who they are — their nature. I tend to unconsciously distance myself from people like that, even if I care about them. Even if I care deeply.
The ones that bother me most these days? The fair-weather ones. The “OC of the moment” ones.
They call, they say, I’m going to video call every week from now on. I want to do this. There’s no reason not to. And for a month or two, they do. And then something comes up — and it evaporates. Poof.
Never mentioned again. Until the next wave of mood or guilt hits. It cycles.
I’m always here. Showing up. Shoveling things. Holding it together. Bearing the weight while others drift in and out.
And sure — life happens. People get sick, get busy, get distracted, get weighed down themselves. But the silence that follows connection? That’s harder to excuse when someone’s 92. Every week counts differently at that age. Their sporadic involvement doesn’t bother my dad much. But it bothers me.
I had hope for a little while. I felt happy, for a while. And when it’s over, it weighs heavier than before.
They could have. Should have. Would have. But didn’t. Choice — not circumstance.
We can’t expect people to be selfless. But we do hope. Especially when it’s family.
And when you don’t ask them, they’ll say, I would have, but you never asked.
And when you do ask them, they’ll say, I wish I could, but I can’t.
And they cling to their would have, and forget all about the could have and the should have — but didn’t.
Money and resources play a major role in this, no matter what anyone claims. When you have — and you’re giving — people are there. When you have not — they are not.
If there’s something for them at the end, they’ll probably show up near the end. That’s why they come out of the woodwork when someone’s in the hospital — but not when they’re at home or in long-term care.
Yes, your focus must be on your own family, your life, your work. But when you forget who helped you get where you are — and let me tell you, you didn’t do it alone — you’re not a decent, caring person.
You’re just a person.
And everything you give to you and yours? You won’t realize it, but you’re teaching them. And when your time comes, they’ll treat you the same way.
You just don’t know it yet.
M.W. Van Dyke
