This isn’t one of my funny ones.
I tried to find the humor in it — I usually do. But this subject doesn’t lend itself to punchlines. It’s not always easy to give your loved one a shower. Some days it’s manageable. Other days, it’s a battle.
My dad doesn’t like to be touched down there — front or back — and he especially doesn’t like water hitting those areas. The moment I get close, even before I touch him, he says, “You’re hurting me!” and tries to bat my hand away. It’s immediate. I think the brain circuits between shame, fear, pain, and memory have all tangled together.
But those areas have to be cleaned. The penis, the backside, the folds where fecal matter spreads — even that spot. I’m not rough, but I have to be assertive. When a Senior Helper tries to wipe his private parts and backside on the bed, like they would a baby, it doesn’t always cut it. Sometimes I have to hold his arms or legs so the Senior Helper can do it. And applying barrier cream? That’s another round of “You’re hurting me!” I don’t do it that way — not on the bed. I won’t, unless he’s bedbound.
I’ve learned that when I do it alone, it’s faster and less chaotic. I take a drill instructor approach:
“Hands on the grab bars. Face away from me. Do it now. No, now. We’re not done yet.”
He’ll try to sit down, lean back, block me — but I hold his hands out of the way and get it done.
Twice a day. Every day.
Today, our Senior Helper — a woman more than a couple of years older than me — came in feeling dizzy. I didn’t want her managing my dad in that state, so I told her to sit and rest. I’d handle the shower. I needed to check him for constipation anyway, since he had complained of pain back there while sitting on the toilet.
She watched.
Or rather, she listened. She heard.
Dad knew she was there, so he started yelling out for her to help him. That’s common — when he knows someone else is around who might intervene, he appeals to them. It’s part of the dynamic. And maybe it had been a while since she saw the full routine, because afterward, with tears in her eyes, she said:
“I’m never going to ask for help again. He was calling out to me. You didn’t have to put your finger…”
I told her to sit down and try to calm herself down. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded. I wasn’t hurting him. But yes, I had to use my finger — to check for constipation. That’s not something aides should do. That’s for nurses or family.
Her way isn’t my way. And my way isn’t hers.
But I’ve seen helpers finish a shower, pull up briefs, and leave fecal matter behind.
I’ve seen barrier cream skipped.
They demurred. They gave up.
That’s not acceptable.
There’s no “good enough” in this work.
It’s full marks or you fail — your loved one, and yourself as a caregiver.
From now on, if I have to step in and finish the job, the helper will need to leave the room.
This job isn’t easy.
When they cooperate, it’s a blessing.
When they don’t, it can sound harsh.
But it’s not cruelty — it’s necessity.
You don’t hit, punish, or shame.
But you do have to be firm.
You do have to reach in and do it.
My dad fights me more than he fights others.
He calls out for help when someone else is in the room.
But when it’s just me, he doesn’t.
That’s the dynamic. That’s the reality.
Today, like most days, I got him through it.
The yelling, the resistance, the “Let me out of here.”
Then out to the sink.
“Hands on the counter. You’re still wet. No, the towel isn’t hurting you. No, we’re not done yet.”
Then to the bed. Barrier cream. Dressing. The usual.
The 21-year-old helper gets less yelling.
But even she gets blocked and batted at.
When someone he doesn’t recognize or know well does it, he fights less.
When it’s someone he remembers — someone close — he’s less cooperative.
There’s something about familiarity that makes him resist more, not less.
Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s shame.
Maybe it’s just the way the brain rewires itself over time.
That’s just part of this world.
The caregiving world.
We are in this together.
Mark Van Dyke
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