Tenison Woods and MacKillop Centre News: Dependence on God

Once Jesus was in a certain place praying,

and when he had finished, one of his disciples said,

‘Lord, teach us to pray, just as John taught his disciples.’

Luke 11:1

As adults none of us wishes to either show or admit our dependence on others. If it is about our spouses and partners, we use words like shared responsibility, or, working together. However we word it, the research still tells us very plainly that women do most of the housework. I know, I know. The statistics are against us, if not personally, then across the entire male gender in general. In essence, while we try to avoid such words as dependence, reality suggests that we are, in fact, utterly and totally reliant on someone else filling in the gaps, or coping with everything. OK, perhaps on a good day we could call it co-dependence.

Our children, on the other hand are called dependents for a very good reason. Their welfare, their health, their education, their everything, is channeled through us. It is our responsibility, it is our lot until they start making those decisions, slowly but surely, for themselves. When we have children we become acutely aware of their needs – they need feeding, warmth, a change of clothing, sleep, play, talking to, cuddling, discipline, teaching. Those who lack this acute awareness struggle with the notion of parenting and more often than not require support. And let’s be realistic: it is not uncommon in many communities.

Luke (11:1 – 13) introduces his notion of dependence when Jesus teaches his disciples to pray. We call it the Lord’s Prayer. More appropriately it should be called Our Prayer. In this prayer, God, addressed as Father, is approached as the giver of grace and mercy. Our spiritual and physical health is dependent upon his unrestricted, unconditional generosity. We are already most favoured, we are his children. He is utterly and total aware of what we need, and Jesus tells us, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.

This is not a dependency that requires no action from us. No. Each day we must forgive our neighbours their debts, we must keep his name holy and ultimately assist in the building of his kingdom, for his will must be done. This prayer also becomes an indicator of the presence of the kingdom among us: we pray that we will be nourished by his daily bread (in the sense of the Eucharist, as well as both spiritual and physical nourishment, and as participation in a divine, heavenly banquet begun now in the present and to be completed in the eternal kingdom).

Paul, in writing to the Colossians (2:14), succinctly expresses our dependence on God: He has overridden the Law, and cancelled every record of the debt that we had to pay; he has done away with it by nailing it to the cross.

None of us needs to be carried from birth into the next life. Even dependents have obligations: to be thankful, to be cooperative, to acknowledge the work done for and on their behalf, to contribute, to encourage and to fortify the efforts made. But helpless dependency must end. It too must be nailed to the tree. Each of us needs to carry our own weight.

Peter Douglas

HEAD OF SCHOOL SERVICES, NORTH

Losing and finding Dad in dementia

by Julie Guirgis in Eureka Street

It's nearly 6pm; I'm winding down from a day's work and thinking about preparing dinner. Then Dad appears in the kitchen doorway and asks 'Am I going out today?'

Elderly man, head down in shadows. He can no longer tell the time. For him, 6pm could be 6am in the morning. 'The day is over, it's night time,' I say. 'Look outside.' I don't shout, but there's an edge to my voice. As soon as I've spoken I regret it.

Sometimes I wipe away a tear and vow to do better. But five minutes later, when he again asks 'Am I going out today?' I know I'm probably not going to succeed.

One day I walked past the bathroom and noticed a pale yellow puddle with an odour worse than an unflushed toilet. I cringed at the putrid stench, with the realisation that I had to wash urine off the floor. In that moment my life felt insignificant. Freedom, once as natural to me as breathing, is now competing with a barrage of demands.

A week later I was lounging on the bed reading, when Dad abruptly banged on the door and yelled, 'Where's Anthony?' Anthony is my intellectually handicapped brother. 'He's at the day program Dad.' He repeated the question, only this time louder: 'Where's Anthony?' I felt frustration surge through my chest and spill out my mouth. 'He's at school, Dad,' I said, louder now, too.

One minute lapsed before he repeated the question a third time. At this point I could no longer mask my rage. 'Are you dumb?' I asked, overemphasising each word. Although oblivious to the insult, he was aware of my anger, and made his anger known by banging on the door even louder.

Then he yelled out yet again, 'Where's Anthony?', pounding on the door so brashly that it sounded like a gun in a Mad Max movie. Without a bulletproof vest to protect me I felt the metal penetrate my skin. I laid there immobilised, and let out an unfamiliar scream before I burst into tears.

"'They are going to kill me if I go outside,' he cried. He became so paranoid that he thought the fridge door was a point of entry for these imaginary perpetrators."

Not long after the incident in my bedroom Dad displayed more concerning behaviour. The ugly side of dementia had once again raised havoc in his tormented head. 'They are going to kill me if I go outside,' he cried with the helplessness of a child.

His terror-filled eyes stood out against his frail, distraught face while his breath came out in ragged gasps. He became so paranoid that he thought the fridge door was a point of entry for these imaginary perpetrators. When I would open the fridge he would scream 'Shut the door,' slamming it with such force that it nearly crushed me.

Dad's illness sometimes causes ambiguous loss. It is unclear, has no resolution or closure. He is like someone I don't know anymore; he is gone-but-still-there. This leads to complicated grief. I search for Dad's familiar face, but even that has changed. His eyes that once shone are glazed with confusion and fear. I barely see a glimpse of him. I can't look at him without seeing a fading picture of who he used to be, and speak of him in the past tense.

When I reflect on who he was before, it helps me separate him from the illness. I gaze lovingly at the photos of him resting on the mantelpiece. I see a jovial man with a warm smile, who loves his family more than life itself. My impatience softens. I press the photo against my chest, closing my eyes and remembering the magical moments. Days of going to the beach, soaking the sun and fresh air, frolicking in the sand. Calmness comes over me, remembering a time when I felt safe and at peace.

Dementia can be spiteful and cruel, travelling with its hideous companions, delusions and aggression. It is an impostor trying to steal Dad away. When I am feeling strong I can push it out of the way, to find remnants of Dad. On other days I can succumb. These are the days I would gladly hand him over to someone else. Even for a few hours. Nothing prepared me for the labour of love needed to care for him. Not only did it change his personality, it changed me into a person I no longer liked.

I never envisaged it would turn out this way. Nevertheless I've taken over the reins, although they were shaking in my hands. Despite the sadness and difficulties that go with dementia, I see the paradox. I'm able to experience all the different parts of him; the vulnerable side, the childlike side, and the fighter in him. I have learned to go into his world instead of expecting him to come into mine.