My father-in-law introduced me recently to the Freudian concept of the id, ego, and superego. If you are ready to skip the rest of this post already, I don’t blame you. I didn’t want to get into these concepts either. But based on my dad’s current state, and what just happened, they are really top of mind.
For psych majors out there, a word of warning: I am going to butcher this. Here goes anyway.
When we are born, we are all “id”. It’s all desire. Hunger, thirst, sleep, salt, touch. Later in life, this also includes sex. These are instinctive needs that underlie our will to live to ability to reproduce. In Judaism, this is “yetzer hara”, the evil impulse. It’s not evil per se; it’s what drives us to survive and without it, we would die. They are inseparable from us, part of the whole us.
But if human beings we all only followed these impulses, we would collapse into anarchy. So we have society, and society has rules. Different societies have different rules but many are similar. Thou shalt not kill, for example, is on one extreme. Don’t wear white after Labor Day, I would argue, is on the other. Now that I live in Wellesley, I get that not everyone would find these to be such polar opposites. These ideas are implanted in the “superego”, which is aware of society’s customs and norms.
Between what society says and what desire demands – desire never asks, it only demands – is the “ego”. The ego is the regulating force that understands when it’s time for sex and how to ask for it. It is the director of the play that decides which actors to bring on stage. Sometimes thirst is front and center and all else must cease while it has its moment in the spotlight. It is the ego that calls it onto the stage, lets it speak its lines, and then moves it off to the side. It is “yetzer hatov”, the good impulse, the part that understands that long-term love and commitment and good deeds also benefit the person demonstrating them.
It is said that as we age, we regress to what we were like when we were born. Independence starts at zero, then increases, then decreases again. So it is with my father right now. He is turning into all id, all an unquenchable and bottomless desire to get every need met at the instant he feels it. This is why he calls 20 times a day. It is why he refuses his medication; he is convinced that the people dispensing it to him are trying to kill him and his survival instinct is kicking in. Nowadays why when I don’t give him what he thinks he wants, exactly when he thinks he wants it, he will do or say anything to get it.
Hence the real purpose for this blog post. It is not about psychology. It is about the terrible things he says to me, how much I wish they didn’t hurt, and what I plan to do about it.
My father ordered an electric wheelchair on Amazon. Everyone told him not to: doctors, nurses, my brother and me, the director of the community where he lives, everyone. It was unanimous. He won’t be allowed to ride it around the halls anyway. He’s not safe to operate an electrical means of conveyance because he tends to fall asleep and doesn’t have the judgment to know whether he’s going too fast. But for him, ability to move around has reached “id” levels. So when it arrived, I asked the staff at Brookdale to send it back.
So he launched into a series of diatribes, including a long one about how I have been doing nothing but trying to steal from him. I had made a bank transfer into one of his accounts from another so that I could pay his bills, which it turns out was incontrovertible proof that I was siphoning off his money. I have made this same kind of transfer a thousand times. Didn’t matter.
Then he insisted that he has an attorney visiting tomorrow to take away my brother’s and my proxy powers. I don’t particularly enjoy making decisions like whether or not he should get an intubation tube if he has trouble breathing. Who would? But I am doing the best I can, and so is my brother.
This after a lovely morning where I organized for him with his hospice group to have a hot shower. I don’t know how much time he has left, and before it is too late, I wanted him to have the sensation of warm water rolling down his body. They needed me at one point so I helped lift him slowly while the nurses cleaned him off. I held him under his right arm and supported him and watched the beads of water run down his back.
And this after I had convinced myself that I could work from his apartment during the week and had rearranged his desk so that I could be there as often as possible. This way, when he woke up from his frequent naps, he would see me and know that he wasn’t alone.
Later I connected with the Executive Director, who is a prince of a man and has been so kind and supportive throughout the past difficult weeks. I wanted to let him know that I was concerned, and also that this same lawyer somehow had spoken with my father about suing their assisted living community. Apparently this scam is common and some unscrupulous attorneys reach out and find the vulnerable elderly to extract whatever legal fees they can before the end comes.
He could see how upset I was from how I was shaking. He has seen this movie and starred in it himself as the son of someone deteriorating into an angry id and not much more. He told me that it wasn’t really my father talking. I don’t know. I want to believe that. I want to believe that this is just id, not ego, not the man who most likely brought me into the world. I never thought I would write that sentence but I suppose it’s possible that he’s not really my father.
But it is also true that this version of the man isn’t really my father anyway. That man disappeared sometime in May or June and I never saw it happen. I fought hard to keep the universe from taking him from me, and while I wasn’t looking, it went ahead and reclaimed him anyway.
My time pondering this is almost done now; I convinced a relative to come visit him and she is on her way as I type. I realize in a moment of calm that It’s only his id and not the rest of him. I shouldn’t care about winning arguments with his id. Ids will fight to the death because they know nothing else. So really, the time for arguments is over. The time for winning is over. Now it is about honoring the man who was by dealing firmly but kindly with the man who still is.
(deleted this by mistake – sorry for the repeat)…
Back in the days of visits to my father’s old apartment, we would have a pre-agreed upon time when I’d be arriving. Then circumstances would come up. I’d get Sandwiched Man type of responsibilities, or Route 9 would back up, or once in a while, I’d be attending something fun early on a Sunday afternoon and lose track of time. A few times I even got lost in a book. So instead of walking through my dad’s door at 2pm, it might be 2:30. Normally I am a pretty punctual person but Sundays would be particularly challenging for some reason. It happens.
Eventually he got used to this, even generous about it. It’s not like he had other pressing engagements and at one point, a thousand years ago now, he was just happy to see me and spend some time together. Because he didn’t have obligations anymore, he would refer to himself as the “time millionaire”, a reference to my once having had millions in stock options back in Silicon Valley in 1999 and 2000. That ended for me as it did for most people back then, so for years, I was his “ex-millionaire” son. I didn’t think it was as funny as he did. Such was the nature of many of his jokes.
Before that transition though, in his early years of being here, he would really lay into me for being even ten minutes late. He would tell me I was unreliable, for starters. I couldn’t be counted on. I won’t continue with the adjectives and invectives thrown my way. Suffice it to say that they got to a point where even I, who until recently didn’t realize the need for shields with respect to him, had to tell him that he couldn’t talk to me that way. Maybe that is a superpower I should have developed more quickly.
The irony is that now he has no sense of time whatsoever. He calls so often during the workday that I’ve had to block his number from hitting my cellphone directly; I always get the message quickly, but after multiple days with over 20 phone calls per day, sometimes 5 calls in under 10 minutes, I had to put those shields up too. Because he is sleeping so much, day and night have lost meaning for him. He called this morning at 4:30am, a frequent occurrence.
Time has changed for me too. People frequently use the expression “taking it one day at a time”. I know what this means now. I have to pace myself differently, slow things down, remember to conserve energy.
If you’ve been a caregiver, you know that conserving energy actually burns a lot of energy. Usually by the evenings, I am pretty tired from trying hard not to get tired.
Also, I am remembering the days I spent sitting with him at his desk instead of crouched over his bed. In those days, the biggest problem we’d have is that the YouTube classical music playlists that he created on his iPad hadn’t transferred correctly to his AppleTV. He would insist that I stock his refrigerator with beer so that I could have one while I sat with him for an hour or more and tell each other stories. Now he gets winded after less than 10 minutes.
I know that was only 2 months ago. But it feels like 4 years. I don’t know yet how to characterize the 4 years that we’ve been together. Ask me 4 years from now, I guess.
The last time shift is that our time together is finite now. I always knew it was true and never thought about this much before. It didn’t seem to matter. Now it pops into my head constantly, and I find myself trying to suppress it on most occasions. Too much to do and for all I know, it could be months. My father has cheated death so many times before that it’s hard to imagine that he won’t hold him off longer now than the doctors reasonably think he could. But sometimes I let myself drift a bit, and into thinking about what time must be like for him now, and into how to make to the most of it.