“Hold on a minute,” he continues as he rests the phone on his lap. I know what he’s doing. He’s taking his hearing aids out so he can “hear better on the phone.” This is code for me. I need to make a trip to see him.
Having elderly parents opens up a whole new world our younger selves could have never imagined. There doesn’t seem to be a guide book to help prepare for the patience, the humility and the unexpected responsibility to just show up as our parents age. When my kids were younger, I carried pacifiers, snacks, and diaper bags. Now, I carry with me supplies to repair my dad’s hearing aids. When he deems hearing is better without them, it’s time to visit his assisted-living residence.
My dad is 89 years old. I’d call him a simple guy. He’s never been one to acquire the stuff of life. His quest for financial acquisition has been nominal. He’s never been impressed with fancy cars or golf clubs. Value, to him, is being with others. Give him a piano and audience, and the room filled with toe-tapping music and sing-along tunes. Now that he’s in the twilight years and the magic of his piano fingers has dimmed, there are few lifelines which provide the opportunity to engage with people. Other than his rolling walker, the possessions of most value are his hearing aids.
The volume of my dad’s TV is cranked so high I can tell who the guest is on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” as I turn the corner toward his room. Knocking is futile. I know he won’t hear. Yet as I enter his room, his delight in seeing me, and the reach of his arm to embrace me, ignites a hearing of the heart. I sit on his walker, which doubles as the guest chair in his austere room.
I point to his ears. It’s our sign language for “let me fix your hearing aids.” I figure this is better than alarming the nearby nurses with my stadium-shouting voice. I have a pocket in my purse dedicated to the business of helping my dad hear better. Little pebble-sized batteries that are hard to find should they fall to the floor; a brush to clear any debris; and tiny channel replacements with unknown purpose are stocked with me always. After some diagnostic tinkering and some fresh batteries, the familiar high-pitched ring indicates these links to interaction are back in working order. In other words, my dad can hear again.
“Ah, now we’re in business,” he says, replacing the squealing devices back in his ears. He giggles in delight. I know his world comes alive for him once again.
It’s a good reminder for me. Clearing the pathways toward listening is the greatest gift we can give one another. Also, every time I’m with my dad, I’m reminded that the simple things give the most joy. I lower the volume of the TV; I rest my arms on the walker handles, and settle in as he says, “So, tell me what’s new.”
Anne Marie Romer is one of our regular community contributors.
There doesn’t seem to be a guide book to help prepare for the patience, the humility and the unexpected responsibility to just show up as our parents age.
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