Washington
DC
I visited with Gordon Cosby, our 95 year-old
pastor. He is dying and seems to be
looking forward to it. We were talking
about the deep similarities between what he was learning from dying and I from
my Alzheimer’s. My memory being what it is, I can’t remember his exact words, but he said something like: There is no
shame, no humiliation. I recognized the
words as something the apostle Paul wrote, referring to himself, calling
himself the lowest of human beings yet finding strength in his weakness. I’d sort of believed it before, but I always
tacked on at least an implicit “to those who love the Lord,” mostly to qualify
the concept so it wouldn’t apply to me.
But Gordon didn’t tack on anything, just: There is no shame, no
humiliation.
I believe it now.
With this disease much of my fear of humiliating myself has
shriveled. When I do something outrageous
(like add 24,000 non-existent dollars to my church budget projections), I apologize
and refer in some way to my deteriorating mind.
Most people seem to accept it and the conversation moves forward. They understand that I’m doing the best I can
and that these kinds of things are just going to happen in Alzheimer’s. I’m still embarrassed, I suppose, but I no
longer feel humiliated (as I would if I hadn’t made my diagnosis
public), but this illness has given me the great gift of acceptance. I am who I am; these things happen and
they’re going to get worse. I feel no
shame, no humiliation.
But wouldn’t it have been just as true thirty years
ago in the prime of my life? As a young
physician, I aborted a live, wanted fetus that I had mistakenly thought was
dead in utero. (I wrote about it in my
book, Healing the Wounds). There was indeed
need to ask forgiveness from the parents; there was need to learn everything I
could from the mistake and why it happened; there was need for self-examination
into my own weaknesses to see how they contributed; and there was need to
acknowledge my error publicly and not hide behind doctor-privilege. All those I did. But there was no need to for shame or
humiliation, no need to see myself as bad, no need to divorce myself from the
community.
Mistakes are part of being human; they’re part of
being a doctor; and they’re part of being me.
It used to irritate me when old people, perhaps well into
their retirement, would do what I’m doing now and announce their latest
philosophical or spiritual discovery. I should have taken more time to smell the
roses. More time for relationships. I shouldn’t have been so anxious or concerned
about what other people thought of me.
The implication always was: And so should you. It's easy for you to talk, I would complain to myself. I’ve got a wife, kids, a medical
practice. Smell the roses, indeed.
Yes, it is easy for me as a guy with Alzheimer’s to write
about this. That’s the point. The importance of letting go of shame and
humiliation isn’t a great philosophical discovery; Buddha was saying it 2500
years ago, as was Jesus. Alcoholics Anonymous
has also discovered that shame and humiliation don’t help in getting sober;
it’s the love and forgiveness of the AA community that makes sobriety possible.
I’m not the first one to think about it.
But just because it’s easy for me to say doesn’t mean
it’s not true. Thirty years ago there
were so many other pressures on me, so many others expectations. How could I not feel shame after doing something like that? But the reality, that there is no need for humiliation, was the same. It
wouldn’t have been easy; probably it would have been impossible, given who I was
then. Perhaps I might have been able to
recognize the truth intellectually, but actually integrating
it into it in my life would have been an extraordinary challenge. So I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m simply saying that shame and humiliation
are a waste of time and soul, and we should do what we can to let them go,
whatever letting go may mean in our circumstances.
I’ve been happier these last 4½ months than at almost
any time in my life. I’ve been given a
great gift of letting go of much that made me unhappy.
Through your experiences, I hope to learn much more of what my grandfather lived through so I can better understand his last years of life. Seeing from your eyes and talking about it clinically is something I will treasure. Thank you Dr Hilfiker for sharing in the way you are. I will be there as long as you are.
ReplyDeleteLoving Grandson FLA.
Thanks for writing. As we go along, I hope you will share some of your stories of your grandfather both painful and joyful.
DeleteDavid