Even with tiny red capes at my ankles, I’d never be a Superman

We saw something new at the chili parlor Saturday night. The waiter was wearing Superman socks.

They were primary blue, featuring the familiar yellow and red “S” logo riding just above his shoelaces. But that wasn’t the best part. A two-inch band of the same bright red bordered the top of each sock, stitched at the back with a tiny red cape, hanging above his ankle and fluttering to the top of his shoe.

“Is everything good here?” he asked after our food had been delivered.

“Oh, just fine,” I answered, and then felt compelled to say more as he turned to leave. “And so are your socks!” I hollered after him.

He came back, his expression displaying an air of quiet confidence.

“Here’s what I tell all my customers,” he said. “I wear these socks because the manager thinks I can do everything.” And then he was off, to get at it.

The man never stopped bustling the whole time we were there, from table to table to beverage station to dirty dish tray to the chrome order-pickup counter. It may not have been everything, but the energy he gave to so many tasks was way more than enough. They should buy those Superman socks for him.

Socks for the man who does ‘everything’

I came home to discover they sell them at (where else?) Amazon. And I got to thinking that most caregivers I hear about deserve to have a pair for themselves. (By the way, even with this link, no I do NOT want some for myself, in case some reader’s pity is piqued.)

We caregivers do everything: Meal planning. Grocery shopping. Food preparing. Tidying. Laundry. Bed making. Mess cleaning. Medicine monitoring. Tidying. Floor sweeping. Outfits choosing. Bedtime negotiating. Trying to engage or enrich or entertain.

And I mentioned tidying, right?

Answering questions that don’t quite make sense. Repeating information that’s been shared before. Finding an acceptable TV show and being willing to pause it more than once or just give up watching it altogether. Reminding, directing, correcting.

Communicating with doctors and caregivers who help us. Monitoring bathroom breaks and showers. Finding jewelry and lipstick and a comb whose use may or may not make a difference.

On second thought, maybe I should get a pair of those socks, but not to wear. I could frame ‘em to remind myself that I’m doing a pretty good job. It’s OK if I fall asleep during the 10 o’clock news. And when people ask me if they can help, I serve everybody well to take a breath and say yes.

 Truth for the guy who sometimes fails

And sometimes “everything” is still not enough. Another afternoon this week I left Evelyn resting on the couch in the living room while I went to work outside on the deck. I was feverishly scrubbing green algae off the redwood boards when my next-door neighbor appeared. Her head popped through the patio door, from inside the house.

“Hi, Mark,” she said. “We had a wanderer at our front door,” she explained before I could ask why she was there. “I brought Evelyn back home and turned on the TV for her to watch. Can I close the garage door?”

I murmured yes, and she reappeared in a moment to say Evelyn was fine. And then we chatted about her sons and my landscaping and the weather as if this were a typical backyard visit.

“Thanks so much,” I said.

I didn’t say “I’m sorry.” I didn’t tell her I was embarrassed.

I didn’t add, “This has never happened before. She’s wandered when I’ve been gone, and so I don’t leave her alone. She’s never walked out of the house like this when I was here. I thought she was safe.”

I didn’t tell her, “I’m doing my best. I couldn’t bear one more day looking at that ugly green growing up the spindles beneath the banister. I’ve been with her all day, and I haven’t been out here that long!”

Instead, I just said thanks, and she left as though this sort of thing happens to everybody all the time.

Very kind of her. But it made me sad in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

Truth for a time when the leap falls short

In spite of leaping so many tall buildings at a single bound, I had landed this time to see again that I’m really no Superman. In the life of a caregiver, there’s no such thing as “everything.” The quiet patience we need is less dramatic than “the speed of a flying bullet.” The consistent care we deliver is “more powerful than a locomotive.” But Alzheimer’s can be our kryptonite, and sometimes we’ll forget or fail or falter.

Superman is for the comics, or the movies, or a pair of $13 socks. But for this caregiver, he’s a model I just need to forget about.

Photo by SIphotography at istockphoto.com