Lesson from a professional: Let’s keep that left hand strong
Jazz pianist Brad Mehldau didn’t always play jazz. His piano lessons featured a typical classical repetoire until he was 13, when he left the classics to go “headlong into jazz.” But by the time he was 19, he told Fresh Air producer Sam Briger, his left hand wasn’t as strong as it had been six years earlier. His jazz playing to that point had been all about the melodies created by the right hand while the left hand mainly just played chords and kept the rhythm. He wanted to regain the “fluidity” in his left hand that had weakened while he ignored it.
“And then did you start incorporating more complicated left-hand movements within your playing in jazz?” the interviewer asked him.
“Yeah,” the Grammy-Award-winning artist replied. “That kind of happened intuitively and naturally.”
The conversation made me think about my own left hand, so to speak, the part of myself I could ignore if I’m not careful, while giving myself to caregiving. Mehldau’s playing rose to virtuoso level when he decided to exercise both hands. Caregivers can continue to be whole people if they will use all their gifts, if they will pursue at least some of the passions that drove them before illness intruded.
Respite and perspective
A friend wrote me about a woman he knows whose husband had a stroke five years ago. In all that time she has been his constant and only caregiver. “She has worn herself to a frazzle because she thinks no one else can do it as well as she can,” he wrote.” Her own physical problems may be her undoing, he told me. “Their sons need to intervene, but I’m not sure she will let them.”
I’m trying to do better than that. On the advice of a friend, I invited a professional caregiver to help us one afternoon a week. She and Evelyn had already formed a warm bond together at church. “Use her now, before you think you need her,” my friend said. That was about a year ago. When she comes these days, I leave to eat lunch with a friend or run errands or sit at Starbucks with my editing—one afternoon I went to the movie! The weekly respite has become a godsend.
Another of Evelyn’s friends offered to come one morning a week so I could continue the volunteering I’ve done for years. If she’s unavailable, she arranges for yet another friend who’s eager to help by taking her place. These Friday mornings put me in touch with interesting volunteers as well as with those we’re serving whose needs I wouldn’t trade with mine. The perspective helps me stay grounded.
Limits and balance
At first, I wanted to think all this help wasn’t necessary. These good people wash dishes or do the laundry while I’m out, and sometimes I notice how I (or Evelyn!) would have done it differently. It doesn’t matter. The “left hand” of my personal development is more important than the “right hand” agility that always puts the casserole dishes where they belong or folds the towels the way we fit them into the linen closet. I need the help they’re giving more than I want to admit. Like the pianist practicing scales with his left hand, I’m trying to develop the discipline of knowing my own limits.
Photo by Sladjana Karvounis on Unsplash
And, to be sure, there ARE limits. I can’t do everything. Every week I see an opportunity to serve we might have grabbed before Evelyn’s illnesses. Every month I turn my back on a concert or a trip I’d love to enjoy, but can’t. I think about friends we would have invited for dinner, and outings we would have enjoyed together. Practicing the left hand doesn’t ignore all the essential melodies the right hand absolutely must tend to.
Finding balance here is a challenge. And, although Evelyn’s diagnosis is almost four years old, I know in some ways I’m still a novice. Her care will likely become more and more consuming as the journey continues. I may look back on this in a year or two and say, “Oh, Mark, you just had no idea.”
A question and a commitment
So I’ll make this post a marker calling my attention to a commitment I think is vital. God gave us two hands. We do well to keep both of them in good shape. My mission these days is to be a caregiver, but caregiving dare not become my identity.
A longtime friend has written to say he wonders, “Who will I be?” if he outlives his wife whose care these days consumes him.
“Since you’ve mentioned this to me at least twice,” I wrote him, “I’m thinking this is a concern weighing heavily on you.” That’s good, I guess, because it’s a question for every caregiver.
What does God want me to offer the world today with the two-handed strength he gave me? Answering that may protect me against concentrating so much on the “right-hand” duties of caregiving that I allow the rest of my persona and potential to atrophy.
