I learned a new word.
Perseverate.
To repeat something insistently or redundantly. To get stuck, to ruminate, to loop back over and over. And over.
As in, “My 91-year-old mother perseverated.”
My mom passed away a year ago. But I’m still haunted by echoes of her three looping ruminations. And my robotic responses.
“I’m going blind.”
“I’m so sorry you have blurry vision, Mom. But all your eye sub-specialists have told us you have one healthy eye and you’re not going blind. No matter what, we will take care of you.”
“I guess I’ll eat that and get fat. I used to watch my weight, but I just don’t care anymore.”
“Mom, remember the doctor ordered you to gain weight because you were way too thin and it was bad for your health and brain. You’re still so tiny but I’m glad you’re healthier.”
“It is hell getting old. Why doesn’t God just take me now?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I know it’s hard, but we’re glad you’re here with us.”
It’s like a broken record in an alternate universe. When you say this, I say this.
Over and over and over again.
Those perseverations crushed me. There was nothing I could do to help her.
It makes me wonder what I will perseverate about in a few years.
It’s in my DNA. I too deal with doubts, cynicism, negative self-image, and fears for my health, family, and aging. My unfiltered ruminations will be filled with apologies and worries.
“I am so sorry for taking all your time and causing you all this trouble.”
“Are you okay? Have I made you angry?”
“How are my kids? Are they safe?”
I had lots of time to observe the different personalities in Mom's retirement village. Everybody has customized ruts. I’m trying to re-groove my brain now so when it inevitably falls into ruts, they will be these:
Gratitude
To rearrange my DNA of gloom and doom, I keep a daily gratitude journal and snap iPhone photos of small happies. I try to express thanks in concrete ways to people around me. I say “I love you” whenever I can (a tiny bit less enthusiastically than Buddy the Elf). I picture myself in the nursing home with the staff saying, “Watch out, here comes the hugger.”
Wonder
I fear bitterness more than blindness. Even as my eyesight fails, I want to live in wonder. To pay attention, clap at all the small, beautiful details in creation, and embed the truth of God’s steadfast love deep in my soul. as I face the unavoidable suffering, The nursing home staff will roll their eyes and point at me, “There’s that crazy lady clapping at a caterpillar again.”
Compassionate Curiosity
I want to know people’s stories, not to be intrusive, but to understand and connect. I want to keep asking “after them,” and find ways to affirm them. The folks caring for me will be disappointed if I don’t ask, “How can I pray for you?”
JESUS
I want to end up like the joke about the Sunday School answer. It’s always Jesus. I have been around old saints who weep as they whisper the name of Jesus. O Lord, help me to love you more and more.
Ruminating and perseverating about Jesus? That gives me hope as I age. Because each day it means I'm one day closer to home.
And I too will be saying, “O Lord, take me now!”
Many of you also care for aging parents or perseverating “loopers.” It’s hard. Maybe like me, it surfaces all sorts of fears of what it will be like when you reach that stage. May God be with you.
If it’s inevitable that we will end up in a rut of rumination, what do you want to ruminate on?