The self-sufficient, autonomous individual is at the heart of America's
economic and political institutions. But some people are legitimately
dependent on others. Children are profoundly, if temporarily, dependent
on their parents. The elderly and the sick are dependent on others. The
seriously disabled, and the mentally ill are permanently dependent.
The problem of the legitimately dependent can not be finessed or argued
away. There is no possible reconstruction of the social, economic and
political system that will eliminate the helplessness of infancy. The
experience of illness and old age, while not universal, are widespread.
This kind of temporary or partial dependency is both legitimate and
unavoidable.
The only way to eliminate the powerlessness of illness and old age would be
to execute people at the first sign of infirmity. This ubiquity of
unavoidable helplessness points to the possibility that dependency is not
peripheral to the social order, but is somehow central to it.
I maintain that we are afraid to look too closely at dependent people
because they remind us that our own independence is fragile. The rational
faculty is a gift that allows us to think and to choose, which in turn,
makes our freedom and autonomy possible. But our rationality is not a
necessary fact about us; any one of us could get a bump on the head that
would make us radically dependent on others. This is why we should not
view our rationality or independence as the source of our value or dignity as
persons. It is also a mistake to view people exclusively in terms of what
they do for us, unless we expand our understanding of service. ...
A few years ago, I had the opportunity to find out just what kind of
unconventional service the radically dependent person can provide for us.
My husband's mother became seriously ill. She was diagnosed with breast
cancer, at about the same time that we (finally) realized that she had
Alzheimer's. Her judgement, her memory and her ability to take care of
herself were deteriorating rapidly, at exactly the time that her illness
made her even more needy. We told ourselves that we wanted to honor her
independence as long as possible. That was only part of the truth. We also
did not really want to admit that the mind of this wonderful person was
fading away before our eyes. It finally became clear to us that she
needed to move in with us.
Our son and daughter got to help take care of Grandma during those last
six months of her life. She was a lovely, delightful person, easy to take
care of. I made a game of it for the kids. I would summon them by clapping my
hands and calling, "Elves, I need some elves. Grandmama needs a tissue,"
or whatever it was she needed. The kids would come running, tumbling over
themselves to be the first one to bring Grandma whatever it was. She
never failed to laugh at this, and the kids never failed to be pleased with
themselves.
Grandma took a turn for the worse while my son and I were away on a trip
to Switzerland and Washington D.C. My husband called us to tell us to be
prepared for the worst. When we got home, it was unusually hot and humid,
and the family was keeping wet towels around Grandma's neck, and trying
to feed her ice chips to suck on. Nico went right to her room, and began
talking to her about our trip. She couldn't say much, but she smiled at him. I
stayed with her, and watched as the kids went outside to play together.
Nico showed his sister his favorite souvenirs, a noisy cow horn from
Switzerland, and a kazoo in the shape of a duck's beak from "D.C. Ducks."
These kids just happened to play right outside Grandma's window, where
she could see and hear them. She was happy just to watch them and listen to
their noise. They just happened to bring their board game into Grandma's
room and play at the foot of her bed. I didn't tell them to do it. They
didn't talk about what they were doing. But it was obvious: they wanted
to be near Grandma because it would make her happy to see them there.
Somehow, the two of them intuited that it was good for them to be near a dying
woman whom they loved.
It might seem that they were doing her a service, and that she got all
the benefits in this situation. She plainly took pleasure just in being close
to these children. She didn't look very good, in fact, her appearance was
alarming. She was dying, she couldn't do anything for herself. She would
never be able to do anything for them.
But she did give them something: They got to know that they were of
value to her, simply by being there. They didn't have to do anything to be
important to her and be loved by her. They got to have the experience of
being valued simply because they exist. That is as close to unconditional
love as a person can get this side of heaven.
Surely, this experience of unconditional love is crucial for the
foundation of a healthy personality, and sense of self-worth. Certainly, that is how
a mother wants her children to feel. What could I have done that could
convey that message any more powerfully than their grandmother did on her
deathbed?
This is ultimately the contribution of the dependent to the rest of us:
they teach us how to love, and be loved.
This is a brief extract from "Making Room in the Inn: Why We
Need the Needy," available in its
entirety through ISI Books (the imprint of the
Intercollegiate Studies Institute) as part of their volume,
Wealth,
Poverty and Human Destiny.
