About eight years ago, not long after Mom had been diagnosed, I was in a production of Shakespeare’s King Lear. I was still living in fear and denial, still mentally fighting the disease. Needless to say, it wasn’t working. Quite the opposite: it was interfering with my work.
If you don’t recall the story of King Lear, it’s basically this: a powerful king is getting older, maybe a tiny bit impulsive, and decides he wants to have all the perks of being a ruler but none of the responsibilities. He’s going to divide his kingdom among his three daughters, and visit each of them in turn, letting them wine and dine him while they do the work of running the country. To determine how the kingdom will be split, he calls everybody together in a big family meeting and drops a bombshell:
Tell me, my daughters . . .
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
Yes, you heard right. The king is giving out valuable territory and pitting his daughters against each other for the biggest parcel. Clearly this is not going to end well.
The oldest daughter, Goneril, is happy to exaggerate and flatter her father, and she’s rewarded with a large slice of the kingdom. The middle child, Regan, out-flatters her older sister and gets an equally grand inheritance. Only the youngest and most faithful daughter, Cordelia, insists on telling her father the truth: she loves him as much as she should, and she’s grateful for everything he’s done for her, but she won’t flatter him.
Lear explodes, banishing Cordelia. Then he divides the kingdom between the Goneril and Regan and stomps off in a rage. The whole family, the whole kingdom, is turned upside down. And it’s only act one. I won’t go into everything that follows, but let me assure you . . . it’s not pretty.
It’s eight years ago. My caregiving journey has barely begun. I’m doing King Lear. My mother has early-stage dementia, my sister is bringing her to a matinee, and I’m playing Goneril, who is about to (a) betray her parent’s trust and (b) descend into a vicious, fatal rivalry with her sister.
I’m a nervous wreck. With my mother and sister in the audience and Mom’s dementia constantly on my mind, I struggle to concentrate, literally shaking through some scenes. The whole play seems to be about sisters and demented parents. I hear myself (as Goneril) saying to Lear what every frustrated, impatient caregiver-in-denial wants to say to a parent with dementia:
I would you would make use of that good wisdom,
Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away
These dispositions, that of late transform you
From what you rightly are. . . .
I do beseech you
To understand my purposes aright:
As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
Later I hear Regan use her father’s disease as an excuse to strip away his dignity and agency:
O, sir, you are old.
Nature in you stands on the very verge
Of her confine: you should be ruled and led
By some discretion that discerns your state
Better than you yourself.
And finally there’s our father, King Lear, at the breaking point, cursing both of us in desperation:
You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!
You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,
As full of grief as age; wretched in both!
If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts
Against their father, fool me not so much
To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,
And let not women’s weapons, water-drops,
Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags,
I will have such revenges on you both,
That all the world shall–I will do such things,–
What they are, yet I know not: but they shall be
The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep;
No, I’ll not weep:
I have full cause of weeping; but this heart
Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws,
Or ere I’ll weep. O fool, I shall go mad!
I shall go mad.
There it was: everything I feared for my mother — for myself — captured in four little words.
I made it through that performance, somehow. I’m pretty sure I skipped an important monologue. Thanks to my brilliant fellow actors, the audience still got a powerful show, but I was wrecked. Something had to give. I had to stop living in fear.
Eventually, six years later, I had enough distance and perspective to use that disaster as the basis for my first conference presentation, about how my work as an actor had in fact prepared me for caregiving. I’d like to share those thoughts with you, so I’m adapting them for the blog. I’ll put them out in sections over the next couple of weeks, while I keep working on my next presentation. (I’ll also publish info about the conference for those who are interested.)
As Shakespeare would say — more anon.