Monday, July 1, 2013

Reassurance: when it’s not a good thing

I think of my father almost every day, if not every day. But this time of year, the months that coincide with his last illness and his death 16 years ago, I think of him very often.
So if I write some posts that include stories about my father, you’ll understand why.

My father, circa 1994.

It was late June or early July 1997. I was hunched down over the phone in my cubicle at work, talking with my sister-in-law.
“Do you think Daddy’s going to get better?” I asked her.
“No,” she said.
Her answer shocked me. All I could say in response was something like, “Oh.”
But I knew she had told me the truth.

I had sought reassurance from my sister-in-law, but in truth, I’d been seeking reassurance from everyone around me for weeks. I wanted someone—my mother, one of my brothers, the doctors—to tell me that my father was going to be all right.
I wasn’t interested in the truth as much as I was in being soothed and comforted so I wouldn’t have to feel the worry and anxiety that beat at me all day long into the night.
I recognize now that it was OCD making me search frantically for reassurance, making me ask question after question of the doctors or family members who had spoken with the doctors.
One of my chief forms of OCD is harm OCD, where I obsess over harm that might come to my loved ones.
I used to perform compulsions like hand washing; prayers that turned into continuous, silent chants in my thoughts; and checking to try to get rid of the anxiety about someone getting sick or dying.
I also sought reassurance from others. If others could tell me that everything was going to be all right, then I could relax. I could let go of the anxiety, even if for a while.
Besides questioning others about their health, I also sometimes depended on others to tell me that the light switch was off; the stove was turned off; there was a stick in the path, not a nail.
Seeking reassurance was a compulsion for me.
Those of us with OCD have to learn that we can’t depend on the reassurance of others to make it through anxiety.
We have to learn to be honest with ourselves: We can never be certain of everything.
Whatever drives our OCD—concerns about harm, contamination, completeness, perfection—cannot be permanently sent packing because someone else tells us it’s going to be OK.
We have to stop doing the rituals that are supposed to get rid of the anxiety.
We have to learn to deal with the anxiety. We have to learn to accept uncertainty.
It’s hard. It’s an ongoing process for me. I still prefer someone telling me that everything’s going to be all right. But I know that’s not the way to get past the grip of OCD.

On that summer day in 1997, my demand for reassurance didn’t work. My sister-in-law was a nurse aide and worked in the nursing home where my father was a patient. She had seen others in the nursing home who had grown sicker, who had died. She knew things that I didn’t, recognized things that I didn’t. I knew she was right.
My father was not going to get better.
And I had to accept that. No one could reassure me out of that.


24 comments:

  1. Great photo of your Father, I think of my Dad at least once a day, fleetingly or deeply, I'm sorry you had to experience loosing your Dad along with being assaulted by your OCD that if I understood correctly hadn't been diagnosed yet, I would think making the entire experience worse. I wonder, hard as life can be with OCD, does having a dx help make things easier?

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    1. Thank you, Lynn. I had been diagnosed by the time my father was ill and died, though I was still suffering from the effects of the disorder. I think it did help to have a diagnosis, because with that came treatment. Medication and therapy and learning how to deal with the obsessions and compulsions have helped me tremendously.

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  2. Oh Tina I do understand this when my Dad was dying I just wanted everyone to tell me he was going to be alright but I knew he was not.This is a hard thing to go through with OCD.
    That is a beautiful photo. I miss my Dad and think of him everyday, he was only 76 and I feel like it was not near long enough together. I am in a better place now as it has been almost 6 years and I worked hard to get through the worst of it. I am at peace now just as he is. HUG B

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    1. Thank you, B. I like thinking that he is at peace, too. My father was 76 when he died, too. I thought it was too young by far.

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  3. I think the message here is an important one. I have often thought that we seek reassurance as a temporary measure to fend off emotions that are inevitable. We all do it. I certainly have. Sometimes it's reassuring to NOT have any reassurance, if that makes sense. Sometimes reassurance can be unhealthy - particularly when it's only for reassurance's sake. Lovely picture of your father by the way. Looks like he was a wonderful man :)

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    1. Thank you, Keith. And yes, that does make sense. To not have reassurance makes us face whatever we're dealing with head on. We have to decide how to feel about it, how to deal with it, etc. Sometimes I think it's OK to have that temporary reassurance to get through a bad moment, but ultimately, we have to face reality.

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  4. It's hard to face that reality. Much easier to turn the other way sometimes, but in the end it you can't escape just facing it.

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    1. Thanks, Lisa. Yes, trying to escape the reality only makes it harder in the long run. It puts off the inevitable coping that we'll have to do.

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    1. Thanks, Theresa. It is a hard part of life that all have to face at some point, in some way.

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  6. HI Tina,
    I too 'fight' for reassurance. And after a while it makes feel 'crazy' and then I have more of self-dealing to work on.
    But, I can understand this time of your goal of reaching self-assurance and I think it is natural when it comes to a person of great significence in our lives. Illness and Death is a hard thing to handle.
    I like reading about the things you write.
    Blessings, Deanna

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    1. Thank you, Deanna. I agree that the more we fight for someone else to reassure us, the more work we have to do later to deal with whatever it is we're trying to avoid.

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  7. My Dad had a prolonged nursing home stay. Tough years. That is for sure.

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    1. Thank you for sharing, Sharon. I'm sorry your father was in a nursing home for a long time. It's so hard to see our loved ones there!

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  8. i will tell you, what i tell everyone i meet "you are so lucky to have had the relationship you had with your dad. to have felt his love and to miss him so dearly"

    painful as these feeling are, you are so lucky to have such wonderful memories!!

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    1. Thank you, Debbie, for reminding us of the importance of good memories. That is a wonderful thing for you to tell others!

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  9. Hi Tina, your father was a very handsome gentleman! I think it is good that people are honest. Even though it may feel better hearing that things will be alright, if it isn't reality, it is better to hear the truth, as for myself, I feel that it helps to prepare me for what is about to come. Both my parents died within one year of each other, and both in hospitals. My parents died when I was in my mid 20's and, being an only child, it was quite difficult for me to lose them so young, and so quickly between the two. I still think of my parents often, especially my father, as he and I were close and he was a very kind, loving and gentle man. I can still hear his voice today (not in reality, but what I mean is that I remember the sound of his voice)...and he died almost 30 years ago, in 1984.

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    1. Linda, thank you for sharing your story. I'm so sorry that you lost your parents so young and so close together. That must have been so difficult. I agree that honesty is the best route--it helps to prepare us for the inevitable. I can still hear the sound of my dad's voice, too.

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  10. It's interesting to read this post at this particular time.

    A few days ago, I returned home from caring for my mother, who had a complication to a medical procedure. She is getting more and more frail, and our visits are ever more precious. My parents celebrated 63 years together last Saturday, when a week before that my dad honestly thought she wouldn't make it. Mom was too weak to go out, so I made them dinner, and I felt deeply privileged to be there in that moment.

    The other family members vary in their ability to comprehend what's happening, and one in particular keeps asking for reassurance that I cannot give. I could honestly say that Mom was doing better when I left, but for how long? She and my dad have both had several visits to the emergency room this year. I just feel very, very fortunate that I have had them as long as I have.

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    1. Nadine, thank you for sharing. I'm sorry that your parents are having health difficulties. How wonderful that they've had 63 years together--and you were able to join in their celebration. I know what you mean about different family members having different perspectives.

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  11. Truth - it's a gift.
    Although, at times . . it's a challenge to see it as one . . .

    love & love,
    -g-

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    1. Thank you, Georgy. I like the way you said that--that truth is a gift. It truly is, though we don't always recognize it as such.

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  12. Tina, I think you have your dad's eyes. My father passed away four years ago this month, and I miss him more than ever. Guess it's a sad fact of life for most of us, to have to deal with our parents' deaths. I try to cherish the good memories, as I'm sure you do as well. Even without OCD, I can relate to the need for reassurance. We all desperately want to believe our loved ones will always be okay.

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    1. Thank you, Janet. I do look like my dad, except his eyes were brown and mine are blue. I'm sorry for your loss. I think the need for reassurance is universal, too. The OCD just ramps up that need sometimes.

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