Trouble Shaving

Grandpa has struggled with shaving for a long time. Before I came to care for him he was forcefully switched from a razor to a cordless electric razor both for his own safety when shaving himself, and so if someone else had to shave him it wouldn’t be unduly difficult. Grandpa will usually shave every other day or so, and has good days and bad days. Sometimes it seems like how well he manages with his shaving is a litmus for how the rest of the day will proceed.

Shaving is a struggle for Grandpa–turning on the shaver, using it on his face, and cleaning it when he is done. I try to help him as much as he needs, but not too much more. I try to have mercy on him and fetch the shaver and clean it for him, but for the sake of his dignity I bite my tongue and restrain myself while he fumbles with trying to turn it on, and struggles to actual shave himself. He is intimately aware that turning on the shaver is a pathetically simple thing that he should be able to do and to blantly come in and do it for him feels like something of a put-down, even if it would save him a lot of frustation.

But eventually the cruel realities of life collide head-on with Grandpa’s struggle for dignity. Sometimes for all of his efforts he cannot get the blasted shaver to turn off and must let me help. And finally, yesterday, he couldn’t shave himself.

For months Grandpa has face the intermittent problem of shaving the wrong thing. It started before I was here–the first confusion was, I think, shaving the man in the mirror. That is a funny mistake to witness (and you try very hard not to laugh) but that particular confusion is not very surprising. It’s not a total detachment from reality–some part of his mind has simply flipped around and you simply need to gently coax him back around to shaving not the guy in the mirror but himself. His problem with shaving the right thing has progressed from that point. On his best days he still can shave himself, but on his worst days he now will try to shave objects which have no relation to shaving.

Yesterday morning he said he wanted to shave so I fetched him the cordless shaver and the little table mirrior he uses. I immediately knew this wasn’t going to be a good day because when I set the shaving equipment down in front of him at the kitchen table and then moved something out of the way (maybe it was the sugar bowl) he reached out his hands and said, “Wait . . . I need to . . . reach all the stuff.” He looked across the table as if he saw many things he needed for his shaving.

I directed his attention back to the mirrior and shaver and he followed my prompting but he proceed with the peculiar method of someone who is following instruction that he doesn’t full comprehend, and whose mind is someplace else entirely. Proceeding to prove my observation correct, he picked up the shaver, turned it on, and then took his empty coffee mug and proceeded to shave it.

“Grandpa, that isn’t going to work very well.”

“I know,” Grandpa said, in a matter-of-fact tone that showed he didn’t understand what he was doing, or what I said, at all.

“You’re going to have a hard time finishing you’re shaving that way,” I prompted.

“I’m getting there,” he said, working the shaver head around the mug.

“It’s a mug. A cup, Grandpa. You don’t want to shave that.”

I think he vaugely grasped that I had said a negative, the dreaded “Don’t” but he still didn’t grasp what I was getting at. He rather confusedly put down the mug which I quickly took and removed from his reach (noticing that he had made the exterior of the mug hot by running the clipper blades over it).

“Hey,” Grandpa said. “Where are you–I need–”

“You don’t want to shave that, Grandpa,” I said. “You want to shave your face.”

At that point I think he finally realized he was screwing up, or at least finally knew I thought he was screwing up, even though he still couldn’t figure out all the whys. He stopped and held out the shaver and said woodenly, “You want to shave me?”

“No,” I said. “You can do it. You just need to get started.” So I started the shaver on his cheek and then guided him to using it. For the moment it looked like he was back on track.

I got up from the table to take care of something else in the kitchen, but by the time I reached the counter and turned around to check on Grandpa he had finished half of his cheek and had moved on to shaving the table. “Grandpa, that’s not going to work,” I said.

“Why,” he asked, continuing to meticiously move the shaver around in a circle.

At this point Grandma looked up from her spot at the table and took notice of what was going on, and promptly started laughing. There is nothing that cuts through Grandpa’s confusion faster than laughter. If he knows nothing else, he knows when he is being laughed at. You can carry on a deadpan conversation with him about the most absurd things, and extract him from the most embarrassing situations without fuss if you simply respond as if there was nothing particular unusal about what was going on. But laugh the least little bit and that cuts sure and swift right to Grandpa’s heart. He might not know what, or how, but he knows laughter. I admit that sometimes it is very hard to not laugh, and on occasion I will have to quickly excuse myself from the room to laugh quietly elsewhere until the impulse has faded and I can return to dealing seriously with Grandpa and his troubles. But Grandma cannot control herself as well, and sometimes seems to have no interest in even resisting the urge to laugh at Grandpa. In this case she began to alternately laugh and give him instructions about how and what he was supposed to shave.

Grandpa, of course, couldn’t understand. “What do you mean I’m not supposed to shave this? How–What–But–” And as Grandma continued to laugh and give directions he finally just Gave Up. So I came over and took the shaver, sat down, and shaved his face for him. It stopped Grandma’s laughing, and saved Grandpa from the struggle of trying to figure out how to shave.