I can’t say that I was excited to move back in with my mother when I was 40 years old. But it was necessary.
And it was in the script – you know the one where your life falls apart after a nasty divorce, so you move back home to recover and regroup. At least that’s why I thought I moved home.
The real reason? My mother is getting older — slowing down physically and mentally. And while she didn’t need around the clock care, she needed someone to take care of her, the way I’d seen her do for her parents.
And that’s how I became a full-time caregiver.
I cooked her meals, portioned out her meds, got her to church, choir rehearsals and doctor visits. We made each other laugh. Sometimes, she forgets to drink water, which is scary in hot summer months. She’s had a number of dehydration spells that could have ended tragically if me or my brothers weren’t nearby.
Sometimes in our quiet moments, she’d apologize for being a “burden.” I would immediately counter that caring for her wasn’t a burden but a blessing. Besides, I’ve got too many friends who would LOVE to make a plate for their mothers but can’t because she’s passed away.
Thirty something years ago, I watched my parents care for their parents in their twilight years. Caregiving is an honored tradition in our family — and even though my mother is now living in an assisted-living facility, I’m grateful that God gave me four of the most blessed years of my life.
