I stand at her left, my right hand gripped tightly around her gait belt.

Holding onto her pink cane, she takes one laborious step after another. Sometimes rocking back on her heels and I have to steady her with the belt, cue her forward until she regains her balance. “Cane,” she says, and places the cane ahead of her. “Left,” she swings her left foot forward, deliberately trying not to drag it. “Right,” she whispers a little out of breath, then carefully places that foot in front of the other.

 photo IMG_3737_zps4plcslhe.jpg

Cane, left, right. Cane, Left, Right. That is the mantra. And she is getting better at walking. But it is a herculean effort. It takes courage every time. She has to trust the one holding onto her. She has to suppress her anxieties. There is no standing up on her own, no going to the bathroom by herself, no walking alone. Her fall risk is too great. But to see improvement, she has to keep trying, keep walking, keep going to therapy.

Together we slowly make the trek out of the bathroom and into the family room where she will lower herself onto the couch, heave a sigh of relief, and request shredded wheat with blueberries for breakfast.

My Dad is in Houston visiting my brother and his family. A much needed respite from the full-time work of caregiver. I am so glad he is there. Glad he can rest, celebrate Father’s Day with his Texan grandkids, and enjoy driving through Oklahoma and Kansas (not everyone enjoys driving through flatlands, but this is his favorite kind of trip). He listens to audio books and stops for kolaches.

My sisters and I have been taking care of Mom. I’ve been staying there the last three days and nights. We sleep with a monitor so we can hear her when she wakes and needs to go to the bathroom. Sometimes her legs begin to twitch and jerk so I sit on the edge of her bed and massage them, hoping she will be able to fall back asleep.

Yesterday we tackled the task of bathing. She sat down awkwardly on the plastic bench that is suctioned to the tub floor. Getting her seated is one thing. But spinning her body forward and lifting her legs into the tub, when she has no real use of her left hand, is another. We laugh. A lot.

I sponged warm water over her head, washed her hair. Then I scrubbed her top half, rinsed off the soap, and dried her so she could stay warm. Then I did the same for the lower half.

It is quite something to take care of your mother. To be the parent when you were once the child. It is humbling for her, for all of us. To be reduced like this. To be so dependent. And yet there is something sacred about pouring water over her back, helping her dress, tying her shoes, combing her short hair, and winding spaghetti onto her fork. These are things I did for my babies. Things she did for me.

She is teary some nights as I tuck her into bed. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That you have to take care of me and spend your time like this.” I rub her arm and hold her hand. “Mom,” I say, and all of my sisters feel the same, “We are so happy to do this. It’s a privilege for us. It really is.”

I’ll admit, it is no easy thing juggling my own kids’ schedule, feeling schizophrenic as I drive from her house to mine to get kids up for swimming or tennis, run two to sewing class, clean up breakfast, start a load of laundry, then zip back in time to get Mom to the bathroom. But as the days stack up, so does the sweetness of it.

Caregiving like this is intimate. It is tender. And while our hours together are insular, and consist mostly of walking, bathroom facilities, and food prep, they are still happy. Because she is so grateful. She is so cheerful.

Occasionally we have an adventure. Like Monday when we went to the nail salon. It was total hilarity getting her into my car after her pedicure. We had no curb to use and the seat was a bit too high for her to sit on so she kept slipping off, slithering down. My oldest was pulling on her gait belt with all her might and I was hugging her thigh, heaving her lower body onto the passenger seat, stuffing her legs in as quickly as I could, like a jack-in-the-box I didn’t want to escape. At one point when she was nearly horizontal, her head on the driver’s seat, her body about to slide off, I lost it. I began to laugh. I was laughing so hard I could barely hold her in place, let alone stand myself up. Somehow we pulled it together and got her upright.

When she was finally belted in, we looked at each other and I said, “You don’t have to go to the bathroom, do you?” “Nope!” she replied triumphantly. “Oh, Hallelujah!” I said. “We’re going to get a Slurpee.” It was 102° outside and we were a sweaty mess.

Laughter is always the best medicine.

Tuesday night I surprised (or rather terrified) her by poking my head into the bathroom while wearing her wig. She shrieked, then couldn’t stop chuckling. “You look like me!” she laughed. We took a photo, tears at the corners of our eyes for laughter, and she muttered, “That is so weird.”

 photo IMG_8035_zpsmwlmrx3e.jpg

Mom, I know your body does not feel strong; it doesn’t do what you want it to, when you want it to. But your heart is bigger than all of that. Your spirit is stronger than that. And while this new life is harder than any of us could have imagined, it is still life. And you are still here. We are able to laugh, hug each other, and share burdens with you. You can’t tend your garden, plant your flowers, or walk Wander Lane anymore, but we can still feel the warmth of your skin, the squeeze of your hand, find wisdom in your words. We hear faith flowing out of your voice, see joy in your face, and we are better when we are around you.

I know I tease you about eating all your broccoli before you can have a cookie. I cut your food into small pieces, fill your glass kid-full out of habit, and don’t believe you when you say you flossed in less than 15 seconds. But despite this reversal of roles, you are still my mother. A relationship eternal. A need you will forever fill.

Last night Spencer said in his prayers, “I’m so grateful we can take care of Grandma.” And my heart grew with understanding. We are doing something special. Something divine. Something that reveals love in the most unusual places. And it is an honor to do it. To care for you, Mom. As you so diligently cared for us.

Love you, Mom.


Continue reading at the original source →