Years ago, when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, it never occurred to me that I would eventually need to take care of her. At the time, she was just 65 years old. My father was 73. They were healthy adults, like myself, who lived their own lives and managed things just fine. I had no real involvement in their healthcare or their finances and there was no real reason for me to start. Of course I sat with my dad during my mother’s lumpectomy to offer moral support, and I checked in with my mom regularly about her progress and medications, but that was really it. After a five year course of medication she was declared cancer free.

Three more years, when her breast cancer made a reappearance, my parents were a little older and perhaps a little more concerned, but still had absolutely no intention of enlisting my help. I accompanied my mother to a single oncologist appointment solely as a second set of ears, showing up with laptop in tow for taking notes which promptly pissed off the doctor. (He was defensive and clearly didn’t appreciate my sudden presence and I admit I may have been a wee bit too aggressive in my approach). My mother, a naturally anxious woman anyway, was clearly uncomfortable with the extra layer of complexity that my presence created and not wanting to create new problems, I backed off …

… until another three years later when Mom began bumping into doorways and suffered a drop-fall. When these early indicators that the cancer had metastasized to her brain appeared, she was 76 years old and dad was 84. Whereas 11 years earlier they were fully independent, this time around I wasn’t so certain they could handle this on their own. I began, slowly, putting measures in place to help. I started asking pointed questions about their finances and their wills. And I started accompanying them to every doctor appointment, either in person or by phone. This was to give her physicians an accurate accounting of how she was doing, what medications she was taking, and so on (left to her own devices, my mother could have convinced the devil himself that everything was hunky-dory). It was also to hear first-hand what the doctor had to say, as an environment where my mother’s nervousness, my father’s difficulty hearing, and the ridiculously short 15 minute appointments with constantly changing medical staff (a topic for another post) made my parents unreliable historians.

Still, it wasn’t until eight or so months later when one of her doctors laid out the harsh reality to me. You need to begin treating your parents like children. In a rather abrupt and not so nice way, he suggested I consider in-home caregivers, round-the-clock care and a complete takeover of their personal affairs.

I’m sure I hyperventilated at that point. Surely this guy was being dramatic. Certainly his delivery was decidedly dickish. I simply couldn’t fathom my parents were at a point where they should be considered helpless.

And yet … his advice proved prescient. In a very short period of time, I found myself in a position of responsibility for which I was not at all prepared. Mom’s health slowly declined through the next year. Dad simply did not understand the reality of her situation. My only sibling lived six hours away and could not provide the level of help they needed unless she was willing to leave her own family and job.

So I continued to attend doctor appointments either in person (three hours round trip) or by phone. I took over the financial management when Mom could no longer fill out a check, and made sure my father hadn’t sent the entirety of their savings to some scammer. I managed most of the vetting and scheduling of the CNAs who came to the house to help. My husband and I gave up our first floor bedroom so she could stay with us while I tended to a particularly nasty leg wound. I helped her shower, oversaw her medications, and, when she eventually passed, did much of the same for my dad.

All of this in the middle of Covid, with two teenage daughters attending classes remotely, a husband working remotely, me working in office full-time. Thank God for understanding family and employers.

And that’s how it happens.

There is so much more to this story. Some of it I handled well. Some of it I did not. I never expected to be in the position of caregiver for my parents. Did I watch my own grandparents grow elderly and see their health fail? Yes. Did I see my parents struggle to help them in their own way? Yes. Did I once consider I’d be in the same situation? No! How could my parents, who had always taken care of me, ever be in a such a vulnerable position?

There has been a lot of (short-lived) feeling sorry for my own self along the way, and a lot of shame for it given what my parents were enduring. I have felt suffocated, stressed, and stretched so thin I thought I might snap. Everyone else involved – my kids, my husband, my sister, my brother-in-law – have surely felt the same as they’ve all been equally impacted. There are most certainly other people dealing with similar situations who are more caring, more giving, and more empathetic than me … I am in constant awe of them.

Though I wish it had never happened, the experience has taught me a great deal and it has changed me. I’m certainly a more compassionate person. I’m extremely grateful for what I’ve been able to give my parents. And I’m still learning. I hope the things I write about here and talk about on my podcast will help anyone who is facing something similar, because it is hard, and it is important to know you are not alone.

– Susan