The Heartbreaking Work of Parental Care

This winter has been hard. My dad was diagnosed with late stage cancer just before Christmas. Then my mom fell and broke two bones at opposite ends of her body. Until now, they have been each other’s primary caregiver (when one was needed), but now they are both struggling.

Mom and Dad still live on their own, in a house with stairs. Luckily it’s only a half-hour drive from my house. And luckily I channel my anxiety into cooking, so they have been well stocked with easy-to-reheat favourite foods. And care services have been great, with a nurse, personal support workers, physiotherapist, and even someone to clean the house.

Still, I have been very busy taking them things or helping them with computer issues, driving them to appointments (and managing their calendar), or just sitting and keeping them company. Thank goodness I retired last summer.

I’m not exactly part of a sandwich generation, as my own kids are grown, but the feeling of being pulled in multiple directions is very real. I love my parents and I’m glad to support them as much as I can, but it is physically and mentally exhausting sometimes. Despite my cheery post yesterday, I am struggling to fit in time to take care of myself.

The newness, the rawness, and the pain of caring for someone who will never get better has me breaking into tears far too often. My dad has been the best feminist ally a person could ask for. He has always been so supportive of mom, my sister and me, and is so proud of my daughter. He was a wonderful role model for my son, who has grown into a feminist husband and father.

I try to tell myself that this is the normal cycle of life, and that Mom played the same role for Grandma (Dad’s mom, who moved in with them for the last few years of her life and died at home). I’m deeply grateful that my parents ensured my sister and I are financially literate, and that they have all their affairs in order. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be dependent on someone all your life, and then suddenly left to deal with taxes, banks and bills, and maybe the loss of income.

Normally I would end a post with some sort of jokey anecdote or clever final words, but all I can think of right now is something a colleague said to me over 30 years ago. His father had just died and he said the death wasn’t the hardest part. His father had lived a long life. It was realizing you were no longer someone’s child, even if you were already in your 50s. I’m not ready to stop being a child.