For as long as I can remember I have been taking care of someone. My older brother still likes to tell how I waited on him when we were kids, and all he had to do was mention he wanted something and I ran and got it for him. I don't remember ever questioning why I should wait on him 'hand and foot', I just did.
I fully believe God hard-wires us for the tasks He has planned for us here on Earth. I think He created me to care for others. That may be why being a mom has been my most valued role to me in my life. There has never been anything that compared to the fulfillment that being a mom has brought to my heart.
Last year, my role as a mom began to change dramatically as two of my three sons got married. I am thrilled for them to be doing what they are supposed to be doing (and what we trained them to do!), becoming leaders of their own households and establishing lives of their own. Dave and I are super proud of all our boys, and there is much satisfaction in seeing the flourishing fruits of all the labor that goes into raising kids. But still, it's hard on moms to give up the role of caregiver to their babies.
About three years before my boys' weddings my parents began needing help. Mom became deathly ill, and one morning around 3:00 a.m., I got a call from their home security company saying a medical emergency alarm was sounding at their house. We jumped out of bed and flew out the door, flying toward their house as I frantically tried to call. No one answered any of their phones. I was sure I would find one or both of them dead. I played out every scenario possible in my head, and none of them were good. When we got there, I saw fire trucks and ambulances lining their street, and as Dave pulled the car over I got out and ran as fast as I could toward their house, almost collapsing as I reached the front door, dreading to see what I might find inside.
I whispered a prayer that God would prepare me before I walked in, and I heard my dad talking as I opened the door. "Thank God!! At least Dad's ok!", I thought, as I entered the bedroom where he was standing. Mom was lying on the floor, completely unaware of who she was or what was going on. It is miracle she lived through all she had going on that night.
We had to sit down with Dad later that day and convince him it was time to make some changes. They lived in a split foyer, and there was no way in or out except by stairs. Many of the possible scenarios I saw in my mind that night involved my crippled Dad falling down the stairs, bleeding to death, and Mom too sick to help him.
I still remember my dad sitting in mom's recliner, tears streaming down his cheeks as he tried to negotiate ways to stay in their home. I saw my dad as helpless for the first time in my life. That day marks the beginning of my caregiver role for Mom and Dad.
From that point, little by little, the need grew even greater, and the caregiver in me became more protective over Mom and Dad. I readily jumped in and took care of things before being asked, attempting to keep them from getting hurt. I had to constantly remind myself to not overstep my dad, who was fiercely independent and hard-working. I had to learn how to balance helping them with also allowing him to still do what he could. Sometimes that was hard to call.
During my three years or so that I took care of my parents, my boys were outgrowing their need for me. I hardly noticed. I was focused on keeping Mom and Dad going. I was on call 24 hours a day, seven days a week. When I did go somewhere for a few days, I worried the whole time and stayed close to my phone, always panicking just a little when I saw I had missed calls from them. I always felt like I was waiting on the other shoe to drop.
Before I realized it, I became immersed in tending to my parents, just as my boys were pulling away into the abyss. It was relatively seamless. I was still shopping for someone, still cooking for someone, still running someone to doctor and dentist appointments, still worrying when they got sick and still trying to keep them from getting sick to start with, reminding them to wash hands after visiting the doctor and still making sure they had a jacket before we went out into the cold. I was still comparing labels on groceries, trying to choose healthier options for them. I was whatever they needed that day: gardener, nurse, secretary, handyman, manicurist, hairstylist, chauffeur, housekeeper, cook, concierge, friend, and caregiver. Basically, a mom.
The difference in letting my parents go, however, is that there is a great reward in letting your kids go. Watching my parents lose their independence was heartbreaking. As time went, they needed more and more from me, and I was happy to help any way I could. But there would be no moment like my kids had- the moment you let go and know you did your best. The moment you swell with pride as you see them succeed.
Last fall, when my brother unexpectedly died, I got the call from Mom as I was pulling into their driveway. She had just gotten the horrible news that her firstborn son had died, and she as was screaming for me to get there as soon as I could. I could hear her cry from the garage as I ran inside. She was slumped over crying in her recliner, and Dad was lying across the bed sobbing.
In just two weeks from that day, Mom would go into ICU herself. She would soon find out that she was dying. I sat by my dad's side as he grieved his heart out. There was nothing I could do, not one thing could I offer that would help fix any of it. I watched Dad's little frail, cancer-ridden body shake as he stood over Mom and cried. I watched him lose his desire to eat. I watched him give up his desire to live himself as she slipped away. I heard him pray out loud each night, struggling to understand his words because the crying overshadowed his ability to speak. I watched him wither down to nothing but skin over bone, literally, as the cancer ate him away. I watched him lose his dignity as others had to take care of his most basic needs. I watched his face as he looked hurt and somewhat surprised when he asked me if he was dying and I gave him an honest answer. I listened as he told me what to do with his belongings when he died. I went alone to plan his funeral a couple of weeks before he passed. I picked out a casket and decided on services. I took him, so sick he had to be helped into a wheelchair, to get all his important papers out of his safe deposit box so I could take care of all his business. I listened as he told told the girls at the bank how much he appreciated them and that he probably wouldn't see them again. I laid down beside him each night and listened as he talked about Heaven and wondered what it would be like. I brought him tissues as he cried about leaving us. I promised him I would be right there until the end, holding his hand when he took his last breath, just like I had done for Mom two months earlier. The Saturday we had Dad's funeral, it rained too hard to have the burial. I watched alone from my car that Monday morning as they lowered him into his final resting place beside Mom.
The weekend after Dad died, we started going through the house to get it ready to sell. I dove into work mode as a means of survival. I was already exhausted, but I knew if I stopped long enough to give into the exhaustion I might not get the energy to do it later. I worked nearly every day for weeks, sorting and readying things for an estate sale. I remember feeling as if my parents' whole lives were sitting in boxes in their garage. The last thing I moved were Dad's shoes. They were still sitting beside where his bed had once been..right where I put them the last night I took them off his feet.
I've spent the months since all that attempting to adjust to my new life. I've retreated. I've avoided doing things. I've kept mostly to myself. I'm sad, but I'm not depressed. For me, being away from society is healing. I'm trying to spend any time I can with my youngest son before he gets his driver's license this December. I'm trying to focus more on Dave and our life together. I've caught up on several things I had started before all that unravelled and halted my progress. I've created. I've written. I've built things and I've torn down things. I've had time to think, and I've had time to pray. I've even spent a few days here and there relaxing by the pool. By the time Dad died I was severely anemic, had developed high blood pressure and had gained 15 pounds. I've gone back to the gym and started trying to take care of myself again. I needed that for both physical and emotional healing. I have served everyone else for most of my life, and I'm trying to find a healthy balance while taking care of me for the first time ever.
Soon, I'll be ready to serve again, but for now, I'm tired. I'm traumatized. I still have little snippets of all those images unexpectedly flash through my mind. I still randomly hear my mom's cries and see my dad's sadness. I know with time those pictures will fade, but for now, they are fresh. PTSD is real.
I am getting control over my life again. I'm finding restoration in my solitude as my mind and body recover from the stress I've endured. It's been hard to overcome suffering so much sadness in such a short time, but God is reminding me every day that He has Mom, Dad, and my brother, and that I will see them again when my time here is over. That is what gets me through each day.
I am still a servant, I'm just tucked away on a shelf for a bit. Soon, I'll be called to task again, and when I am, I'll be just as ready as I've always been to answer the call. But tonight, I am thankful for rest.
Matthew 11:28-30 (NIV)
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”
