One phone call that changed a life.
It was May of 2005 when that fateful call came into my office. I was a fast driving career woman full of ambition and fervor, about to begin a new journey of being a caregiver for my mother. She was in the hospital after having a bad fall, and I had to help her. I told my staff I would be back “the next morning after I sorted things out,” but when her circumstances were explained to me, I still originally thought the extent of my help would involve selling her house and packing it up and moving her into retirement living. Then as days and weeks went by, it became more and more clear that this picture of being a family caregiver was far more involved than what I originally anticipated.
It was only the beginning of a long journey of many, many events to come.
As the days went on I learned that the role of a family caregiver involves so many just plain regular aspects of every day life. I began to expect and build my life around Mom’s regular phone calls. I listened to her thoughts, fears, desires, requests and calls for help, and I began to see her as more and more vulnerable as her needs increased.
I began to see a new part of myself that I had never seen before emerge. My consciousness and awareness grew. I began to see the world from a hard of hearing elder person in a wheelchair, and saw the unjust circumstances that the world presented to someone as vulnerable as she was.
I watched my Mom lose her privileges, one by one. She couldn’t live alone anymore. She then couldn’t administer her own medications. She couldn’t drive anymore. Her world was shrinking. Her friends no longer came around anymore. She sat home alone, and I became her “everything,” her “precious daughter”, who was always there.
Being her “everything” she placed her rock solid trust in me. As she did so, I felt an enormous responsibility. Often times Mom and I walked this unknown path together, and she began to rely on my judgment; someone with no training or education on resources that I would need to rely on. Yet, her frail life was dependent on me.
Because Mom and I were very different people, each with our own idiosyncrasies, we had to get to know each other’s rhythm, and learn to respect them. I learned through her about the value of caring for someone else. I learned how to communicate more effectively, and I became a master at delivering news and information to the various individuals involved in her care in a way that did not disrespect her dignity.
Mom learned that her daughter was her advocate and would leave no stone unturned in finding resources for her. She knew I would push her to fight for her own quality of life, and not to allow complacency to set in, and thus we made a great team in her care.
So, together for these past six years, Mom and I had a routine. I was her link to everything outside of the place she lived in. I received phone calls from her regularly. I provided things for her that would bring the outside world in, and she consumed my every day thoughts. Holidays were always planned with her in mind. There were outings, and also special visits.
She would often share memories of her life. Many times I would hear the same story over and over again, and as a result, they were part of my duty- to simply listen to her own revised version of the facts as they really happened. (I learned that the truth pretty much is irrelevant at this stage of life) I took these stories for granted until they were silenced by her death in May of this year- just a few months ago.
I no longer hear that voice on my phone anymore. I no longer hear the revised memories, or feel the need to be patient while I listen to her stories for the umpteenth time. The first month after she passed, although I was relieved she was no longer suffering and living a compromised quality of life, I really had to figure out just who I was now. No longer am I “Mom’s caregiver.” No longer am I “her advocate”, her “loving daughter” or am I her “everything.”
Yet, I still have the instinct to check in with her. Several times a day I feel the urge to call her. In my visits to the grocery or department store, I am still inclined to think about Mom’s needs and wants, and I need to remind myself that I no longer need to shop for her. It is clear that I still have not shut off my inner caregiver. I have to ask myself if it ever goes away, or does it instead define an additional aspect of our character?
Today looking back, I am and suspect will continue to be a different person. I have grown as a person and have transformed myself as a human being. So many things are different now. I don’t want to shut the caregiver in myself out. I doubt that anyone else who has had the privilege of caring for his or her parents do either.
As a child I received gifts of many forms- for holidays, birthdays, special occasions, and for no reason at all. I must say however the greatest gift was the one that could not be purchased. It was the gift she gave me by believing in me and entrusting me with her care.