My mother moved in with us last May. Her health had been declining for some time, and it took a turn for the worse all of sudden in the spring. I consider myself a realist, attuned to any and all signs of impending disaster, able and willing to interpret the worst of the bad news as it comes so that I may always have a plan at the ready to meet any possible scenario. Like the boy scouts, I am ever prepared. The worst for me isn’t a looming calamity but the failure to have planned for whatever could befall from said emergency. That being said, my mother’s decline didn’t so much catch me off-guard as it did surprise me with its rapidity. The decision to move her in with us had been made in advance, but executing it and the reality of living it was like watching an approaching tsunami after an earthquake: you might hear the sirens and have an evacuation plan in place, but when that wall of water slams into your village, nothing can be the same afterwards, no matter how watertight you thought your plan was.
In the receding flood of the move, life in our house wasn’t exactly chaotic, but it was unsettled. The routine I treasured was disrupted. The daily peace I had cultivated was shattered as I struggled to live with a person who seemed to be my polar opposite. Had I ever lived with my own mother? Bright memories of us together in my youth seemed so distant as to belong to a different person, another life, almost as if they had never happened at all. I sifted through my mind to retrieve things we had done together in happier days and it was more like recalling a half-remembered movie than a life I had actually lived at some point. Instead, I was left with someone I had trouble recognizing or even finding common ground with. How could we even be related? The adjustment was exhausting and disappointing for us both.
Thoughts began to emerge: “I can’t do this,” or “This was a mistake.” Little irritations erupted into panic and I began to see that I might have taken on too much. After all, who takes care of their ailing parent in these days? Don’t most people just use a nursing home for this kind of thing? Why hadn’t I given that more serious consideration?
The move had happened quickly, but a few friends here and there began to find out. “How are things?” they would ask.
“Oh, fine,” I answered breezily. It was my job to probe other people’s problems and the mantle of complaint—or rather, vulnerability—didn’t fit too easily on my own shoulders. “It’s just taking time to settle in. You know.”
As it turns out, more of them knew than I had expected. “I took care of my dad before he passed,” one friend told me. “My mom lived with us before she died,” another said. In all, almost everyone I talked to was able to relate in some way or another to caring for an ailing relative—most of them for years. I was astonished. These were people I had known for a long time, but they hadn’t said anything.
This isn’t a post to encourage anyone to suddenly take on the care of an elderly parent. That is an extremely personal decision and it has to be weighed carefully. Each factor is different for every family, and in many cases it simply isn’t possible even if the desire is there. Instead, this is to encourage you to look around and share your burdens with those close to you; you may be astonished to find that whatever you are going through, you are on a well-trodden road with many travelers walking the same path.
In my case, I thought I was alone in my struggles. While it isn’t exactly groundbreaking news to understand that sharing one’s burdens with friends can be a beneficial practice, it was harder than I expected it to be while I was the one undergoing the hardship. And I am a person who specializes in grief, end-of-life experiences and especially communication! So this was a revelation to me, and it was even more eye opening to understand that many of my own circle actually did understand my experience … when I opened up and allowed myself to be vulnerable to admit that I was struggling.
When I started to say things like “This is tough,” and “Some days I feel like quitting,” I suddenly found that my network had been there. They didn’t condemn me for those feelings but rather were able to empathize, having been there. In my blindness, I just hadn’t known that. When I found that sense of camaraderie, I realized I didn’t actually want to quit, I just needed to be heard, and that gave me the strength and patience to continue on my path.
In your own struggles, whatever they may be, you don’t need to be perfect. You don’t always need to project a sense of calm contentment with every choice. Instead, I invite you to find a friend and talk about those things that social media has taught us to gloss over. In that vulnerability you might just find that you have a stronger group of people around you than you realize. It’s a relief to put down that burden and lean on someone else’s shoulder for a bit. In being my mom’s strength, I found I needed the strength of others to get me through, and that is a lesson I won’t soon forget.
