By Wendy Fleming, Guest Blogger
As I sit here at 6:30 a.m., with Mom’s balcony curtains wide open and the door cracked just enough to let in a bit of fresh air, I think: blessed is the quiet. The cars are passing, the birds are singing, but for a short time there is peace in this home. I have pain like no other today, and if I were at my own house, I’d still be in bed or on the couch, looking out our big, beautiful windows at the farmers’ fields, letting the quiet wrap around me like a hug.
But instead, I’m here — hands trembling around a warm cup of tea. I just heard Mom stir and prayed she would go back to bed for a little while longer. I need to gather my strength for the day ahead.
Soon enough she’ll be up, and the entertainment will begin. The radio will go on far too loud, drowning out her own voice, and the TV will follow with her beloved shows. The PSW is supposed to come around 9 a.m. to give her breakfast, coffee, and pills, but sometimes it’s closer to 11. Too late for breakfast, too late for medication, too late for coffee — so I make sure she gets all three.
The other day I went home for a break, leaving her with a casserole she could microwave, raisin bread, bananas, coffee, milk, and cream. But just as I walked through my own door, she called, saying she needed me. Her eye was sore, and she couldn’t get her drops in. I can barely get them in either — my hands tremble, my arms ache. My husband cursed under his breath: You’re exhausted, you can barely move, and now you’re doing laundry and packing to go back after just unpacking.
He wasn’t wrong. It was the last thing I wanted to be doing. But I’m the only one, so I go. It doesn’t matter how I feel because my mother needs me, and I’m “such a good daughter for looking after my mother and her needs.” I smile and say thank you.
I love my mother, but looking after her is too much for me. Getting her help is years down the list, and she’s only considered a crisis because a few people are ahead of her for long-term care. As much as I don’t want to see her go, it’s what she needs. Even her friends say she should have gone sooner. But Mom is always “fine,” and “my daughter can help me.” What she means is: my daughter can wait on me.
When I got back to her place, of course she hadn’t eaten properly. She didn’t see the casserole, but she saw the lemon meringue pudding cup and the ice cream bars. I heated the casserole anyway, and she happily ate.
I’ve explained to her that if she wants something from the store, it has to be in the morning. By afternoon, I’m too tired and it’s too warm. But yesterday she kept bugging me for a walk. Mom doesn’t know the word no.
So off we went in the blazing early evening heat to get a burger. I barely made it — my knees ready to give out, my head pounding, every muscle feeling beaten with a baseball bat. But whatever Mom wants.
She ordered her burger to go. I told her I needed a drink with mine and that I was eating there. She wasn’t impressed, clearly annoyed, but she stayed. I ordered and paid for mine — root beer was the only drink. She stayed silent while we waited, and I had nothing left to say. I was seeing stars and praying the burger would give me enough strength to get back.
I finished first. She said she’d finish hers at home. I wanted to sit and enjoy my drink, but instead we left. I trailed behind her, telling her to go ahead because she moves faster with her walker than I do with my cane.
Back at the apartment, I went straight to my room and stripped down to my underwear, grabbing the fan. I told her the fans were in the bedroom, but she insisted they were in the storage room. I didn’t argue. I just went to her closet, brought one out for her, put the other in my room, and sat in front of it. My body needed to cool down before I could even think about a shower.
She wasn’t happy that I wasn’t sitting out with her. But I had nothing left to give. I was fighting back tears, having taken all my medication early along with extra-strength Tylenol, praying for a miracle. She kept asking if I was alright. I told her I was fine. What’s the point of telling her the truth? She won’t listen. She can’t.
But oh, I’m such a good daughter looking after my mom.
I hear her now.
Peace has left, and life begins yet again.
About the Author: Wendy Fleming was born and raised in London, Ontario. She currently lives in Aylmer with my husband of 30 years. They have three daughters. She loves expressing herself with words and is in the process of publishing her first book and writing and revising her second. She also loves teaching others to live their best life with chronic illness.
I can relate to the exhaustion, given that my mom had a low EF ❤️ rate, as I, too, was trying to cope with caregiving while also having, e.g., ME/CFS, FM, high BP, ASD/AuDHD, and Bipolar 1, which tracked more as Bipolar 2 mixed because of the exhaustion and ongoing fluctuations from, e.g., hypervigilance to numbness and flat affect. But, thank Jesus, my mom understood my struggles, as she’d been there after my major breakdown and burnout. We both joked about having the strength of a gnat.
And yeh, my mom had moments when she didn’t have the same appreciation of her dilemma and mine nearer to her death, as her CHF had worsened and her organs shutting down (e.g., fluctuations with symptoms of a month-long bout of vertigo and dementia) made comprehension more challenging. And thank Jesus for her friends and for the end-of-life support care team (e.g., the GP, RN, and PSWs).
As it turned out, my older brother had often been rather distant, partly because he wasn’t nearby, but also because he was hiding his severe alcoholism and more than one kind of dementia.