Sarah Nigbor

There is nothing in life that prepares you for the day that you find out a parent can no longer care for themselves. You can suspect it for awhile, even deny it, tell yourself you’re overreacting. But when that day comes, it’s a punch to the gut. I just didn’t think it would happen this soon.

Without going into too much detail to preserve her privacy, my mom was hospitalized last week and is transitioning to a nursing home after her release. She’s had years of health issues and multiple hospital stays, but this time reality is knocking. It’s not safe for her to live at home on her own and I cannot be there 24/7 to take care of her – not with four kids, a husband, six animals and two jobs. I feel sick when I think about it. She doesn’t fully understand at this time how serious this last hospital stay has been, or what is to come. And how am I supposed to tell her without crushing her spirit?

It's times like these that I lament being an only child. It would be nice to have someone to share the burden and bounce ideas off, someone who loves Mom the way I do. I am fortunate to have a very supportive aunt and uncle and cousins; my aunt is our rock and I couldn’t do all this without her, but I still wish for my dad or grandparents to be alive to help me, or a sibling to stand by me. My husband is an only child and his parents are gone; we both feel like the last ones standing in some bizarre video game.

This past week has been a frantic crash course on navigating Medicare insurance, blood test results, nursing home finance options, the ADRC, etc. All while worrying about Mom, hoping against hope that she’ll be okay and feeling terrible about what is to come. I know it’s not my fault, but I feel a crushing guilt over this necessary decision.

When I was little, I thought my mom and grandparents were invincible, that they could do anything. That nothing would ever hurt them and that they’d always be there to make everything better. Of course, as I grew older, I realized this wasn’t the case, as I transitioned to helping take care of them rather than the other way around. I still remember the day my grandpa couldn’t tie a balloon for me with his work-worn hands; it was the beginning of the realization that I would lose them someday. It’s forever stuck in my brain. When I helped Grandma curl her hair because she couldn’t anymore, when she used to brush mine. We lost Grandpa at age 93, Grandma at age 96. My dad was 42, my brother (15 years my senior) in his early 50s. Mom is only 71. Why keeps echoing through my head, bouncing off my skull like a jackhammer. Why has she had it so rough? Why can’t she get well? Why can’t she be healthy like other people her age? Why can’t I fix this?

The worst part of this has been telling my kids the truth and constantly reassuring them that everything will be OK, comforting them and answering their nonstop questions, when all I want to do is curl up in a ball and cry. But somebody has to be strong and that person is me. I am the mother. I am my mother’s daughter, who is in charge of taking care of her. I cannot fall apart when they all need me to be strong. I cannot hide under the blankets and wish it away.

My strong faith in God will carry me through. It always does and I know that I’m not alone, though sometimes it feels like I am. For anyone out there who has gone through this, I am so sorry. I wish I could make it better for my mom and all of you.