Showing Up for Aging Parents

My stepdad, Richard, was hospitalized a month ago, suddenly. He is my mama's caregiver; she has dementia. Without him, she is unmoored. Whenever we left his bedside, my mama would startle, multiple times throughout the day, asking where he was. I took her out to lunch one afternoon, she looked at me pleadingly, her eyes filled with churning anxiety and asked, "Did something bad happen to Richard?". Each time, I try to figure out how to tell the truth, addressing her fear without causing her more distress. He's home now, recovering slowly. I've spent the better part of this month at their house. To fill in for my stepdad (even briefly), opens my eyes to the depth of his experience as a full-time caregiver. I am overwhelmed. I am filled with ambiguous grief.

"Your parents need to hire a caregiver to help them." (I'm cleaning the bathroom floor on my hands and knees...I know.)

"You need to help them make a long-term financial plan." (I considered it a "win" when we got the doctor's letter declaring my mother mentally incompetent - this powerhouse woman who was the primary bread winner and financial planner in our family. We have an appointment with the bank today...I know).

As this phase of life unfolds, I cook green chile chicken in my grandma's crock pot. I play mama's favorite Linda Rondstadt songs on the speaker. I bake lemon cake. I clean. I worry. I email doctors. I sort through financial papers and meet with bankers. I sleep in her bed with her, soothing her when she has nightmares. I cry. I show up. Because that is what mamas and daughters do.

My grandma Connie’s crockpot, simmering pinto beans.