By Emily Cooper
My brother visits Mom often while I’m there, and he
sternly advises her, “Mom, you’re going to have to give
up your gardening now and take it easy.” I know he
means well and only wants to hang on to her as long as
he can; but after he leaves, I counter with, “Mom,
please, keep gardening and walking and doing all of the
things that make you happy. Don’t give up any part
of your life until you have to.” We talk about the
benefits of staying active and independent, and Mom
agrees that she wants to go out kicking. (I like
to imagine that when her time comes, she’ll keel over
into a flowerbed with a trowel in one hand and a fistful
of weeds in the other; but I know her passing isn’t
likely to be that easy.)
By Sunday morning, when it’s time for me to go, I feel
reasonably comfortable that Mom will be all right on her
own, with help from the health care agency, her good
friends and neighbors, and my brother. Still, it’s
hard to leave. I always wonder if I’ll see her
again, and it saddens me to know how lonely she’ll be
after our non-stop time together. Nevertheless, I
climb into my car and pull out of the driveway, and Mom
smiles bravely and waves goodbye.
Driving away from her house, I start to cry—from
tiredness, from relief, from knowing that there will be
another crisis all too soon. Mom made it through
this time, but next time—or some time after—she won’t,
and I’m already starting to grieve. I know that I
can’t cure her or hold on to her; I can only love her
and be there when she needs my care. Sometimes,
that doesn’t seem like a lot, but of course it is—it’s
all we ever have—and I’m thankful that I’ve had the
chance to love her and care for her once again.
Nine more hours of driving … better stop for a cup of
coffee.
Emily Cooper, a resident of Longmont,
Colorado, is Caregiver Initiative Coordinator for Boulder
County Aging Services Division and editor of “Care
Connections,” a bi-monthly newsletter for caregivers, in
which this article previously appeared. Emily remains
a sometimes caregiver for her mother, who is now 92—and
still gardening.
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