A Little about My Story
My own caregiving journey began when I was 53, on a brilliant, sunny, late May morning out in the Hill Country of Texas, where I live. Our yard Cardinals were flitting from one tree to the next, and I could hear the low, intermittent thrumming of the hummingbirds at the feeder out on the back deck off the bedroom.
I awoke slowly and luxuriously, stretching lazily and feeling like I had all the time in the world. I had just come off of a very intense 3-year stretch of work, and I was looking forward to finally having some time to myself. I was happily thinking “THIS summer will finally be ‘the summer of Debbie,’” my mind abuzz with plans for gardening projects, closet cleaning and an August spa trip to focus on Pilates. With one phone call, all that changed. My Mom had been diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer, and had been given a 1- to 1.5-year life sentence. She was just 74 years old.
So lucky we had a plan … Just over 10 years before my Mom died, she had sat me and my sisters down for “the talk” about her will and other “days end” planning. She was only 64 at the time, and we had no interest in talking about it, since she was perfectly fine. But she made us do it anyway, in part because she had seen her own Dad die suddenly from a stroke at 86 years of age.
Her convictions had strengthened following his passing, as she watched her Mom’s condition and ability to live independently decline dramatically following his passing. First there were the two years of relatively morbid grieving while we all scurried about trying to get Grandma to grasp back onto life again. For about 3 years, my Mom care gave for Grandma “from afar” (“three states away”) for 6 months of the year, and brought Grandma to live with her for the other 6 months, while she continued working full-time. Next there was the hip break that happened during one of Grandma’s “living alone” periods. Then there was the move to an assisted living facility once it became evident that Grandma could no longer live on her own (and both my Mom and her sister were still working full-time, so could not care for her properly in their own homes). Finally, there was Grandma’s slow and steady slide into “unknowing-ness” over the course of the next 8 years, when she passed at 95. It was heartbreaking and painful to watch, and it changed us all irrevocably.
Thinking back on what happened at the end for her own parents, I can see how my Mom felt compelled to have a good plan for herself. And when I hear that only about 5% of all families have actually talked things through fully, I realize that I was extremely fortunate to have a Mom who was super proactive about planning and preparation.