From Daughter to Caregiver
I couldn’t tell you what the hardest thing about my mom’s Glioblastoma was for her, but I’m pretty sure the loss of independence would be right up there toward the top of the list, likely competing with her loss of mobility. I never asked her because she never wanted to dwell. I think she got through as much as she did because, as she once told me, “I try not to think about it too much.” Those boomers…so stoic.
In the 653 days between my mom’s diagnosis and her death, I only spent 5 full days away–one trip to Nashville to move out of my apartment and one for work. About a week total in almost two years that I didn’t see my mom’s face. It still doesn’t seem possible that I’ll never see it again.
Being a loved one’s caregiver is, in a word, bittersweet. My mom often said she didn’t want my moving home to be with her to ruin my life. I told her, on more than one occasion, that being there with her on the journey never would. Even on the hardest days, when I didn’t know how we could go on, I never regretted my decision to come home for a second. When she first came home from the hospital I told her that no amount of time with her was ever going to be enough, even if she’d made it to 100 (which I always thought she might). Whatever time I had with her would be a blessing.
It wasn’t perfect. There were arguments and moments that still replay in my mind causing immense guilt and sadness. There were the occasional (from my mom) threats to move out, and times she told me how mean I was. My go-to response became, “that’s your tumor talking.” But, overall, I’m proud of us. All things being what they were, we really did the best we could. The love was always there.