In 2003 my mother passed away at the age of 82. There\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s a fancy medical term on her death certificate, but the real cause of death was simply that she was tired and worn out.
Some years prior to her death, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'s disease. His driving, never the best, naturally became worse, and he occasionally got lost in the city he\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\'d lived in for 40 years. His knees had begun to weaken, and he had fallen several times, though never seriously injuring himself. Deafness, exacerbated by an industrial accident, made communication a challenge.
My mom took care of him during his steady, and yet inevitable decline. She became his seven day a week, round-the-clock, primary caregiver.
As their only child I helped as I could, and as they would let me. Immigrants, they were fiercely independent, and asking others for help was simply not in their vocabulary. They were both used to doing for themselves, and so it would be. My father typically refused to accept that his capacities were diminishing, and as such continue to do more than he could safely do. My mother, frustrated, could not bring herself to ask for help, or take more serious steps. |
