As most of you, my life has been filled with joyful highs and the lowest of lows. A mix of awesome chances and character building challenges, I have navigated the ebbs and flows of it relatively unscathed. As a believer in Christ, faith and worry should not coexist. For the most part they don't. I am genuinely excited about the unfolding of His plan for my life. But in my quiet moments I have a gnawing thought. A fixation, if you will. The hardest thing that I've been faced with as of late, is the ever present reality of my mother’s aging. It is more apparent every day and it is one tough pill to swallow.
Let me be clear, my mother, Joyce, is in good health. She is aware, alert and as virile as she ever was. But she is slowing, sleeping more and leaning into my guidance. For the last two years we have been diligently dealing with the declining health of her eyes. Through several surgeries and post-op doctors visits, we’ve been afforded the opportunity to spend an unprecedented amount of time together. Having left home for college at seventeen, I spent well over a decade away from my mother’s embrace. In the last decade, she has been my neighbor, living a terrific three minutes away from my home. Yet, due to my own familial responsibilities we didn't get to spend unlimited amounts of time together. Until now, that is. Yet the hue of this time bares a different shade.
My mother has always been a giant in my eyes. An educator for over forty years, she was a caretaker and chief decision maker for our family. She was decisive and strong. Opinionated and determined. I've watched her face challenges with unbelievable grit; stoic and unwavering in her faith that all would be well. And it was, time and time again. My mother is my muse and my prototype. I am the woman that I am because she showed me the way. In truth, at times for many reasons I felt that she was all that I had. In truth, I am finding it increasingly more difficult to accept the inevitable that I will one day be without her. The National Institute on Aging estimates that Americans are generally living longer, with life expectancies reaching past 90 years. They warn that 1 in 3 Americans over the age of 65 have multiple chronic conditions and promote the ideas of practicing “healthy aging.” Staying active, healthy eating, regular health screening and activity participation are all encouraged in the effort of grasping onto life for as long as possible. My mother, at a young 73, is projected to spend at the very least another seventeen years with me. The promise in that data puts me in a momentary ease. Yet it is short lived when I find that she prefers home birthday parties over a celebratory restaurant dinner. Or that she is increasingly terrified of driving to the grocery store and opts to stay inside for multiple days. Or that she can awaken from a nap, losing track of the day and believing it is night.
I know that my role of caretaker will increase as the years move on. And I am grateful for the station we inhabit as I watch friends tending to their parents in more dire situations. I am grateful everyday that she is as far as the other end of a ringing phone. Yet time in its fullness will teach me how warranted this time of fixation was. My fear doesn't live in the fact that my dear mother is aging. That is an inevitable truth for all of us. My fear lies in the thought that I will somehow be ill-equipped as her advocate and trusted advisor. My hope is that as we both mature so that I can be graced with the discernment and emotional stability to be the best I can to her; as she has forever been to me.
Love to all that are in the place of caring for their parents. I see and applaud your loving efforts.
