I'm sitting here watching my mom endure a 90-minute eye exam. The doctor is trying to correct her vision when part of the problem is aging eyes and the other is how her brain has been assaulted by five strokes. The strokes also caused expressive aphasia, which means that directions as elementary as "read me the letters on the first line" are nearly impossible for her to follow. She knows what she sees but can't get her mouth to say it correctly. Even worse, her mouth often produces words that aren't what she's trying to say — so she has a hell of a time being understood. What she can and can't see, how she feels, what she wants — it's all locked up inside her with the rest of the stories about her life.
While I sit here feeling helpless, I'm reminded of a story from our last trip to this hospital.
Both of us exhausted after two hours of physical and occupational therapy, mom and I are waiting for the elevator with fifteen random strangers. Not at all quietly, a man asks if that's a moon he sees in the v-neck of my turquoise t-shirt.
I'm tempted to shut him down like I normally would a man inquiring about my body — but this situation feels different. I tell him yes, it's a moon. He's excited because his last name is Moon and he has a moon tattoo on his chest too.
Now every single one of the strangers is either looking at my chest or trying hard not to look at my chest. We all return to waiting in silence. I don't know if he's just a curious guy or if he hates silence, but he comes for more.
"Is that a symbol in the middle?"
There's an awkward pause while I glance at the side of my mother's downturned head to make sure she's still upright. "Yes, it's a symbol. It's a star," I respond.
He keeps digging. "What does the star mean?"
Where the fuck is this elevator, y'all? My poor mother.
This is not the first time I've been asked this question. I have an answer. Several, in fact. Sometimes it's "I'm pagan" or "it represents my spirituality" or if I'm feeling really generous, "the moons represent the three phases of my life — maiden, mother, crone — and the points of the star represent earth, water, air, fire, and spirit."
But not that day. Not that guy. Not the fifteen other people waiting for the slowest elevator in history. And not my mother, who has never asked me what the tattoo represents — but after I posted a picture of it on Facebook, she did call one of my adult children to ask "what is that thing on your mother's chest?"
So there we are — me, the guy, my mother, and the strangers.
Me: It's a symbol of a witch.
Him: nods with understanding Ooohhhhh… from when you were young?
Me: No.
Him: YOU'RE A WITCH LIKE, RIGHT NOW?!
And with all the irony this hospital can muster, the elevator doors open behind me. I smile at the man from beneath my mask and offer my mom an arm to steady her. Together, we step through the opening and make our great escape.
This caregiving has broken me in ways that it seems I needed to be broken.
Caregiving is hard and important work. In light of it, there's less of me to give — and it's forced me to prioritize what matters most. An exercise I've done in theory a hundred times before without getting even close to any of what I learned in the first few months of in-home elder care.
Maybe it's doing everything I can to support my mom and still seeing her struggle to communicate what she needs and wants to say. Or watching her work hard her whole life to cultivate independence, only to end up fully dependent on us at the end. Maybe it's the way my mom can't keep her own secrets anymore or hide a single fucking thing from those caring for her.
I'm sure I can't fully see the ways this experience is changing me — but I am changed.
I'm no longer willing to sacrifice myself to keep other people comfortable. Not family or friends, clients or colleagues. And damn sure not strangers, even my brother of the moon tattoos.
If caregiving — or any of life's less optional breaking points — has left you wondering who you are now and what you're actually willing to carry, that's exactly what we work on together in private sessions. You can learn more here.
