"The Privilege of Caring—A Confession" by Constance McNeill

You choose to be a parent. Prior to assuming the mantle, no one understands at an experiential level what that role includes. Or that it will last your entire lifetime. I am part of a very small minority of people who never wanted to have children. This is difficult for most people to understand because all their life they have wanted to be a parent. It is especially difficult for those who have wanted to be parents, but for private reasons, they have not been. In my early dating life, when potential spouses were being evaluated, this awareness of myself ended more than one relationship.

You don’t choose to be a child. It happens to you, hopefully, because two people wanted to be parents. So, here you are. Some of you never got to enjoy having your parents grow old. By accident or disease, they died an early death. If fact, a few had at least one parent, usually the father, die before they were born. And some have lost their mother in the process of them being born. Not all of us get to enjoy aged parents.

My father died in his early fifties. Mom has lived longer than anyone in her family in previous generations by almost twenty years. She was ninety-four in June. She has vascular dementia and is cared for in the home where she lives (Our Lady of Mercy Country Home). They provide a level of care that we could no longer provide in our home. Mother had the awareness to know that, and she initiated the move. She has always been an extremely pragmatic person.

As she aged in my home and as she continues to live where she does, I had not anticipated the level of care and nurturing that I would need to learn to give. Those who are parents have an edge on me. I also didn’t know what it meant to become my parent’s parent.

I had a choice. I could have told myself, “No, she needs her independence. You need to stay in the wings until she asks for your help.” As though letting her hurt herself or become ill because of lack of proper nutrition or hygiene was acceptable. Or, “I just can’t have that conversation with Mom.” There’s a number of these conversations—driving, hygiene, nutrition, cleanliness, managing money, paying bills.

It’s hard. Really, really, hard to begin to parent your parent. It’s a new role for both of you, and there’s no one right way to do it. But failing to step in, when your role changes are clearly needed, is unacceptable to me. If I could speak on behalf of your aged parent who needs help, I would encourage you to see the privilege you have to care for them. It isn’t an all or nothing equation. That care could start with what seems like small things. As you navigate the slow evolution of role change with them, they will, probably, increasingly rely on you. After all, they too will need to envision you in a new role and relationship.

A friend of mine, with deep awe, used to describe the way her father had cared for her mother with dementia. Several times she told me that when she asked her Wall Street businessman father how he could give her mother such tender, unfailing, unselfish care, he always said, “It’s my privilege to care for her.” I continue to work to lean into an attitude of realizing the privilege of caring for my mother. It’s not about loving her. I always have. It’s not about having the ability to care for her. I certainly do have that. It’s about finding something within me that I never had a desire for—to nurture and care for someone so utterly dependent on me. It is a role I am embracing. I know my limitations and meet those needs of my mother with the help of others. I also embrace the practical reality of being without a “parent,” though she still lives on this earth. And my role of becoming her primary caregiver and human source of security.

When Mom gets confused, which increasingly happens, she calls me. She doesn’t know where she is or how she got there, where she lives, how she gets fed, or where to get help when she can’t get the lid off something. I am leaning into my role as her source of security, her help when she can’t do something, her comforter to assure her that she is safe, her reminder that if she wants ice cream, I’m sure it’s on the way. I try to provide all the care she never failed to give me—and keep her in ice cream.

Some of you know exactly what I mean. Friends, it is our privilege, though I confess it is a hard one, but, I believe, the right choice.