Years ago, I paid a shiva call to a dear friend and mentor whose mother had died. I was struck at her composure, and she explained that she had spent the last many years of her mother’s decline mourning the loss of her legs, then her sight, her hearing, and lastly her mind. She told me she was done, she had already mourned her piece by piece, until finally, now, both were at peace.
Recently my mother had a birthday, and I posted the following on my Facebook page:
This week my mother turned 89, and I have mixed feelings. Help me work it through….
On one hand, we are all so thankful that she is alive, that she is being well cared for at a Jewish senior’s home in Toronto, that she has children, grandchildren who love her…that she knows that all of her great-grandchildren are growing up in strong, committed Jewish homes filled with love and meaning. And all of this is because of the way she raised us – to be people who question, make educated decisions, stand up for what we believe in, follow our dreams….
But she is not the mother I remember from my life – the curious, intelligent, adventurous, creative people-person who traveled the world. She is old. She is frail. She is confused. She is weak…
Of course, it makes sense that when a person ages they change, of course they get old and weak – but how do we change with them? We can pivot from being cared for to being the caregiver, but how do we see someone we knew our whole lives become someone… else?
And you know that it won’t ever be like it was, and that this won’t end well.
So, we do our best, smile, send flowers, and sing happy birthday on Zoom. We share happy memories, kibbitz, laugh and wave goodbye.
And then we cry.
And look forward to the next visit.
May it be soon.
Thanks for listening.
Hundreds of people reacted to the post, sharing their own personal stories of caregiving, loss, and pain.
Grief can be complex. My father died three years ago, and overnight my vibrant mother completely fell apart and became a shadow of her former self, and never recovered.
In our decades of Jewish communal work, my husband and I noticed that if someone had a very happy marriage, when one spouse dies, the mourning is deep but pure. If it was a bad marriage, there is also mourning – often filled with relief. Most marriages, like my parents’, are a mixture of both, and thus mourning is, as we say in Israel, “zeh lo pashut” – not simple.
While my mother became more and more infantile both physically and emotionally, my husband and I were also stepping into new roles as grandparents. I was struck by the eerie similarities between my mother and our granddaughter. Both were incredibly dependent, but at opposite ends of life’s spectrum. Both had limited vocabularies – one started learning new words, the other couldn’t remember hers. Both needed help to eat and to fall asleep, and both had bottoms that needed protection and cleaning. You had to comfort them, soothe them, and support them in every way.
Yet caring for a newborn baby, however exhausting, is an act of giving filled with hope and promise, framed by the future. The potential of this helpless being knows no bounds. And every month you see them grow stronger and more independent.
But for our elderly loved ones, it is the opposite. It too is exhausting, not just physically but emotionally, for there is no hope or promise, and everything is framed by the past. They only become weaker and more helpless and dependent, robbed of their spirit and often their dignity.
Interestingly, both are opportunities for us to become givers, knowing that the giving will lead to separation. The umbilical cord drops off, they go off to school, friends become more primary daily than family, you lead them to the chuppah, and you may not even live in the same city. You give so that they will have the tools to leave and make a life.
And then the tables turn as the cycle of life takes you full circle. Now it’s our chance to give, with the constant pain of knowing that soon they too will leave their bodies to a life beyond to eternal life as a soul.
When my father passed away, Rabbi Yehuda Weinberg said something to me that gave me the most comfort – then, and to this very day. He said:
“Your father always knew what you did, but now he sees it.”
Right now our aging parents see us stepping into new roles to support them, as our children watch us, knowing that one day this will be their future. We are not only fulfilling the mitzvah of kibud av v’eim, honoring our parents, we are modeling for the next generation. Navigating siblings, making health choices, even choosing what will be on their tombstones – all of these can be fraught with conflict and inner turmoil. One can’t help look at our own kids and their spouses and wonder, “Who will show up for us?”
As my Bubby of blessed memory used to say, “One mother can take care of five children, but five children can’t take care of one mother.”
