by Todd Adams
You’re 85 and you’re declining, and I don’t really know how to talk about it without stumbling over myself. Your breathing is heavy now. You need help getting dressed. You still want to do things independently, even when it isn’t safe. And honestly, it’s risky either way—risky to let you do everything yourself, and risky to take those things away. Every choice feels loaded.
This feels heavy. It’s a burden sometimes, and it’s also an honor. Both truths live side by side, and it’s disorienting how quickly I swing between them. I catch myself thinking, “I didn’t sign up for this,” and in the same breath, “I’m so grateful I get to be here.”
You’ve softened with age—something I genuinely appreciate—but I see your life force fading. I’ve never seen you sleep so much. Even writing that feels harsh, but it’s the truth. Maybe that’s just how it goes. Maybe this is nature doing its thing. But knowing that doesn’t make any of it easier for me to watch.
I think back to when I was 10 years old and you picked me up during the separation, took me to a movie, did your best to keep me talking on the drive. I was shut down, quiet, confused. You kept trying. Now we’re here again, except the roles are reversed. I’m the one trying to make conversation, and you’re the one who barely speaks. I can’t tell if you’re scared of dying, or if your world has shrunk so much that the words just aren’t there anymore. Maybe it’s both.
We sit and watch movies. We watch baseball. We share long stretches of silence. I hug you, rub your feet, help where I can. These small acts are special. And hovering over everything is the question I don’t want to face: when do I take away the car keys? When do we move you into assisted living facility (even though I know you absolutely do not want to go) I’m not sure there are any “right” answers.
The truth—the thing I honestly hate admitting—is that I’m not sure how to best do this. I don’t know how to be the son you need right now. I don’t know how to walk you through the last chapters of your life without losing myself, or without feeling like I’m constantly one step behind what’s actually happening. I’m guessing this is only going to get more difficult. I know I’ll continue to step up, but man it’s weighs heavy on me.
But I’m here. I keep showing up, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when I feel helpless, even when I’m scared. I guess that’s what love looks like in this season: not heroic, not cinematic, just consistent. Human. Messy.
If you’re living this too—managing meds and doctor visits and conversations that sometimes go nowhere—just know you’re part of a pretty big club that many of us asked to join. It’s messy and it’s meaningful and it’ll breaks my heart and opens it at the same time.
Todd
PS A week ago Monday, I started the Caregivers Collective- a resource/peer support group open to all to navigate through these times in our lives. If you’re interested in learning more about being a part of this collective, click here. Feel free to email me with questions todd@menliving.org
