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 while you and mom were separated, 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
Todd, I’m not in your situation but your words really took me to a place of empathy with you and the other men in your situation. It was a painful but beautiful thing to read.
Feeling your feelings, Todd, as I have spent the last three weeks with my dad as he navigates his final days. ✌️&❤️
Thank you for this, Todd; as you know, I have gone through this myself, with both of my parents. I want you to know you are also not alone in this; caregiving is hard. It just is. Your words are helpful to me, and I appreciate you for saying them “out loud”. ALL of this is real, and raw, and beautiful, and difficult- and I can tell you my own personal experience, there is no “right way”, there is “your way”. The way you choose to go through it, is the right way. Thank you, Todd; you are loved, and you are not alone.
Todd,
I am on the opposite side of the coin you are talking about. I am a 77 year old amputee having lost both legs at the age of 21 when I encountered a booby trap in the jungles of Vietnam.
I have spent 55+ years using prosthetic legs and have been able to do many the things that I have wanted to do. This is all changing, and changing pretty quickly. I am not as strong as I was only two years ago. Up until that time I never used a wheelchair today, however, I am using one quite often without it I would be house bound.
This has me worried, thinking that soon I will become fully dependent on others for things I used to take for granted. It all scares me and I keep telling myself that what is happening will continue, it is just part of the aging process, and that I need to accept and live with it as fully as I can.
I realize that we are both talking about things that may seem to be ouitside of the narrative you are discussing but the two, are in some ways, related I believe.
Everette
Todd,
Having read what I just posted got me thinking that maybe I am otside of your narrative and, therefore, should not have posted but I needed to talk about this.
Everette
Thanks for this Todd. Yeah, the role reversal is wild. You nailed everything. Here’s a suggestion if you’re interested-ask him how you can help. I’m sure you’re doing well in that area. Take care everyone
Everette-it’s not a problem my friend. I’m glad you shared this
❤️🩹
Todd, thanks for sharing your feelings and thoughts about the situation with your Dad. I have been going through a similar experience with my own Dad over the last few months and share a lot of the same thoughts and feelings you expressed. Dan
Every choice feels loaded.
It is disorienting to swing between the truths of this burden and this honor of offering care.
Nature doing its thing cleaves truth: memories & beauty drop heavily to one side…terrors upend all other sides — foundations quake.
This will get more difficult. For some…with fewer resources…it gets worse.
I have grown resentful of my mother as much as she for me for many reasons brought into this season & brought on by this season…until…she forgets time & again and throughout the day.
“Caregiving changes you.” I heard this echoed today in another support group by seven different women…caregivers all…weary…feeling themselves shaped into something else by the experience.
How comfortable are you sitting in a room alone…with the feelings…with their visage?
I avoid when I can…when the hired caregiver is here…but the nightly pained moans and the long weekends?
Nineteen, twenty months in…I’m finally confronting the discomfort & allowing myself to be present in the room with her, splayed out on a plastic covered sofa as she knits yet another scarf to quell the anxiety.
There’s so much to say…but who is really listening? Who are our loved ones becoming? And who are we?
What is nature revealing to us both and to what end?
You are signed up for this.
Breath & presence…staring it squarely in its sunken cheeks, trembling hands and tolerating the entitlement, the rudeness, the meanness, the childlike fears…”Don’t go out at this hour…I don’t want to be alone.”
There are things to know…things I will learn about myself…things I will reject…and, if I’m lucky, things I will integrate for the both of us
I am signed up for this. More of us will be as years are added.
I am learning to radically manage my own expectations.
Thank you for caring enough to share, Todd.
Heartened to have found another space to be witnessed.