One role I never thought I'd find myself in at any point in my life is the role of caretaker, and yet that is my role now, in relation to my mother Elva Hasty Thompson, who turned 84 last Sunday.
I won't lie about it. There are good days and bad days.
My patience is often strained but not because Mom is difficult. I just get frustrated with her lack of ability to do the things she used to do.
I reckon God just thought I needed to learn more about caring and patience, and since I adopted older kids I didn't get those lessons earlier in my life.
Most women at some time in their lives find themselves caretaking for either a child or a parent. The two roles are very different, however.
With a baby, you are watching a personal evolution that is breathtaking, in most cases.
I remember years ago an attorney I worked for -- but who was the most unemotional, reserved man -- say "The best part of my life was when my daughter was born, watching her grow and learn, and explore the world. Fascinating." It made me like him a lot more than I had before that.
With an older person, however, you are watching them become more and more feeble, and it's painful to observe, particularly if you love them.
This photo shows my mother the way I think of her, the way I have known her for most of my life.
Mom always liked to get out and work in her garden, and she would always wear tops like this so she could "get a little sun." Ironic, since her mother always told me sternly to stay OUT of the sun because it ruins the skin.
Memaw [my grandmother] had soft white skin her entire life, and never a bit of a suntan. I used to pat her face sometimes or kiss her cheek and marvel at its exquisite softness, like a pillow scented with Coty's L'Origan or Estee Lauder's Youth Dew.
My mother, however, has always had great faith in the restorative powers of sunshine, fresh air, flowers, and just being outside.
My father would always come home from work, change out of his business suit and into "play clothes" and he would fix Mom a drink and they would walk around out in the yard for a while before supper. That was only curtailed if the weather was really cold or foul.
She said the hardest thing about widowhood was expecting him to walk in the door every night by 6 p.m.
My mom seldom leaves her room now, and hasn't gardened in years.
One of my cousins sent her a gorgeous poinsettia plant before Christmas, and my son got her some beautiful flowers for her birthday. She likes to have living things in her room.
I do the same things for her every day: helping her dress, fixing her meals and taking them to her in her room, loading new books on her Kindle, getting her settled in for a nap or for sleeping at night. Occasionally I have to help her in the bathroom.
I try to remember this: she won't be here forever. I won't be doing this ten years from now.
When Mom was in the rehab place for 6 weeks last summer I didn't rejoice in my freedom. I didn't hang out with friends and go places more. In fact, I was miserable. Michael wasn't living at home. I was living alone. I hated it. I also worried about Mom and how she was being treated at the rehab place. Some of the nurses were not very nice, although I think most were.
Mom didn't have access to her computer, which was very depressing to her. She loves to get on the computer and scroll her Facebook feed, check her email messages, Google topics of interest.
Elva also plays with Lola, calls her friends on the phone, watches TV. She watches very little TV. She reads several books a week.
My constant prayer is that she will not be in pain and she will have a good quality of life. My job is to make sure of both.
When my father was dying, Bruce and I promised him that we would take care of Mom. She had never lived alone until that time. For 9 years she lived alone in Augusta and managed fine. Since 2005 she has lived with me, and I think we have done a pretty decent job of having a nice life together, despite some of the drama caused by parenting.
About the time my parenting role was scaled back 90%, my caretaking role increased. At first, I didn't handle it well. I have gotten better, I think.
There are rewards to being a caretaker, that probably seldom get mentioned.
I can always talk to Mom. She's always here. Elva is a rich source of information and advice. She is a fascinating source of information about the family, politics, friends from long ago, religion, etc. I am very blessed to have been born to a mama who was/is not only beautiful but brilliant and funny.
She is an example of grace. They do not make ladies like her any more -- the home health nurses and therapists who come to the house always come in businesslike and efficient, and leave smiling and relaxed, having chatted with Mom. She asks them about their families. She tells me to copy recipes for them. She is unfailingly cheerful and chatty with them.
Elva rarely ever fusses at Michael, even though he gets on her nerves occasionally. They have a beautiful relationship. One day when she is gone he will regret not talking to her more, but so be it. He just wants to "hang out" with friends right now, when he isn't working.
To me, she is a cheerleader -- always encouraging about my writing efforts and supportive of my struggles as a parent. I always tell people I am a single mom but not really. When you have your mama in the house you are not parenting alone.
One day I will be done with my caretaking duties, but I will not be smiling and happy and thrilled to be out from under the caretaking burdens. I will miss Mom very, very much. I will try not to dwell on the sadness, though. I will try to be thankful for the gift of time with her, because that time has enriched my life beyond measure.
Nobody else will ever love me the same way, either.
Before then, there will be more good days and some bad days.
All of them though, the good and the bad days, all of them are gifts.