My older sister made that blunt statement on several occasions. I recall, in the way siblings react as the years of a family become decades, that I mostly ignored her. Maybe once or twice I muttered a reply, a weak disagreement. Why argue who’s right or who’s wrong when we were all, each in our own way, struggling to make sense of a senseless experience?
Our father’s slip-slide into dementia had put a huge burden of caregiving onto our mother. Though her situation (slightly) improved when he was placed in a memory care facility, the emotional, spiritual, financial, and physical costs to Mom were relentless.
She took her wedding vow seriously: for better, for worse; in sickness and health.
Was Dad “killing” her? Was she unfairly wearing out because of the commitment to help her sick, aging, stubborn—and yes, beloved—husband?
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When Mom and Dad were younger, they had a plan for the so-called golden years: live in the house they’d lovingly built into a home until both died in their sleep and then be quietly buried in cemetery plots purchased (and paid off) in the mid-1960s.
Except there was a decade’s difference in their ages. That didn’t matter much when they were raising their kids. It did when Dad could count more than eighty candles on his birthday cake. Read More →by