The time has come for me to take care of my parents. The time has come to grow up. Taking care of one's parent's is a different kind of growing up, than when you take care of your kids.
I wish things could be different. I wish they were young and healthy and traveling the world, instead of struggling with the pain, which is unfairly heaped upon the elderly.
Why does growing old have to be so hard?
There is no reason one should suffer the humiliation of diminished thought, the pain from their bodies breaking down, the remorse from the death of their mate and the fear of loneliness.
When I was a little girl, my brownie troop used to sing songs for the folks at the nursing home. We would be cheerful, and smile and hold hands. Some of the residents sang along, some cried. Then we would leave them and it broke my heart.
When I was in college, I volunteered at a nursing home and worked on the Alzheimer’s floor. The dementia wasn't the bad part. It was bad when one would come out of it and realize that their family was gone and that they had a horrible disease. Holding them then, broke my heart. It still does.
I'm telling you this because several of my friends think I'm crazy by bringing my folks here. They know how my mom can drive me out of my head. But I have come to realize that if I let them grow old alone and without the help from me, that would also break my heart.
I think this can be a good thing.