We learn what we let in

I've taken care of three loved ones. First was my husband, who suffered a severe traumatic injury in a bicycle accident in 2002. He taught me endurance and patience. For nearly two years, he struggled to regain the use of his left side, to rekindle his memory and to restart his life. His recovery was a near miracle and was so grueling, it left me with post traumatic stress, a stiff neck, and some emotional baggage. Thankfully, my happy gene and lots of support from family and friends helped me remain sane. Once he was back to work, my dad's health deterioriated. His problems were many: heart disease, diabetes, weak lungs, and vascular dementia kept me busy with many doctor visits, falling injuries, emergency room visits, and his ultimate death. He taught me to see the lighter side of everything, including sickness. "Death is a part of life," he'd say, "It's all just a cycle." No matter how horrible he felt, he always lit up when he saw me. He was my "strong dad" to the end, if not in body, in spirit. And now I care for my mother, the woman who has been my rock through all these other times. She has encouraged me, advised me and let me cry on her shoulder. She lives upstairs in my house and is in hospice care with COPD, a prisoner of her own immobility. Moving takes her breath away, so she mostly sits and reads in her cardigan and pearls, sitting straight as a lady at tea, blue eyes shining. She's taught me too many lessons to write here. She's modeling how I should gracefully accept my own final days on earth with dignity and gratitude. So caregiving is also care-receiving. We learn from those we care for. Their job is harder, because they are trapped in bodies that won't cooperate anymore. I, at least, can go for a stroll in the sunshine, get away, run if I want. It's harder to receive than to give at the end of life, especially if you spent your life giving.