Missing My Mother at Christmas: The End of Caregiving

Getty Images Facebook Twitter LinkedIn

It was the perfect undershirt: 100 percent cotton, a V-neck and not too clingy.

Finding gifts for her was always hard because only “useful” items would do. I reached for the phone to call her. She was a practical person, not partial to surprises, so I always liked to

check my instincts. 

And then I felt it. In the two seconds between finding the shirt and reaching for the phone, I felt the gut-punch reminder that she was gone.

My mother passed away 11 months ago, but the desire to talk, to tell her the latest and hear her voice, was on a kind of autopilot. That connection was hardwired, the red light on the

electronic device indicating it’s connected to the power source, even though it’s off.

How AR/VR can help caregiversFaith and spirituality in caregivingBe proactive about Alzheimer'sChasing satisfaction, not happinessFeeling angry? You are not alone

For almost two decades, my parents lived four hours away. Like so many long-distance caregivers, I’d look at the calendar and plan a visit, once or sometimes twice a month.

When medical appointments or other mini-crises would pop up, we three sisters would shuffle our weeks around to be there, two of us hoping to ease the load of the sister who lived just 20

minutes away. I was like a homing pigeon, set to make the journey, sometimes with an overnight, other times, with work and kids still at home, doing it in a day.

I didn’t call it caregiving, didn’t think of it as caregiving. I was simply a daughter visiting her parents, checking on their well-being and trying to spend time together as they moved

toward the end of their lives. But anyone who has a front-row seat to that seesaw moment when the roles reverse — when a parent becomes dependent on an adult child — can relate to the sorrow

that realization brings.