Whether it’s the neurologist, cardiologist or podiatrist, my mother and I have had monthly bouts with some unsuspecting member of the medical community. Her Parkinson’s has progressed to the point to prohibit her driving, so I pick her up from her house, help her finish dressing, assist her to the car, and then from the car to the elevator, and finally on to the examination table. I am her daughter, her caregiver, her lifeline. But when the doctor comes through that door, I must hold back. It’s her doctor, her appointment, her body, and yet I am her voice, when she, and when they, choose to listen. (Excerpt from Mothering Mother)
That’s what it’s like to be a caregiver, to wonder what your boundaries are. How much do you say? How much authority do you have? You are the one who will be depended on in the end—by everyone. You will be the one to fill the prescriptions, dole out the meds, notice the tiny shifts in perceptions and abilities, and are ultimately responsible for another person’s care.
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