My 83-year-old mother came to live with me a year ago last November. She was very ill and I had to put my life on hold to care for her.
Each morning, I got her up and dressed her and made her breakfast and sat with her. I rushed for a bowl when she felt sick, and lit fires to keep her warm. I cooked and persuaded her to take a few bites.
It's a hard job caring for a sick or dying parent, whoever you are. But it was especially hard for me, I feel, because I am a doctor myself. I couldn't help looking at her in two different ways. The medical professional saw a body and scrutinized it with the coldness that medicine requires. But the daughter saw the woman who had given birth to me, wiped my nose, sent me off to college and had been a constant presence in my life for over half a century.
Also, my mother didn't appreciate how hard it was for me to care for her. I remember an exchange between her and the nurse who came to see her once a week:
"You could get some more help with care."
"Oh, I don't think I need that," Mom said.
Mom didn't understand that the help would have taken some of the burden off me. None of the treatments her doctors gave her worked, and finally her life became about comfort. She refused painkillers (止痛药) for a long time, but finally the pain convinced her. And when she accepted the painkillers she accepted the fact that she would die.
Illness and needs took us across personal boundaries I'd never before considered. And yet, while living and being and dying with Mom I witnessed something precious dawning. We became closer. We shared so many stories from our past that it was as if our memories had become one.
In the past our relationship had been difficult. We had often argued. But when the end came, both of us simply accepted that we looked at the world in different ways. We were daughter and mother and we loved each other. That was all that mattered.
