Sometimes I Want to Cry and Sometimes I Want to Die

I remember one of the last conversations I had with my paternal grandmother before she passed at the age of ninety four. “Nana, what is it like to almost be one hundred years old?”

She chuckled. “Well, I’m almost on the other side now. Your aunts lose their minds when I tell them I’m tired.” My eyes welled with tears.

“Oh, Nana, no one understands it when I say that. Maybe because I wasn’t born with this disability, they think I mean physically. But I know how you feel. Sometimes, I want to die, Nana. If I could just lie down and go peacefully, I would. My mind, body and soul is tired.”

It is a daily struggle trying to regain my independence when deep down inside I feel that this, having permanent nerve damage, the inability to walk, may be my new normal. I don’t want God to think I’m not grateful for His grace and mercy. It is never lost upon me that some people don’t recover and ultimately pass after suffering a stroke.

My heart is heavy when my 76 year-old mother has to care for me in ways neither one of us ever imagined. She is my mother before she is my caregiver. And yet, the guilt is overwhelming. I’m supposed to be her caregiver. These are supposed to be her golden years.

As with most caregivers, she doesn’t realize that she needs support as well. No matter how much she loves me, she cannot do it all. The feeling of being a burden seeps in, not only with my mother but with my children. I don’t want to be a burden on anyone. My son and daughter-in-law blessed me with three beautiful, vivacious and healthy grandchildren. Having a family of five takes hard work, love and sacrifice.

Six months ago, I was discharged from a nursing home stay on a Saturday evening. I was on a plane to Chicago the next morning. My children implored me to visit so I could give my mother a much-needed break. Our reasons for my visit were vastly different. I knew seeing my grandbabies would lift my spirits. But more importantly, I needed to see if my children could and would take care of me. My heart soared when they made sure I had everything I needed. Every other night they got on either side of me and carried me up the steps to their guest room. We cackled when I made my son grab my feet and drag me to the room as if he were hiding a dead body. I knew they were exhausted from working and parenting.

My grandson often followed me down the hall with a wheelchair as I walked with a walker. My granddaughters looked concerned as I explained to them the injuries I sustained from an electrical fire. I wanted to cry when the seven year-old asked me to teach her how to clean my open wound. The three year-old thought she wanted to help until I showed her how to put on rubber gloves and removed the bandage.

I said, “Are you sure you want to help Nana?” I laughed out loud when she pulled her crooked gloves off and said, “nope” before running out the room.

My heart was full knowing that whenever the time comes, my babies will take care of me. Until then, I will try to get stronger each day. I will cherish and spoil my mother in ways that bring her joy. I will soldier on until God says, Well Done.