A Different Way of Caregiving

My grandmother spent many of her final months in a nursing facility. I was responsible for her care; she’d asked me years before to make all her medical decisions when she could no longer make them herself. It was hard to move her into the care facility, and I felt especially guilty that I wasn’t the one doing the “dirty work” of changing her linens and bedpans anymore.

When I’d go to visit, she often spoke about going home. Until one day, when she had a different idea.

“I’ve been mulling it over,” she said. “I think it would take a lot to move.”

“That’s probably true,” I said.

“Because I’m no spring chicken,” she told me.

My grandmother had always had a quick wit, so I asked, “What type of chicken are you then?”

“I’m a winter one!”

Months later, toward the end, she was mostly quiet. One day, she turned to me and said, “I’m sorry I’m not talking much today.”

“It’s okay.” I placed my hand in hers.

“I had a busy morning. I had some meetings,” she said, and closed her eyes to rest.

Even though I wasn’t doing the “dirty work” anymore, I was still caring for her by listening and being by her side.