Did you miss me? Probably not. With summer in the middle, I imagine you were busy with the sun, the beach, the pool, the mountains, or whatever else you were up to. I have to say that these vacations have been somewhat strange because, in reality, I wasn’t on vacation (or well, in “prolonged forced vacations,” to put it somehow, without saying too much). My mother is in palliative care, and I can’t leave home for many days, just in case. Today, I want to continue The Caregiver Chronicles because it’s important to cover every part of caregiving and explain it exactly as I’m living it. Let’s begin, or rather, let’s continue…

I started these chronicles because I wanted (and still want) to explain without filters what it’s really like to care for someone dependent, how it feels to be a caregiver. Why did I want to do this? Because it was necessary for my own well-being. I’ve mentioned it many times: you are my therapists (without me having to pay you—what a bargain! Haha). Writing is an escape for me, allowing me to express my deepest feelings and lighten my soul a little. Many of the chronicles have been funny, others sad, but always narrating the harsh reality.

We’re already in the final stage. I’ve watched my mother deteriorate before my eyes, little by little. It started with small forgetfulness, repeating things she told me. Then came forgetting names and people (including mine). She moved on to forgetting how to do daily things. Diapers arrived, little appetite, seeing people who aren’t there, inability to walk, trouble swallowing liquids… It’s been like a regression in a child’s development.

The routines have changed. Before, we had to monitor her 24/7 so she wouldn’t get up at night and try to escape. Now, she can’t escape because she can’t get out of bed. She sleeps all day if we let her and weighs 30 kilos.

We’ve decided we don’t want to prolong her suffering and have opted for palliative care at home. What does this mean? It means that, whatever happens, she won’t be taken to a hospital, and all care will be done at home. We’re part of the palliative care program at the health center, where a doctor visits us at home or calls us once a week to see how things are going. We have an emergency number for any doubts, but there will be no ambulance for her, no transfusions, no medications to prolong what is already written.

We have to wait—wait until the day her contract on this plane is fulfilled. I just finished reading a book about the afterlife, and it talks about reincarnation and the possibility that, when we die and are reborn, we sign a contract with all the lessons we need to learn, with the people we wish to learn them with, and the duration of that contract. I believe she has fulfilled her contract perfectly. She has been a good daughter, mother, wife, sister, grandmother, and friend. She has been exceedingly good from my point of view; she’s given everything. I think she’s one of the least selfish people I’ve ever known. She’s been very open-minded and modern, she’s always been a good listener and given great advice. She’s always told me things like, “You’re so beautiful” or “You can achieve anything you set your mind to.” She’s always supported me in all my crazy ideas, never judged me, and has been very funny. Those who have known her in her best moments will, I think, agree with me.

In part, I want this wait to be long, but at the same time, I hope it’s short. I’m not sure if you understand me. If she could see herself now, I don’t think she’d be very happy with the situation. She’s always been the caregiver, and even now, it’s hard for her to be “the cared for.” On many occasions, in the few times she speaks, she tells me: “Thank you so much, thank you so much,” “You’re an angel,” “Poor thing, I’m sorry you have to take care of me,” “Can I help you?”, “Do you want my cookie?”, “You look beautiful” (me, just waking up with an awful face, haha).

I’ll wait as best I can, I’ll wait close to her, I’ll wait patiently, I’ll wait with joy, I’ll wait until she comes back again and we meet once more…