Our family members have returned to their homes across the United States. This girl was exhausted when ten days drew to a close, but I wouldn’t trade even one precious moment. Being a mom is challenging, hard work, but it’s full of rewarding and lighthearted moments you hold in your heart as memories forever. You laugh and cry with your offspring. Sometimes you worry about them more than other times. My children have taught me I’ve done well and where I wish I could have done better — most parents experience both situations. Parents are caregivers.

This week I had an unexpected conversation with a caregiver with a different role who wants to tell her story but is concerned about sharing because it’s her story but involves her loved ones. So I shared one of many lessons I learned from caring for my cousin.

Betty was in hospice care, dying from a rare breast cancer. The doctor told her she had two weeks, so I assumed I would soon be back from Delaware to rejoin my home, business, and community. God had other plans.  My stay turned into nearly four months. As the first two weeks neared, I felt stressed and irritated. I knew God’s timeline wasn’t mine, but I wanted to be home. Betty was uncooperative, demanding, and unappreciative. Whatever I did, it didn’t seem to be enough.

One afternoon, when I returned indoors, Betty sensed I was irritated and unhappy. She wanted me to talk. I said I wasn’t ready. She said she wouldn’t eat unless I did. We’re both stubborn but also have a quirky sense of humor. I giggled and tossed back at her, “You’re dying; that’s not much of a threat.” This exchange broke the ice. I pulled up her needlepoint footstool, took her hands in mine, and encouraged her to speak first.

“I’m the one dying; this is about me.” she began and told me what she felt. When it was my turn, she immediately interrupted. I reminded her quietly that I had listened to her patiently; it was my turn. I told her I loved her or wouldn’t be there, but there had to be give and take. Yes, she was the one dying, but I had given up my family, community, and business. We needed to respect each other for this to work, or I firmly said —-I would go home.

Our heartfelt chat cleared the air. Over the next few months, we developed a symbiotic relationship. I learned much about myself from my experience caring for Betty, especially learning that doing hard things with a heart makes the doing easier. Besides caring for her physical needs, I helped her heal her past and, thus, healed her heart before passing.

Whatever our caregiver’s role, our story matters. It is about those we care for, but it’s also about how it affects us with challenges and rewards. Collectively, our stories help us all learn how to live, love, and die.

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