Finished Bathing Mom — Love, Tears and a Father’s Hug

In her weakest moment, I found my strength

I had no idea how this would turn out.

The only being I had ever lovingly bathed was my faithful canine companion. And this was nothing like it.

Never did I foresee the challenges of the task at hand. Sometimes, you can be so unaware of certain realities that it’s utterly baffling when you actually have to go through them.

The struggle to ease my mother into the bath chair, crafted with such care by dad and me, was a bold revelation of my unpreparedness. I thought maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Perhaps mom wasn’t in the safest hands.

Perhaps we should’ve outsourced this gig?

I feared I was about to falter in my task. Countless setbacks flooded my mind.

What if she fell?

What if I did?

What if she felt ill?

What if I’m not taking good enough care of her?

Should I speak to her as she did to me during bath time in my childhood? Her voice had always made my showers so soothing.

I ceased my questions, and let heart’s choice reign. I talked to her, hoping my words would mirror the gentle cadence of hers, years ago.

The mental commotion faded, and there we were. Mom and I. And the hypnotical rhythm of water cascading down my back.

Cool water, her perennial favorite.

Grasping the shower’s lifeline, I baptized her hair with care, weaving in shampoo with the mindfulness of a meditation guru. Serenity reigned; all was as it should be. A true relief for this rookie caregiver.

What more could I ask for?

“I think I’ve got this”, I thought.

“How about I lift you for a better scrub down your back”, I said.

She nodded.

Summoning her residual strength, she propelled herself, aiding me as I lifted her. My arms quivered under the strain. She held on for dear life, leaving an ‘I was here’ mark on my skin. Her head found solace against my chest, nestled just beneath my neck.

Trying to hold back the tears was a futile task. Never had vulnerability felt so vivid, so achingly real.

Her love was palpable, even without uttering a word. But in her own way, she was telling me all was well. And that was all I really needed.

She refused to sit again, opting instead for the support of my frame. I knew she was doing her best to cooperate, even though she knew it would still be hard for both of us.

We stayed there, a moment that never really ended…

and never will, for as long as I live…

…

Then I escorted her out of the shower.

She told me she was feeling exhausted and short of breath, so I let her rest on the toilet seat to take a break.

Shower mission accomplished. Achievement unlocked. Apparently.

How we got there…

Four and a half months have passed since then.

Diagnosed with congestive heart failure, she had faced the ordeal of two hospitalizations in as many months.

After her first hospital visit, we saw some improvement, but then she started having bathroom accidents that never reverted. The second hospital stay was discouraging, and you could sense the tough road ahead as she was discharged.

Her condition just kept getting worse over the next week. She became nearly unresponsive, struggling to move. It was tough.

It was during this challenging time that I decided to put my caregiving skills to test.

After I finished grooming her, I called upon dad for a task of great magnitude: to transport mom to her bed. Her limited mobility demanded an enormous effort. Together, we bore the weight through the narrower than ever aisle. Finally reaching the bed was a relief, but the real challenge lay in getting her settled.

Ever-present, my dog stood vigil. Mom caught his gaze. “He’s so noble, always by my side”, she whispered.

“That’s because he knows how much you need him, mom”, I replied.

She smiled.

As we laid her down, her body leaned like the Tower of Pisa, and discomfort showed on her face, prompting us to gently reposition her.

“I’ll move her from her arms and back, you grab her legs”, dad suggested. It seemed like a sensible plan.

“Alright, but be careful with her right shoulder. We’ll move her on the count of three, okay? 1…2…3…Good Lord…”.

We stood there catching our breath.

“Let’s move her two more inches to the right, she’s too close to the edge”, he instructed.

Despite our efforts, dad remained unconvinced.

“Let’s try again, just a few inches higher; she’s sinking there.”

We stood beside her, gazing down as if from another realm. Our task was complete, or so it seemed.

“Feels like placing a body in a coffin”, dad remarked.

She soon drifted off to sleep. We, drained by the maneuver, retreated to the living room. It was quiet there, with no TV or music, just dim lighting. We weren’t hungry at all. Minutes passed in silence before I finally broke down, crying like I hadn’t in years. Dad held me tight.

“This is a process” — he said — “and as such it will come to an end. There’s little we can do beyond what we’re doing.”

Then, in the dead of night, mom’s breathing became labored. We made the decision to call emergency services. Upon their arrival and assessment, they decided it was hospital trip number three for her.

For about a week, she seemed to slip away with each ticking minute. We even discussed what seemed like her inevitable demise.

It was then that I started to grieve.

Tears blurred my vision behind the wheel, as memories of mom, of the two of us, of the three of us, of the four of us — though my brother had been distant, save for rare moments — haunted me.

Memories I didn’t even realize I had within me suddenly came to life.

I laughed with all my heart.

I cried with all my heart.

I resisted with all my heart.

And then, I let go… with all my heart.

I prayed, something I rarely did. My exact words were, “Please, don’t let her suffer. Let her go serenely, or, if it’s not too much to ask, give us a miracle. Thank you.”

Days went by.

Not much changed.

They kept on monitoring her heart, which appeared to be functioning normally.

On her fourth day in hospital, a new internal medicine doctor suspected that mom might have a urinary tract infection. Additionally, her joints had become increasingly swollen and had started to turn red. It was painful to look at her.

Diagnosis: Rheumatoid Arthritis.

She was immediately put on prednisone. Her steady journey to better days started.

We got another chance…

Only a pair of sunrises later, she was already cracking jokes and asking me to help her into a chair because she was tired of lying in that hospital bed. She even invited me on a walk down the aisle.

A few days after that, she was discharged and sent home. The next morning, she was back in the kitchen, her favorite place, cooking up her favorite meals.

As I write this, she stands stronger than the past five years have ever seen.

I look upwards, somewhere. I smile, complacent, brimming with gratitude, as I think, “Now you’re showing off”.

“Thank you.”

I will always be deeply grateful for how things have turned out. I refuse to dwell on the future or to ponder the length of time we have left.…Right now, mom’s here with us, she’s doing great, and that’s all that truly matters.

Thanks for reading!