I’ve been caring for my parents—both in their early 80s—for over three years now. It started when my mom fell. She didn’t break anything, but she couldn’t get back up. Literally. Her body just didn’t have the strength. She already had severe edema from past cancer treatments, and her overall health had declined so much that even the walker she used became difficult to manage.
That fall kicked off a long chain of hospitalizations and stays in skilled nursing facilities. Three different rounds in a single year. Hospital, then rehab. Hospital, then rehab again. It was like a revolving door. Each time, the hospital would keep her just long enough, then send her to the same care facility where the staff ranged from “I love this job” to “this is the only job I could get.” And then eventually—home. Until it started again.
My mom’s in chronic pain every day. She’s been on Oxy for so long that it doesn’t work anymore. But she’s not eligible for surgeries to improve things—her knee, her shoulder, her general condition—because she’s considered too unhealthy to operate on. It’s this strange and infuriating limbo where nothing is actively killing her, but everything is deteriorating. Slowly. And painfully.
My dad is in better shape, but last year he had a hip replacement that took him out for months. During that time, I was at their house every single day. Five to seven days a week, making sure they were fed, the laundry was done, my mom got help bathing, and the kitchen was cleaned. Even now, I’m still there three or four days a week. I usually get there before 8 AM and don’t leave until after dinner.
People ask me, “Why don’t they move into a facility?” And I tell them: they won’t. They absolutely refuse to leave their home. My dad said moving would kill them both. So we make do. My brother helps too—he’s a firefighter, so his schedule is unpredictable, but he’s great with getting my mom to appointments and physically helping in ways I can’t. Still, I’m the one who can be there regularly, and that often means rearranging my full-time job around their needs.
One of the hardest parts was realizing no one in the healthcare system was going to help us navigate this. When my mom first went in, I kept asking: what now? What resources are available? And everyone—from the hospital caseworker to Medicaid—basically said, “Not our job.” I remember one of her doctors suggested palliative care, but she wasn’t dying. Just aging. Slowly, painfully, and without a clear medical path forward. No one could tell us what to do next.
I documented everything. Took notes. Researched like crazy. I looked into hybrid care models, nursing homes, private pay options—but everything boiled down to this: either you’re wealthy and can afford in-home care, or you’re broke and qualify for institutional support. There’s no middle ground. And we live in that in-between.
In the hospital, I brought her real food because the meals were terrible. In the rehab center, I brought her own clothes, her pillow, her blanket. My dad would bring the dogs to visit. We tried to preserve whatever dignity and comfort we could. But it was never enough to really help her feel okay.
People think caregiving is hard. And they’re right. But what they often don’t understand is how it’s all consuming. Even when I’m not physically there, I’m mentally clocked in. Worrying. Planning. Waiting for the next crisis. I’m grateful I can be there, but I’m also exhausted. Some days I’m so wiped that the idea of dinner with a friend feels impossible. Not because I don’t want to go—but because I’ve got nothing left.
What gets me through? Honestly, not a lot. There hasn’t been a moment of real hope in years. But I do have support. My husband is amazing. I have friends that have been through something similar and who let me cry on their couch when I need it. Music helps. Reading helps. But mostly, it’s the people who let me say, “I’m at my breaking point,” and don’t try to fix it—just sit with me in it.
If I could tell myself one thing three years ago, it would be: this is not temporary. This is your life now. Plan for it.
We’ve started getting things in order—documents, finances, what-if scenarios. But my parents won’t talk about what happens when my mom can’t walk anymore. And we’re close to that point. She fell again recently, and now my dad follows her around with a wheelchair, just in case.
I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m exhausted. But I’m still here. Because they’re still here. And there’s no manual for this. There’s just love, grit, and a circle of people who help me keep going.
