Even Beside My Mother, I Was the One Who Had Run Out

Around four on a Sunday afternoon, the house is at its quietest. My mother has fallen asleep for her nap, and I'm sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of cold tea in front of me. This is supposed to be my time to rest, but it doesn't feel like rest.

Ever since my mother's body became unwell, our days have run on her schedule. Mealtimes, hospital days, opening her bedroom door once each night to check. None of it is hard by itself, but having no day off has built up in my body. I can hardly remember now when I last met a friend on a weekend. On the refrigerator door, notes with the times for medicine and the hospital appointments are stuck on, layer over layer.

What was harder was my heart. I don't dislike taking care of my mother, yet every time I felt worn out, guilt followed. The one having the hardest time is my mother, so is it all right for me to say I'm tired? To my siblings I had been answering, "I'm fine, it's manageable." Every time I said it, I felt myself growing a little more transparent. The second hand of the wall clock sounded louder than usual. The shadow of a leaf from the plant by the window was slowly moving across the table.

Being tired and not loving were different things

I sat at the table and thought for a long time. That I'm tired doesn't mean my heart has gone cold. It isn't strange for someone who has stayed by a person's side for a long time to get tired. I can't be the one to put a name on what state this is, so I'm looking into whether I could bring it up with someone close to me or with a group for family caregivers. I took a sip of the cold tea, and only the bitterness was left. Only then did I notice there was almost no strength in my fingertips as I set the cup down.

Then I opened still() and read today's verse.

My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth.

Psalm 121:2 (WEB)

It's a short sentence, but my shoulders came down a little. It read to me as saying I don't have to carry everything alone. It also read as saying that telling someone I need help is not a weakness.

I heard my mother stirring in her room. I got up, poured her some water, and came back and sat down. This evening I plan to call my younger sibling and ask whether they could come in my place for one day next weekend. Even if they say no, I decided that having asked is enough. When I put the cup down beside the bed, my mother said a quiet thank you with her eyes closed. Before closing the door, I stood at the threshold for a moment and took one breath. The afternoon sunlight lay long across the hallway.

Today's breath — Today I'm someone who needs care too. Slowly drink a glass of water.