An actual account of events. - My mom is approaching her final days, yet I long to hit the gym.
At night, my dad asks for gauze bandages. I'm watching something with Heinz Rühmann on TV. It's November 1981, and my mom is gone.
He wants the bandages for Mom's chin. I know where they are. But what do I do with myself? For the past two years, we've been looking after the woman upstairs who had cancer. My father didn't give up, and despite not being an exceptional athlete, I joined him. I wasn't getting rid of my career - I was just a 15-year-old boy trying to help.
My dad wasn't giving up, and neither should I. But who was I to sacrifice anything? I was torn between wanting to continue training and caring for my mom.
With her illness, I developed a strong bond with her. Seeing her deteriorate, feeling my compassion, was hard. It was difficult to see her grabbing a plastic knife and trying to slice at my wrists.
"Mom, why are you doing that?"
"I don't want to be alone."
The silicone breast hung on the radiator, drying. We both knew this was it. Cancer spread, one surgery after another. We converted a VW LT28 into a camper, opting for a challenging gear shifter. Out of compassion, I shifted gears for my mother when she couldn't.
It felt like a battle against invisible enemies. The illness took its toll, chipping away our family's health. A wistful feeling overcame me as my mother's body began to decay.
When she would panic, I'd hold her hand to calm her. After the first mastectomy, I helped her to the bathroom. I brought her anything she needed. But I was just a teenager; I couldn't fix her.
The cancer spread. Pills and injections didn't help. Sometimes, I could fix her gestures or bring her medications. Most of the time, though, I could only wait. Waiting when I couldn't help was tough. Waiting turned into a lifelong commitment, testing me and my family's resolve.
One night, we got a call. "Come quickly," the voice told us. "It's the end."
My dad woke me up and grabbed the steering wheel, racing to the hospital. He pushed the pedal, ignoring ice and speed limits.
At the hospital, they wanted to give my mom part of a planned penicillin infusion to help her. But a full infusion was too dangerous. They couldn't get her to swallow the huge pill.
So my dad swallowed the pill. With a determined look, he proved it could be done.
She died. I'm still here.
Caring for a terminally ill person was like tilting at windmills for me. I felt helpless, even though I did anything I could at the time.
I started a therapy program when I was 39, thinking it would help me cope. My mother had passed at the same age, and yet I had a drive to survive. It didn't make sense, but I had to keep living.
My therapist finally addressed my struggles. "Mr. Engel, bringing your son into such a situation when he was still a child was incredibly irresponsible." But if anyone was to blame, it wasn't just me or my father; we were reacting mindlessly to the situation. It was the cancer that controlled the situation, and the battle felt hopeless.
Years later, I realized that we were humans, trying our best to cope with a situation we couldn't change. Every moment we had was valuable, regardless of how tough it was. If I could survive this, I could withstand anything.
Just as my father did that night in the car. When we spun out of control, he held my shoulder. With his one good arm, he held me tight and reassured me.
Caring for a dying loved one is like a dance. It isn't about saving them, or even holding their hand. It's about turning together, even when life twists us in unexpected ways. It's about supporting each other, finding strength in every moment. And even as our lives continue apart, there are moments when we reconnect - like that, with an arm outstretched.
Growing up, my dad had two siblings with his single mother after the war. They took turns caring for their disabled grandfather. So one child was always with grandpa, while another had to live in a home, and the third stayed with their mom. After a while, they switched positions and continued the cycle. It's doubtful that my father knew any better during that time than to involve his son in his mother's troubled care.
Reflecting on this, though, if I had to choose whether to relive this journey, I'd say: I don't have any regrets, but - no, I'd prefer not to.
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Source: symclub.org
