Caretaker

I remember the taxi ride back up to Ellenville.  I was to be her "caretaker" I didn’t really know what that meant. I just knew she had cancer and needed someone there. I wasn’t trained for it. I wasn’t a nurse or a doctor. I just figured being her son would be enough.

At that point, my own life was starting to move forward. I had this strange momentum online, getting consulting offers, people reaching out from big companies. It felt weird to walk away from all that, but I didn’t think twice about it. She needed me, and I told myself I’d figure it out as I went.

The first few weeks were okay. We made spreadsheets to keep track of her pills and appointments. I drove her to chemo. At night, we’d watch Star Trek: The Next Generation. She really loved that show, and I grew to love watching it with her. It gave both of us something to talk about that wasn’t sickness.

Over time, things got harder. My brothers helped when they could, coming up for weekends or covering shifts so I could rest. Sometimes I went back to the city to breathe a little, and each time I returned, she seemed a little weaker. It was like the change was happening right in front of us, but none of us wanted to say it out loud.

By March, everything felt different. There was a clear before and after. She’d gone to stay with my younger brother for a bit, and when I saw her again, she wasn’t the same. The fridge was full of juices and soups and other small attempts at pretending things would turn around, but they didn’t.

One day at chemo, she had an allergic reaction, and they had to stop treatment. I remember sitting there realizing that this wasn’t just a setback. It was a turn. The kind you don’t come back from.

When she came home, I tried to make the house feel normal again. I cleaned, lit candles, set things up the way she liked them, but it didn’t matter. Within weeks, she started fading fast. It was hard to make sense of how someone so strong and full of life could disappear like that. My mom was the kind of person who filled a room. She was tough, loud, funny, impossible to ignore. Watching her become frail was unreal.

Eventually, we had to accept that she needed more care than we could give. Her doctor said it was time for hospice. The nurse came the next day, and she was gentle and calm in a way that shifted the whole house. She knew what to do, how to move, how to make my mom more comfortable. It was the first time in months that things felt still.

That’s where this part of the story ends. Right before everything slowed down and we started to understand what was really happening.