The Irony of Caregiving

By Susan Knight

 

So, the day I got my cast off, Number One Son tells me the news he has been saving up until my recuperation looked optimistic.

 

“Mom, I’m moving out at the end of the month.”

 

Ever since my divorce, and my move to Utah, this sweet man has felt obligated to look after me. He has been my protector since he was a young teenager and has had that role for many years now.

 

When the lease was up on his apartment, and a few months after I bought my house, Number One decided he should live with me—for a few months. I was just getting used to living on my own, but I welcomed him.

 

A few months later I stood on a wobbly ladder that collapsed and fell, mangling my ankle. A wonderful caregiver, my son took days off of work to take care of me, take me to doctor’s appointments, make my meals, and even drive me to work when I could first go back after surgery.

 

"Mom, you took care of me when I was a kid," was all he said when I thanked him.

 

My oldest has come full circle with me as I convalesce from a second surgery on my ankle.

 

It’s about time he gets out on his own. He needs to live his life and not fret about me. Since I am his mother, I will always worry about him, but that’s beside the point.

 

 “Good luck. Remember who you are,” I said to him with trepidation when he told me the news of his move. I told myself, "He's a grown man. What are you so worried about?"

 

 "I'll only be a few miles down the road," he assured me. "We'll still have Sunday dinners together."

 

 My son is setting me free and I am letting him go. It's good to see he is easing back on his concern.

 

After all, my youngest daughter and her husband have moved in.