The Time Loop | Diary of a Grieving Mother

Note from Mary-Jo: This entry reflects on caregiving, family, and the unexpected ways life comes full circle. Grief has a way of reminding us of the future we lost, but sometimes it quietly reveals blessings we didn't realize we'd already lived.

The Loop

Truly strange how time creates a loop.

It's something I've thought and talked about over the years: parents take care of children, and eventually those children take care of the parents.

Which is exactly how it should be.

Recently, my mom and I have had a little taste of that loop, and we've embraced it.

She had surgery. Two, in fact. Back-to-back spine surgeries. So I've been temporarily living with my parents to help her recover.

The number of times we've burst out laughing as I try to pull up her pants, help her shower, or even pull her hair into a bun is higher than I have fingers and toes.

We laugh because many years ago this scenario was flipped!

At least I'm nicer about the hair brushing...

80's moms brushed hair without grace or apology, then pulled it into a hair tie so tight your eyebrows practically met your hairline.

Our cries of, "Ow! That hurts!" were usually met with an immediate,

"You're fine. Stop whining."

Last night, as I was helping Mom get ready for bed, I accidentally caught a knot a little harder than I meant to.

She tilted her head away and said, "Ow, Mary!"

Without even thinking, I answered in exactly the same tone she used on me forty years ago.

"Stop fidgeting. I'm almost done."

She knew I was kidding.

The memory was instant for both of us.

We laughed so hard we had to stop what we were doing.

Granted, then she was saying "Ow!" because laughing hurt her stitched back.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I kept saying through hiccupping laughter.

Helping her into bed every night has become a five-minute game of rearranging pillows.

"How's that?"

"Nope."

Pull every pillow away, carefully.

Start again.

And just when she felt settled, she'd look at me and say, "Not working."

Start again!

At first, after surgery, she'd instinctively try covering herself with a towel while I helped her. Eventually she gave up. It simply took too much energy trying to preserve her dignity while also trying to stand.

Me?

None of it fazes me.

She's my mom.

She needs me.

Besides, after the number of surgeries I've had, I honestly wouldn't care if a complete stranger had to pull up my underwear.

As long as they didn't give me a wedgy.

But I think as parents, we spend our children's entire lives being strong.

Protecting them.

So when that moment finally comes—and it inevitably does—we still don't want our children pulling up our underpants.

The Dream

It made me think though.

Over the last couple years, Aidan and I searched for that perfect multi-acre property where we’d planned a family compound of sorts. He and his wife (whom we all knew would be Macie), would be the ones taking care of us in our old age.

That was the dream.

A few acres between each house.

A fishing pond.

A huge garden.

A shooting range.

Golf carts traveling back and forth between houses.

I'd always joke that I'd have a nurse stop by for the truly vulnerable stuff because there was no way my kids were pulling up my underwear.

But all the rest?

That would've been Aidan.

Fixing leaks.

Helping me in the garden.

Running to the store for my medications.

Showing up whenever I needed him.

Not because he was my favorite. All of my children are my favorite.

But because he wanted that life too.

He wanted to get his contractor's license so we could renovate and build houses together.

He had plans.

Life goals.

And they included me.

The House

Now all of those plans are gone.

The house we live in now, built in 1908 and still standing strong, will probably be our forever home.

I don't know how I could ever leave it.

My children are in every corner. Aidan is felt in every seam of the house.

He helped me gut and rebuild this house.

He built the deck.

The back steps.

He mowed the lawn every couple of weeks, and I can still picture him flying across the yard on his stand-on mower.

His bedroom...

The smell grows fainter every time I find the strength to walk in there.

When I do, I sit on the floor beneath his window and cry. Sometimes quiet tears.

Sometimes wracking sobs.

I still can't believe I cleaned his room.

I didn't wash his clothes or bedding.

I couldn't.

I bagged everything hoping to preserve his smell. But I folded the clean clothes and put them away.

In that moment, months ago, I needed to.

But now, I'd give anything to have left every shirt exactly where he'd thrown it.

Eventually I figured out his system.

Dirty clothes lived on the left side of the room. Clean clothes were piled on the right after he dumped the laundry basket.

It made perfect sense once I understood it.

I wish I'd never touched a thing.

The Realization

That time loop I know will never happen the way I thought it would. But one thought has recently crossed my mind in the process of being my mother's temporary caregiver. 

Early last year, before my cervical spine surgery, I had gotten so bad I couldn't walk by myself.

I couldn't drive.

Some days I couldn't even make it to the bathroom without help.

Aidan was there.

So were Gabe, Madison, and little Aidan.

They drove me to appointments. Stayed beside me before surgery. Helped me afterward.

Tucked blankets around me at night. Walked beside me when I couldn't walk alone.

All the things I'm doing for my mom now.

Somewhere over the past few weeks I've realized Aidan and I had those moments. Vulnerable as they may have been, he was by my side. 

We were given a piece of that time together.

Not when either of us expected.

Not for nearly as long as we imagined.

But we had it.

He was there.

By my side.

Helping me when I needed him most.

Years from now, if I'm blessed to grow old enough to need that kind of help again, I know I'll think back to those months after my surgery.

I'll remember his patience.

His steady hands.

His quiet presence.

And maybe that's the strange thing about time.

Sometimes the loop doesn't happen when we expect it to.

Sometimes, without even realizing it...

We were already living it.

—Mary-Jo

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From the pages of Diary of a Grieving Mother