Why I Am Scared Of Having To Care For My Parents

For the longest time, I thought my parents were both invincible and immortal. It is not a thought I ever really acknowledged, let alone spoke out loud. I wasn’t conscious of this thought. Rather, it was subconscious; probably a method of denial, intended to soothe the pain of thinking about life without them. But aging is a fact, and so, my friends, is death. And in recent years, every visit to my parents’ house has made it harder and harder to deny these facts. I have become keenly and uncomfortably aware that death awaits them.

Every time the mortality thoughts pop into my head, I try to pop them right out and crawl back into that space of denial where my parents live forever — young, vibrant and independent. But the sight of them quickly snaps me back to reality. My dad, especially. He looks like a different person; it looks as if life (for him) is really hard these days. As he brings his fork to his mouth, for example, his hands tremble. Even the act of chewing and swallowing his food seems to be a struggle. When he needs to get up from his favorite chair to get to the bathroom, he says, “hand me my walker.”  I hand it to him and think I want to do more; I need to do more. But I don’t know what more is. I just know that I want to ensure his safety, to steady him, to somehow reverse what is happening. I don’t know what to do, and even if I did, I’m not sure I would be comfortable doing it. And that is where a new fear sets in: Who will care for them when they can no longer care for themselves?

My next thought isn’t a pretty one: I hope it’s not me. Terrible, right? My parents, who have given their everything to care for me and my siblings every day of our lives, will one day need me to care for them, and I don’t want to do it. My parents who, still to this day, rescue me whenever I call with some form of crisis, won’t always be able to care for themselves.

I do realize that the most logical person to step up and take care of them is yours truly. But that thought terrifies me. I try to ease my own anxiety: People do what they need to do for family. No one really wants to care for their aging parents, but they do it out of love. When push to comes to shove, I try to convince myself, you will know what to do, you will do it well, and it won’t feel like a burden. I want these thoughts to be truthful predictions. I want to believe that when my parents need me most, I will magically become a selfless, doting, and capable caregiver. Because what other choice do I have? But deep down, I feel inadequate. I feel like people are either born with what it takes to step in and care for others or they are not. And I am not.

Or maybe it isn’t inadequacy at all. Maybe it’s selfishness. Maybe it’s grief — or a preview of it. Maybe it’s the fear of becoming a grown-up in a world where my parents can no longer save me. Maybe it’s all of these things wrapped into one. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter what the fear is called. It doesn’t matter whether I feel naturally equipped to be a caregiver or completely unprepared. What matters is being honest about it. It is hard. It is sad and uncomfortable and deeply unsettling to watch my parents change before my eyes. It is painful to wonder how much time they may or may not have left. It is heartbreaking to try to prepare — mentally, emotionally, spiritually — for a life where they are no longer here.