I’ve been caring for my mother for almost four years. She’s eighty-six, living with grade 3 cancer, Parkinson’s, dementia, diabetes, high blood pressure, and more medications than I can count. She spends nearly all her time in bed, surrounded by soft blankets, her favorite TV shows, and me—always me.
Palliative care became part of our lives last spring after a hospital stay. Her oncologist made the referral, not her GP, which tells you everything about how differently people see her situation. To me—and to her palliative team—this stage is about comfort, dignity, and peace. But to her general practitioner, it still seems to be about “fixing.”
Every visit feels like a test I didn’t know I had to take.
At her last appointment, I went to renew her prescriptions. I thought it would be routine—five minutes at most. But then the doctor looked at me and said, “She needs to start doing light exercises. Maybe some stretches. Even one-kilo weights would help.”
I blinked at him. “She can barely sit up without help,” I said. “She needs assistance for everything—standing, walking, even shifting in bed.”
He nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t hearing me. He started explaining the benefits of movement as if I hadn’t spent every day of the past four years watching her body grow weaker. As if I didn’t already know what “use it or lose it” means.
What he didn’t understand is that my mother has never been someone who exercises. Not when she was healthy, not now. She’s stubborn, independent in her own way, and resistant to anything that feels forced. I’ve learned to pick my battles. Forcing her to move would only bring frustration for both of us.
Still, the way the doctor looked at me—like I was failing her—stuck to me for days. That quiet, professional disapproval that says without words, you’re not doing enough.
After the appointment, I couldn’t sleep. I replayed his voice in my head. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not pushing hard enough. Maybe this is my fault.
But then I remembered what one of the palliative nurses told me a few weeks earlier. She had come by for a home visit and found me trying to coax my mother through some gentle stretches. When she saw the frustration in both our faces, she said softly, “You don’t have to force her. Palliative care is about comfort, not compliance.”
That sentence saved me that day. It reminded me that my mother isn’t a patient to be “improved.” She’s a woman nearing the end of her story, and my job is to make that story gentler, not longer.
The GP doesn’t see what our days look like. He doesn’t see how I lift her, wash her hair, keep her hydrated, manage her moods. He doesn’t hear the nights when she wakes up disoriented, or the moments when she stares past me, slipping into her own world.
He doesn’t see how I sit by her bed when she sleeps, wondering who I’ll be when this finally ends.
Because even though I love her, this life has worn me thin. The constant caregiving, the endless decisions, the lack of recognition—it all chips away at something inside you.
I’m not sure when exhaustion turned into guilt, or guilt turned into grief. Some days, I feel all three at once.
And now, as the holidays approach, it feels heavier than usual. The world outside is glowing with lights and celebration, but inside this house, time feels still. People talk about joy and togetherness; I think about medications and what-ifs. There’s no “merry” in this season for me—just survival.
Still, I keep showing up.
Not because I believe I can change what’s happening, but because love has taught me that presence is its own kind of medicine.
I think about how much of my life has revolved around other people’s needs—how often I’ve been the bridge between their bodies and their comfort. I wonder sometimes when it will be my turn to rest without guilt.
But for now, I keep trying to remember this: I am doing enough.
I am enough.
Caregiving doesn’t always look graceful. Sometimes it’s messy, frustrating, and invisible. Sometimes it means disagreeing with professionals who don’t understand the reality you live in. Sometimes it’s just sitting quietly beside someone who refuses help and loving them anyway.
If you’re in the same place—if you’ve been made to feel like you’re not doing enough—I hope you’ll remember this, too: your effort doesn’t need validation to matter.
You can’t save someone from decline. You can only make the path softer as they go.
And that, in its own quiet way, is everything.