Occasionally I like to showcase the writing of others on my blog, sometimes by name, sometimes anonymously. Here is a short piece by a friend who wishes to remain anonymous. She was the primary caregiver for her mother in her final years. When she shared with me this excerpt from her journal, I was very moved by it. Maybe it was because I had cared for my mother too in her final years, and I could relate to many of the little details: her utter exhaustion… her mother’s great strength… the little things that bonded them—like a special spoon… her mother gripping her hand… Here is the excerpt from my friend’s journal:

“The Light in My Mother’s Room”

For years now my eighty-year-old mother has slept with the lamp light on in her room. She says she keeps it on because she wakes up frequently during the night, and she reads to fall back to sleep. I, on the other hand, prefer pure darkness during the night. Even though my room is down the hall, when my mother closes her door almost all the way—leaving just enough room for our cat to meander in and out on nocturnal visitations—the mere crack of light seems to illumine my entire room.

But Mom was in the hospital this week, with pneumonia. Her battle with COPD makes this a more or less common occurrence throughout the year, and during these times I am always with her at her hospital bedside. But I could not be with her this time, for I was sick at home with bronchitis. I was too sick even to worry.

But Mom came home today. She looked small, a tad more frail. She came upstairs to rest, and we sat in her bed for a bit. She gripped my hand continually, which was unusual. She spoke with passion about what needs to be done in our society—with hospitals, health care, and the government. I laughed because even though she was recovering from what could have been her final illness on earth, she was able to fan those flames about all manner of current social issues.

Later, she slept very soundly in her darkened room with the one lamp on.

In the evening when she came down for some broth, I asked her which spoon she preferred. She fumbled through the drawer until she selected the small stainless brushed-steel one with the roses on the stem. She reminded me that I had bought the set for her years before when I was a teenager, and that I had saved up and spent a lot of money on them. And it was true. It was the biggest and most expensive thing that, as a teen, I had ever bought.

Now I lay in bed, and the light from my mother’s room shines and spills into mine… spills over and through and into and around. And it is a light whose power comes from some Great Wonderful Source. And I delight in it, am overawed by it, and feel the unfathomable power of this treasure called Life… and Time.

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For reflection: Is there anything in this journal entry that stands out for you?

Have you ever been a caregiver for someone? If so, what were some of the challenges for you? What were some of the joys or graces for you?

Reread the final paragraph. What is the “light from my mother’s room”?

Our song today is called “A Caregiver.” The words were written by Jerry Carney who was the caregiver for his wife Lucille who passed away with dementia in 2018. The music was written by Ruth Davis. The song is sung here by Laura Williams.

I encourage you to write a comment below… I love hearing from you!