When she moved her mom and dad into an assisted living home, she thought it might finally bring a breath of relief. Maybe she could rest for a moment, just one slight pause in the endless heaviness of watching her mother fade away piece by piece. But relief never came. Instead, it felt like the air got thinner, tighter. She wasn’t exaggerating when she said she was suffocating.
Her mom’s decline had been swift and merciless. A few months earlier, she spoke in short phrases, sometimes asking for her husband, Carl. Now she needed help for everything, getting into bed, sitting in her wheelchair, even lifting a cup to her lips. Her eyes lit up only when a familiar toy or a cheerful jingle from a Fisher-Price commercial played. Watching her was like seeing an 18-month-old again, except this time it wasn’t new life beginning, it was a life slipping quietly away. It wasn’t the new home that hurt the most. It was the sight of her mother, once vibrant, independent, funny, now trapped in a body and mind that no longer obeyed her. It was her father’s expression, a man sitting beside his wife but already mourning her absence. The pain was layered, like trying to breathe through fog.
She often questioned life, death, and the cruel design of aging. She would have rewritten the script entirely if she had been in charge. People should start as babies, helpless but full of promise, grow strong and capable, and be wise and adventurous in their later years. And finally, when they reach old age, it should be a time of celebration, full of laughter, music, hugs, and stories. Not this. Not tears in sterile hallways or the dull hum of machines replacing conversation.
But her father didn’t get that version of old age. Instead, he sat in his wheelchair, staring past the walls, past the staff bustling in and out. He looked at his wife but couldn’t find her there anymore. It broke him. The move from their home, the house they built a life in, stripped away more than just memories. It took away his sense of purpose. Every day he asked when someone would come back, when they would take him home. And every day, one of the kids would visit, trying to fill the hollow hours. But no matter how often they came, it never seemed enough. He was lost in his loneliness.
That’s when she started saying it out loud, I can’t breathe. It wasn’t drama, it was truth. Watching dementia steal her mother wasn’t enough; now it had its grip on her father too. And she couldn’t help but rage at the unfairness of it all. Couldn’t God, fate, or whoever was in charge just let them have this gentle ending? A few years of peace, a little more laughter before the curtain fell?
She kept thinking about how it used to be, the two dancing in the kitchen, laughing at nothing, the sound of old records playing on weekends. There were photos of those days, their arms wrapped around each other, their smiles easy and bright. She looked at those pictures often, equal parts comforted and crushed because those were her real mom and dad, not the fragile people sitting quietly in a facility where time seemed to stand still.
Every day now felt like peeling a Band-Aid off her heart, only to stick it back on and do it again the next morning. The pain wasn’t sharp anymore; it was slow and constant, like an ache you learn to live with. She tried to stay grateful. She had a whole life, people who loved her, moments of joy still made her laugh out loud. But this, this part of life, made her question the design of everything. Why does the ending have to hurt so much? Why can’t it be softer, kinder? Still, she showed up. Every day. She helped her dad eat, brushed her mom’s hair, and held their hands when words didn’t come. Because that’s what love looks like when life stops being easy. It’s showing up, even when breathing feels impossible.
Maybe someday, she hopes, the pain will quiet down. Maybe one morning she’ll wake up and the Band-Aid won’t sting when pulled away. But until then, she’ll keep visiting, holding their hands, and believing some grace is hidden inside this heartbreak. When she looks at those old photos, her parents’ mid-dance, her mother laughing into her father’s shoulder, she knows that even if the ending hurts, the story was still worth every second.
