I wanted to take care of my parents as they grew older.

I had always imagined taking care of my parents as they grew old.

• However, I have lived with multiple sclerosis for two decades, which makes things more difficult.
• My mother recently had surgery, which brought much relief from this reality.

“I will meet you there,” I told my mother before bed one evening, a few months ago. “I’m not feeling well, but I’ll try my best,” I confirmed before hanging up the phone. The next morning, my 71-year-old mother had surgery to lift her bladder.

My 74-year-old father is a stage 4 tongue cancer survivor and now struggles with the extreme negative effects of radiation — and I live with multiple sclerosis (MS) — so usually my otherwise healthy mother takes on the role of carer.

She was present at most of my appointments during the 13 years I spent exploring the diagnosis through early adulthood. She accompanies my father to every medical visit and often takes me for immunosuppressant injections.

She was with me when my elder son was born in 2011, and later when my younger son was born in 2014, she took care of him. Lying in a hospital bed on Monday morning, he completely upended our normal family story.

I have never seen my mother so weak before

As soon as she arrived from recovery, I walked into her hospital room, the anaesthesia still coursing through her system.

Can you please fill it out for me?” he asked, handing me the cafeteria menu for my night’s stay. “I can’t read right now,” she continued, her words a little slurred. At that moment, I realised I had never seen her like this: vulnerable and dependent.

“Pasta Alfredo with chicken or mac and cheese for dinner?” I asked, laughing, knowing the absurdity of a hospital only offering a pasta option would sound ridiculous.

“I will write Chicken Breast with Vegetables and Rice,” I suggested, handing her the cranberry juice that remained just out of her reach. She asked me to plug in my cell phone charger before reading the remaining menu options.

My legs were nervous and my hands were shaking as I walked around the room with purpose.

I’ve been living with MS for two decades, and it always flares up at the worst times; stress worsens it.

As I struggled to stand, I realised that this disease, which had affected my personal functioning and my ability to parent for decades, was now hindering my ability to care for my mother, something I had always imagined I would do without limits.

I’ve always imagined taking care of my parents as they grow old.

When I was young, my grandfather stayed at our house while he recovered from surgery. I would come home from school to find him relaxing in his favourite armchair. My great-grandmother moved in to live with my grandmother during her final months.

I remember watching my grandmother bring turkey and cheese sandwiches to her bedside and caring for her, as I imagine my great-grandmother would have done for my grandmother when she was sick as a child. I still remember that scene well.

Now things have changed, and my mother takes my 94-year-old grandmother to her weekly errands and to the doctor when the time comes. She has been battling lymphoedema and infections in her legs, so she has been in and out of the hospital with him.

And one day I too will take on myself in the role of a carer. Just as I stayed home with my children, not wanting someone else to raise them,

I always had a desire to personally care for my parents when the time came, especially when my grandfather, who suffered from Alzheimer’s, was involved in an incident at his nursing home that still haunts me and my family 10 years later.

My father suffers from severe dysphagia (i.e., inability to swallow), voice disorders, blood pressure dysfunction and other problems caused by radiation to the head and neck two decades ago.

He now uses a feeding tube, and his voice becomes permanently hoarse and extremely difficult to understand. “Will you be my voice?” he messaged me the day before my parents’ 50th anniversary celebration last November. “I want you to read it for me,” he said of a toast he wrote for my mother.

The day after my mum’s surgery, I checked in on her at the hospital visitor centre, where the day before she had struggled to understand. Watching him struggle makes me nervous, but knowing that I can ease some of his struggle is reassuring.

I was glad I was there to walk her down the hall to her room that morning because she was feeling dizzy due to blood pressure instability and often needed a seat. My strong and capable father, who once fixed broken things, fixed car problems, and refinished kitchen cupboards, now depended on me in a way I never imagined.

My diagnosis has made my vision for the future more difficult

Slowly, the time of need that I had imagined since childhood is approaching me, but I am not the strong adult of my youthful imagination. I am coming to understand that I cannot be the limitless carer I always believed I would be.

I can’t drive endless miles with a foot that often has difficulty holding the pedals. I cannot walk the perimeter of the hospital and back again, as my legs have become weak simply from being alive. And it is not so easy for someone suffering from chronic weakness and fatigue to go to the store at the last minute.

Despite my father’s medical battles, he continues to work full-time as a civil engineer and president of his firm because he retains the vibrant spirit without which I never knew him. My mother has made a full recovery from her procedure and is still the same carer I know her as.

He doesn’t need me right now, but watching him in the hospital and slowly pushing against the pain over the coming weeks at home gave me a glimpse of how he might need me one day soon — and of the reality of my own limitations.

As a child, I promised myself that I would take care of them like they always took care of me. My care won’t be perfect, but I’ll give them everything my body will allow: my voice, a turkey and cheese sandwich, and everything.

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