Mum and Dad

I spent a couple of days at Mum and Dad's this week. Life is difficult there. Dad's 92 and becoming more frail each day. Poor Mum is 84 and getting more forgetful. She has good days and bad, but lately, the bad ones seem more frequent. A trip to the grocery store with her was a frustrating ordeal, although I remained patient with her. She clings stubbornly to her list and refuses to cross off the items as she buys them. I offered to help her with this three times before giving up. In the end, I thought, what difference does it make whether she buys whole milk or 2%? What does it matter if she buys two boxes of Corn Flakes? Or three. Each day with Mum is a day to be cherished. She'll be gone one day and I'll miss her. Or perhaps she'll live for many years yet, but a continued series of small strokes will erode her memory until there's little that's left of my mother. This is Dad's worst fear, and, I must admit, mine too.
 
Is it wrong that I sometimes wish Dad would just ...? Well, it would put an end to his worry, his sleepless nights, his tearful pleas for improvement in his wife's condition.
 
"I never imagined in a million years that things would go this way," he told me. "I always thought she'd be with me, and that she'd look after me when we got old. I set her straight a hundred times a day. I don't know what she'll do when I'm gone."
 
His hearing is fading fast. His eyesight grows dimmer with each passing day.
 
"If only I could hear better," he says. "I know Life would be so much easier if I could only hear better."

 It's a great irony that the two people whose support I most crave are the two least able to carry the extra burden.