No one should doubt the tremendous dedication and ability of many people who work in facilities that care for people who, for whatever reason, need some help with the tasks of daily living.

Nothing here questions such dedication or such ability.

There was a time, however, when such facilities didn’t exist, or didn’t exist to the extent they exist today.

Then, when people needed some help with the tasks of daily living, others needed to provide it at home.

Faced with that need, it’s common for others to say they can’t do it.

Often that’s true. Nothing here questions that.

There are times, though, when it’s not true. Sometimes others really can do it, yet they’re understandably just not confident they can. And sometimes others really can do it and know they can, yet–here comes the hard reality–they just don’t want to.

Either way, people who, for whatever reason, need some help with the tasks of daily living may move to facilities where they may not need–repeat, need–to be.

Some people thrive in such facilities. Some people don’t. Whether they do or don’t, the point here is that being a caregiver at home is doable.

It’s also hard. Only those who have stood in such shoes can understand how hard it can be.

It can be frustrating for those who need help to know that their physical or cognitive abilities aren’t what they once were. They may understandably take out that frustration on those helping them the most.

In that sense, being a caregiver is a bit like rearing children. Except that–and this is a big except–children tend to progress, while those who come to need help with the tasks of daily living tend to regress. Thus, the amount and types of assistance that caregivers provide tend to increase with time.

Anyone who takes on the task of being a caregiver and thinks that profuse thanks are on the way should perhaps think again. Even if such thanks come, they may not be frequent. On some occasions caregivers may receive the opposite of thanks, whatever that may mean. Being a caregiver means you need to let all of those things go.

It means doing your best along the way and continually learning new tasks, some of which you may have never seen yourself doing.

It means knowing you won’t do things perfectly and starting anew when you don’t.

It means asking for help when you need it, whatever that help is.

It means being there for those who need some help with the tasks of daily living while encouraging them to do what they can for themselves.

It also means understanding that earthly life isn’t forever. While there may be many times to come to someone’s rescue, there’s also a time–with a person’s consent, if possible–to let that person go.

At first, that may come over little things.

When a particular mother was in an emergency room in 2023, her caregiver-son asked about adjusting her diet.

After offering a few suggestions, a physician entirely good-naturedly added, “I’m not in the habit of telling 93-year-olds what they can and can’t eat.”

To which the mother raised her arms and joyously said, “Yay!”

Then there may come the time for the ultimate in letting go.

For the mother(‘s sake), that time came not in the final months or weeks but in the final days.

On Sunday, Jan. 7, it didn’t seem premature to draw on a pastoral edition of the Lutheran Book of Worship and do the Laying On of Hands and Anointing of the Sick.

It did, though, seem premature to do the Commendation of the Dying.

But the mother and son together did both of them, with him reassuring her that the latter didn’t apply yet. That evening, they stayed up until almost midnight watching the Buffalo Bills’ game.

Later that week, it became apparent that if the proverbial ship didn’t turn around soon, it wouldn’t turn around.

By Monday, Jan. 15, it wasn’t going to turn around. Those with more professional expertise than the son foresaw a week or two. Having been through this with his wife in similar circumstances in 2021, the son thought it would be less than a week.

Just after 6 a.m. Wednesday, Jan. 17, something inspired him to do the Holy Communion service that they hadn’t done together.

An hour and a half later, he walked back into the room where she lay. Much to his surprise, her pulse and breathing were faint.

He opened the back door for the longtime aide who was already supposed to arrive at 8 a.m.

He checked her pulse and breathing again. They were still faint.

He held her hand.

When he checked again, both the pulse and the breathing had stopped.

Having waited for him to return, she–entirely peacefully–went to Heaven, with him by her side.

The public is welcome at the funeral for Margaret Elf, mother of Randy Elf, at 11 a.m. Saturday, Jan. 27, in First Lutheran Church, 120 Chandler St., Jamestown.

(c) 2024 BY RANDY ELF