I have just returned from time in New Hampshire caring for my mom.

In overwhelming pain, my mother became violently ill. My sister called 911, and Mom was transported to the hospital. 

The diagnoses came fast and furious - gout in her affected hand, aspiration pneumonia, and orthostatic hypotension, which is a sudden drop in blood pressure leading to dizziness and fainting.

In one week’s time, she moved to a skilled nursing facility to regain strength and continue to recover. After four days there, she achieved a level of recovery and stability, where she no longer required specialized care and was discharged.

I arrived the day before my mom’s discharge. My two sisters were with my mom during her hospitalization and rehab stay, and my role was transitioning back home to assist with activities of daily living.

My mother insisted on standing up on her own, without any assistance. She walked with the aid of her walker and was able to do most things on her own.

She did need help showering.

On the first day, we used a shower chair and a handheld showerhead, but the chair was too big and covered the entire footprint of the very small shower. There was no room for another person to be in the shower to help without getting that person and the bathroom floor soaking wet.

The next few days, Mom held on to the grab bars, and I washed her up. I am sure there are many reading this that feel that this type of help brings to mind negative emotions –maybe sadness at watching a loved one’s health decline, or anxiety, stress, or embarrassment.

At this point in my mom’s life, this very personal act evoked in me such a feeling of love.

It brought me back to 40 years ago when I was with my mother visiting my paternal grandmother, who was 93 at the time. She was very frail. As was the custom of her generation, they took baths, not showers.

My mom asked me if I would help bathe my grandmother while she prepared her meal. I was happy to do so.

I was in awe of how little water my grandmother felt she needed in the tub – a habit I am suspect was honed during the Depression.

I helped my grandmother undo buttons on her housedress and lift her slip and camisole over her head. This was the first time I saw an older woman’s unclothed body. My grandmother was not a bit shy about me helping her, which surprised me.

I assisted her into the tub and watched her soap up a wash rag to clean her face. That act felt so personal and somewhat childlike. Growing up in the Noxzema generation, we dipped our fingers into the cold cream and massaged it into our faces. We left behind washrags and soap with our childhood.

I soaped up the rag so she could wash her arms, upper body, and legs. I washed her back, and she took care of more personal areas. Back in the day, there was no handheld shower attachment, so I used a plastic mixing bowl and to draw warm water from the faucet to rinse off the soap.

I helped her to stand and placed a warm towel that had been sitting on the radiator around her as we let the water drain from the tub. I helped her dry herself, and she used her puff to apply some Cashmere Bouquet powder. We dressed her in a clean housecoat, and as she sat at the kitchen table eating her meal, I cleaned up the bathroom. 

I did not realize how intimate and special that moment was until I received a phone call from my mother a week later, telling me that my grandmother had died.

I think back to that time and feel I had the most personal moment a mother and granddaughter could have before her death. I hold that in my heart as one of the most special moments of my life.

I won’t embarrass my mom, who reads my columns, by going into details about helping her with her shower, but it too will remain one of the closest moments in our relationship.

Just as I once helped my grandmother with her bath all those years ago, I now had the opportunity to offer the same care to my own mother. Life had come full circle, weaving together generations through acts of tenderness. These moments remind us that dignity, love, and connection live in the quietest corners of caregiving.