Mom's life was spared because I pushed her to place Grandma in a care facility.

As I sat on a bench outside my mom's building, I couldn't help but feel a sense of exhaustion wash over me. My mom had just arrived with my grandma trailing behind her, looking downtrodden. It was clear that they were both struggling with the current situation.

My mom greeted me with a quick peck on the cheek before heading off to get some coffee. She wasted no time in expressing her frustration, exclaiming, "I can't stand this anymore." I couldn't blame her, she had been taking care of my grandma for months now. It was a difficult and emotionally taxing task, yet she never faltered.

I gave my grandma a hug as she caught up to us. In a quiet voice, she whispered in my ear, "I can't stand this anymore." It was clear that she was also struggling, despite the fact that she was the one being cared for. It was a situation that seemed to be taking a toll on both of them.

I couldn't help but find it amusing, in a bittersweet way, that they both hated the situation they were in yet continued to stick with it. It was a testament to their strong bond and the love they had for each other. However, I had known from the start that it was a mistake for my mom to take on my grandma's care. They were too different in many ways, and it was starting to show.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly when we realized that my grandma needed extra help. She had always been such a lively and independent woman. She would often walk long distances instead of taking the bus because she didn't like it. But then, she started calling my mom at odd hours, like 1am, asking her to come home. This was strange because they hadn't lived together in over 30 years.

Despite their close relationship, my grandma's behavior was becoming more and more concerning. I remember the first time she called me to tell me that she had gotten lost on her way to the bank. She had become confused and disoriented, and had to ask a stranger for directions. I tried to brush it off as a one-time incident, but deep down I knew that something was off.

When I mentioned my concerns to my grandma, she brushed me off and insisted that she was fine. It was clear that she was in denial about her declining health. As a result, my mom started visiting her at least twice a week, despite working and living 30km away at a resort.

But as my grandma's condition worsened, it became increasingly difficult for my mom to continue making the long trips back and forth. So, she made the decision to rent a studio in her building and move my grandma there. I was worried about how this would work out, but my mom remained optimistic.

She took on a lot of responsibilities - cleaning, shopping, taking my grandma for walks, and accompanying her to doctor visits. Gradually, her duties grew to also include bathing, assisting with bathroom needs, and ensuring that my grandma took her medication and ate properly. It was during one of these doctor visits that we received the devastating diagnosis of dementia.

Despite my mom's best efforts, my grandma's behavior became increasingly difficult to handle. She would often be grumpy and rude, and sometimes even try to hit my mom - a common occurrence with dementia patients. I did my best to support my mom, taking my grandma to doctor visits and giving my mom a much-needed break whenever possible.

It was clear that the situation was taking a toll on my mom. She stopped smiling and lost weight, despite working six days a week and juggling all her responsibilities. Then, fate intervened in the form of a stomach pain that landed my grandma in the hospital. It was then that we found out she needed a special diet. It was the final straw for my mom.

Cooking for someone you know is one thing, but accommodating a special diet on top of everything else was impossible. I knew that my mom couldn't handle it all on her own. At first, we considered hiring a nurse, but my grandma refused to have a stranger in her home. So, we were left with only one option - a care home.

Trying to convince my mom to make this decision was not easy. I felt like the bad guy for even suggesting it. After all, shouldn't we take care of our parents? But I knew that my mom's health and well-being were also important. And with a heavy heart, we made the difficult decision to move my grandma to a care home. It was a tough road, but I knew that we were doing what was best for both my mom and my grandma.
As I sat on a bench near my mother's building, I couldn't help but feel a sense of exhaustion wash over me. My mother had just arrived with my grandmother trailing behind her. They were quite the sight to see - my mother, the picture of determination, and my grandmother, looking rather downtrodden.

As soon as my mother reached me, she let out a deep sigh and exclaimed, "I can't take this anymore." She quickly gave me a kiss on the cheek and went off to get some coffee, leaving me with my grandmother. I hugged her and she whispered in my ear, "I can't handle this anymore." It was clear that caring for my grandmother had taken a toll on both of them.

My mother had been taking care of my grandmother for a few months now, and if it wasn't such a sad situation, I would have laughed at how they both despised it but still stuck with it. I knew from the start that it was a mistake for my mother to take on such a huge responsibility. Despite their close relationship, they were two very different people.

It's difficult to pinpoint exactly when we realized my grandmother needed extra help. She had always been full of energy, refusing to take the bus and instead choosing to walk miles to run errands. But then she started calling my mother at odd hours, like one in the morning, asking her to come home. It was strange because they hadn't lived together in over 30 years.

A few months later, my grandmother called me to say that she had gotten lost on her way to the bank. She had become confused and had no idea where she was until a passerby helped her find her way. I tried to convince myself that it was because of the new buildings in the area, but deep down, I knew something was off. My grandmother knew it too, but she refused to admit it.

When I suggested that she might need some assistance, she waved me off and insisted that she was fine. But soon after, my mother started visiting two times a week, despite living and working 30km away in a resort. As my grandmother's condition worsened, it became increasingly difficult for my mother to make the long trip back and forth. So she made the decision to rent a studio in my grandmother's building and move her there.

I had my concerns, but my mother remained optimistic. She was juggling a lot - cleaning, shopping, taking her for walks, and accompanying her to doctor visits. Gradually, her duties grew to include bathing, assisting her in the bathroom, and coaxing her to eat and take her medication. It wasn't until the doctors diagnosed my grandmother with dementia that we fully understood the gravity of the situation.

Despite my mother doing her best, my grandmother was often grumpy and rude. She would sometimes offend my mother or even try to hit her, as is common with dementia patients. One time, my mother had to leave her alone for a few hours, and in fear of her wandering off, she locked her in the studio. She rationalized that she was just a few minutes away and my grandmother could call if needed. But we soon discovered that my grandmother no longer knew how to use a phone. She ended up banging on the door and the neighbors had to call my mother.

Desperate for a solution, my mother bought an Airtag to keep track of my grandmother's whereabouts. However, my grandmother refused to wear it, and as a result, she went missing three times. Thankfully, the police always returned her home after finding her walking around, asking people about her daughter.

All of this was incredibly draining for my mother. I could see the toll it was taking on her - she stopped smiling and even lost weight. With her busy work schedule and the added responsibilities of caring for my grandmother, it was becoming too much for her. And then, fate intervened when my grandmother complained of severe stomach pain and needed to be rushed to the hospital. It was there that we learned she needed a special diet, which was the final straw.

Cooking for someone you know is one thing, but accommodating a new diet on top of everything else would be impossible. I knew my mother couldn't handle it. Initially, we considered hiring a nurse, but my grandmother refused to let a stranger into her home. So we were left with only one choice - a care home.

Trying to convince my mother was no easy task. I couldn't help but feel like the bad guy for even suggesting it. After all, shouldn't we take care of our parents? But in the end, we knew it was the best decision for both my mother and grandmother. As much as we wanted to be there for them, their needs were becoming too much for us to handle on our own.

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