Learning to carry the questions I don’t ask my mum’s doctors

At 2:17 a.m., the house is completely still. No sounds can be heard anywhere at this time of night.

I lie on the couch with one ear tuned to my mum’s room. This is when I start to ask myself the questions I never say aloud in the bright daylight of the clinic:

What will my mum look like when the good stretches grow shorter? 

How much pain will she be willing to bear before she whispers that she is tired of fighting? 

And the one that tightens my throat the most: What will I do on the morning when I wake up and she’s no longer here?

I never ask the doctors these things. In fact, it’s similar to my approach when her doctors don’t agree with each other.

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Instead, I nod when they talk about myeloma treatment plans and scan results. I smile and say “thank you” while these questions circle inside me like quiet moths against a window. They have no answers, only feelings. I carry them the way I carry her morning tray — carefully, without spilling any of its contents.

On some nights, I get up and stand in her doorway. The low night-light paints a soft orange glow across her blanket. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest and let the questions sit with me. They do not go away, but they grow quieter in her presence. I realize I am not meant to solve them. I am only meant to keep showing up while I hold them.

There is a strange kind of strength in this silence.

I used to believe a good caregiver had all the right words, or at least knew how to find answers to any lingering questions. Now I understand that sometimes the deepest love is learning to carry the questions without asking them, so she doesn’t have to carry them, too.

I know it all sounds quite strange, but that’s just how it is. Caregiving is a journey without a guide or a definitive road map. It is personal and different for everyone.

And after doing this for over three years, I can confidently say that no one will ever be prepared for all the unwritten rules of caregiving.

I have learned that caregiving involves difficult calculations and a lot of admin work. It equally requires sacrifices and invisible labor that no one but you sees.

In the morning, I will make her tea exactly the way she likes it. I will smile and talk about small things. And the questions will wait patiently until the next quiet hour, when the house is still and it’s just the two of us again — me and the questions I have learned to hold with both hands.

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