On the Edge: Caring for Mom When Love Isn’t Enough

I slam the bathroom door, my hands shaking, and press my back against the cold wood. I can still hear my mother’s voice through the thin walls—accusing, confused, a little frightened. “Megan! Megan, where are you? You can’t just leave me alone!”

It’s 1:47 a.m. I know because I’ve been staring at the glowing red numbers on the microwave for hours, counting down the minutes between her outbursts. I close my eyes and try to breathe, but the tears come anyway. It’s not the first time I’ve hidden from my own mother in my own house. But tonight, the weight is unbearable. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not sure I ever could.

Six months ago, when my older brother Alex called and said, “Mom can’t live on her own anymore,” I thought, We’ll figure it out. I’m the responsible one, the single one, the daughter who always comes through in a crisis. Mom moved into my two-bedroom apartment in St. Paul, her suitcases full of carefully labeled pill bottles and faded photo albums. “It’ll just be for a while,” I told myself. “Just until we get her back on her feet.”

But the weeks turned into months. Mom’s dementia got worse, not better. She started forgetting to eat, to shower, to take her meds. She started forgetting me—sometimes calling me by my aunt’s name, sometimes mistaking me for a nurse. She’d wake up screaming in the night, convinced there were strangers in the house. I tried to comfort her, to remind her I was her daughter, but she’d push me away, wild-eyed. Each time, I felt something inside me crack a little more.

Alex visits once a week, always with flowers, always with a smile. But he’s got a wife, a job, three kids. He hugs Mom, listens to her stories, then leaves me with a pat on the back. “Hang in there, Meg,” he says, like I’m running a marathon and not drowning in quicksand. “You’re doing amazing.”

But I’m not. I’m failing at everything. I’ve used up all my sick days at work. I’m snapping at my boss. I haven’t seen my friends in months. My boyfriend, Chris, broke up with me last week. “I can’t compete with your mother,” he said. “She’s everywhere. You’re not yourself anymore.”

Tonight, Mom tried to leave the apartment. She got as far as the stairwell before I caught her, barefoot and shivering in her nightgown. “I have to find my mother,” she whispered, eyes wide. “She’s waiting for me.”

I wrapped her in a blanket and sat with her on the couch, rocking her like a child. She fell asleep in my arms, but I couldn’t move. I stared at the wall, listening to the sound of her breathing, thinking, I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

The guilt is relentless. Every time I think about calling a nursing home or an assisted living facility, I hear Mom’s voice from years ago: “Promise me you’ll never put me in one of those places, Megan. Promise.” And I did. I promised. But what do promises mean when you’re falling apart?

I scroll through my phone, reading articles about caregiver burnout, searching forums for people like me. There are so many stories, so many desperate daughters and sons. The comments are full of anger and judgment. “How could you abandon your own mother?” one person writes. Another says, “Sometimes love means letting go.”

I don’t know what to believe. I just know I’m so, so tired.

The next morning, Alex calls. “How’s Mom?” he asks, cheerful as ever.

“Alex, I can’t do it anymore,” I say, my voice trembling. “I need help. I need—she needs more than I can give her.”

He’s silent for a moment. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

I snap. “You have no idea what this is like! You come once a week, bring flowers, and then you leave. She doesn’t even know who I am most days. I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I—”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, Meg. I just… I don’t know what to say. You’re stronger than me.”

“I’m not strong. I’m breaking.”

That night, I sit at the kitchen table, staring at a list of local nursing homes. I dial the number for St. Francis Senior Care but hang up before anyone answers. I try again. This time, a warm voice picks up. “St. Francis, how can I help you?”

I stammer. “I—I need information. My mother has dementia. I—”

The woman listens. She doesn’t judge. She tells me about respite care, about support groups, about options I never knew I had. For the first time in months, I feel a tiny flicker of hope.

When I tuck Mom in that night, she looks at me and, just for a moment, her eyes are clear. “You’re a good girl, Megan,” she murmurs. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

I bite my lip so I don’t cry. I kiss her forehead and whisper, “I love you, Mom.”

Later, alone in the dark, I wonder: Am I a terrible daughter for wanting my life back? Or am I just a person who’s reached her limit? How do we know when enough is enough—and who decides what we owe the people we love?