I often recall how my parents used to say, “It’s always something.” As a child, I would nod, trying to grasp the meaning behind their words, but I was too preoccupied with my own life. My college days were filled with late-night study sessions and lengthy emails to friends scattered across the nation, many of whom were in demanding programs like medical school. Meanwhile, my parents struggled to keep their failing business afloat while caring for my grandparents.
One day, as I typed away at my laptop, my mother appeared in the doorway, looking worn and weary in her early forties. She shared the news that my grandmother had been hospitalized, and my parents had to cancel their business trip to provide care. I offered a light-hearted comment in response, thinking I understood her sentiment about life’s unending challenges. At that time, my focus was on term papers and university parking woes, oblivious to the weight of my mother’s responsibilities.
I had a string of failed relationships that led me back to my childhood home in Louisiana, where I spent my days writing while friends around me got engaged and planned their weddings. By 2002, I stood in six different weddings, convinced I would never find the right partner and would end my days alone with a house full of cats. This notion haunted my thoughts at night, while my mother was buried in the stress of managing a business and coordinating care for her aging parents.
It wasn’t that I was unusually self-absorbed for a 22-year-old; it was just that my mother remained a steadfast figure in my life, always there when I needed her. I eventually married and started a family, and my mother didn’t miss a moment. I vividly remember her rushing into the delivery room, my father hesitantly trailing behind, anxious about what he might witness. They were anxious about their truck’s check engine light, racing to meet their first grandchild. “It’s always something,” I heard her say, yet she continued to embody the role of a mother through every challenge life presented.
Fast forward to years later, and the tables have turned. I often find myself questioning, sometimes aloud, how one individual can care for three children under six while also witnessing her own mother’s declining health. I feel unprepared, struggling to catch my breath amidst the chaos.
One afternoon, my mother called with news from the cardiologist right as my oldest returned from school. With children clamoring around me, I strained to hear her voice through the phone. “Hold on a minute,” I said, attempting to quiet the chaos in my kitchen. I yelled at my kids to leave the pantry alone and reached for the TV remote, turning it on in hopes of distracting them long enough for me to listen.
As I heard the exhaustion in her voice, tears threatened to spill. The kids rummaged through snacks, and I handed out Goldfish crackers, trying to keep everyone content. I had so many questions, but my youngest began to cry. “It’s always something,” I found myself saying, and I promised to call her the next day.
Now, I truly understand the weight of that phrase.