Parenting our Parents

Caretaking for aging parents sneaks up on you.

One day you’re just helping out with doctor appointments and family dinners. The next, you’re running a full-blown health department… and negotiating fast-food embargoes. At first, it felt manageable and thought, “Okay, I got this.”

But as the years ticked by, I watched their health quietly, steadily decline (kind of like watching a glacier melt…if that glacier also argued with you about cholesterol.)

The real turning point, though, was during the pandemic. Lockdowns. Quarantines. Misinformation swirling faster than you could sanitize a grocery bag. There were no vaccines yet, just a whole lot of fear. Every week seemed to bring more bad news: friends and family members getting hospitalized, some recovering, some not. The sad news hit my parents hard.

And you know what? That was the first time they appreciated me being a “Tiger Daughter.”  The daughter who was Lysol-wiping the doorknobs and the bananas. My dad had underlying health issues, so I turned into a full-blown health task force: strict protocols and zero-fun policy when it came to germs. Basically, I ran the house like a mashup between a CDC lab and a boot camp, just minus the hazmat suits and camouflage.

The Role Reversal Is Real

Somewhere along the way, the roles flipped.
Suddenly, I wasn’t just their daughter. I was the parent.
I’m the one making their doctor appointments, chauffeuring them around, enforcing (gently but firmly) new rules about diet and health.

Which, in all honesty, is where the real “battle of wills” began.

Both of my parents have a peculiar fast-food addiction (the kind that no amount of kale can cure.) I leave town for three days, and when I get back, there’s always a half-melted McDonald’s milkshake hiding in the fridge like it’s in witness protection, and a brown paper bag trying (and failing) to cover its tracks in the trash.

My dad especially is loyal to his fried chicken, extra crispy and only from one sacred KFC location. Apparently, every other place “just doesn’t get it right.” And don’t even get me started on their evening Papa John’s pizza cravings. Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to meal prep quinoa bowls like it’s going to cancel out their pepperoni party.

Negotiations and the Car Key Conundrum

Then, of course, came the next big milestone:
The “Should Dad Still Be Driving?” conversation.
Ah yes, the emotional Olympics of caretaking: picking and choosing battles that won’t end in cold standoffs across the dinner table.

At some point, you realize that negotiation is your new love language.  “Okay, Dad, we can grab some KFC tonight… but how about we also talk about maybe handing over the car keys?”

It’s like bartering with a very stubborn teenager who also happens to have a lifetime of driving stories. To him, it’s not just about the car keys. It’s about holding on to his independence and refusing to admit defeat.

The Hard Conversations

Eventually, we had to sit down and have those conversations no one ever really wants to have — about contingency planning, sharing responsibilities among family, and preparing for the “what ifs” when hospital trips aren’t just for check-ups anymore.

Lately, the big topic has been whether to bring in a caregiver.
It’s become clear that my father needs round-the-clock help.
But try telling him that.

In his mind, needing a caregiver feels like waving the white flag. As far as he’s concerned, he’s still the guy who can do math in his head faster than a calculator, navigate any road without a GPS, and out-argue anyone without breaking a sweat. Needless to say, bringing it up was like lighting a match in a fireworks warehouse.

The Love Behind the Chaos

If “caretaking” had a Yelp review, it would be 5 stars for love, 1 star for ease.  It’s filled with tough moments, stubborn debates, canceled trips, and late-night worries.

But it’s also filled with love: the kind of love that makes you fight for them, nag them about blood sugar levels, and pick battles you never thought you’d have to pick.

It’s hard. It’s humbling. And sometimes, it’s weirdly hilarious.
(Seriously, who hides a milkshake behind the kale?)

At the end of the day, I remind myself: they took care of me once.
Now, it’s my turn — milkshakes, fried chicken wars, and all.