When Gratitude Finally Found its Voice
This past week, while preparing a funeral message for a teenager whose life ended far too soon, I received a thank you from my mother. It was a simple thank you—but I cannot remember the last time I heard one from her quite like this.
I was working in my second-floor office, trying to find words to share with a grieving family and friends. My office door was open, and the house was mostly quiet except for the soft dialogue of a television program playing downstairs in Mom’s living area.
After a while, I heard her get up out of her chair. Then came the familiar sounds of her walker making contact with the walls and door frames between her chair in our living room and the bathroom in her bedroom suite. Mom does not simply walk down the hallway. She announces her journey through a series of bumps, scrapes, and small collisions.It is not exactly a stealthy operation. Frankly, when mom initiates this journey without being asked, it usually means trouble. I winced at the thought of what might be coming.
I continued writing to capture the thoughts I had. Several minutes passed before this thought interrupted my flow:"She has been in the bathroom for quite a while."
Experience has taught me that an extended bathroom visit can mean additional “servant-like” responsibilities are about to be added to the day. My heart sank a little more, but the words for the funeral were coming and I wanted to get them onto the page before they disappeared. So I kept writing for a few more minutes. Then another messenger arrived. The smell. It had somehow travelled from Mom’s suite, through the hallway, into and across the kitchen, right through to the opposite end of the living room, up a full flight of stairs, around the corner, and directly into my office where I was sitting at my desk. Truly, it was an impressive journey.
My writing came to an immediate halt and I began making my way downstairs to see what we were facing. As I headed down the stairs, and through the living room, the situation became increasingly obvious. With every step, the odour intensified, and memories of previous caregiving adventures began flooding back. I called from the hallway, “Mom, are you okay?” It was one of those questions you ask even when you already know the answer.
“I don’t feel well,” she replied.
I asked if I could come in and she responded with a simple, "Yes." Her tone was off, I could tell she was not feeling well and needed help. I quickly pulled the neck of my shirt over my nose—not exactly professional medical equipment, nor did I have vics vapor rub on hand, but caregivers learn to work with what is readily available. I tried to bring some lightness into an increasingly uncomfortable and embarrassing moment. Less than an hour earlier, her home-care worker had helped her shower and dress in fresh clothing. Now we were about to do it all again. I helped her prepare for another shower. Over time, we have grown accustomed to this strange mother-and-son reversal. There was a season when she cared for me—bathing me, dressing me, cleaning up messes I had made, and responding when I was sick. As you know, the roles have changed significantly.
Neither of us would have chosen this particular arrangement, but somehow we have found our way into a familiar routine: “Okay, Mom. It’s time for another shower.”This time, however, something felt different. As I helped her, Mom began to talk. She thanked me for taking care of her.She thanked me for the shower. She thanked me for helping her get dressed. She thanked us, Lynn and I, for allowing her to live in our home and for all the care we have provided. Then, once she was clean, comfortable, and safely back in bed, she thanked me again. Her words landed more deeply than expected. Those who know my mother well will understand that she has never been someone who easily expresses affection or gratitude verbally. I cannot remember the last time she said, “I love you,” and even a simple “thank you” has often been very difficult for her to offer over the years.
I have never doubted that gratitude existed somewhere inside her. Expressing it just isn't something she has ever done.
I have approached her care over these past 8 years without expectation of hearing or receiving appreciation. This has been important, because caregiving cannot be sustained if gratitude is the fuel we depend upon.
Most days there is no thank you. Some days the person you are caring for truly does not understand what you have done. Some days they are frightened, confused, angry, or convinced that you are interfering rather than helping.And some days, they may not even know who you are.
You learn to serve because the person has value, not because they can recognize or reward your service.
But on this day, in the middle of a situation I would not have chosen, Mom gave me a gift I was not expecting.She noticed. She understood, at least for a moment what was happening. And she said thank you. Multiple times.
What I continue Learning through caregiving.
First, meaningful moments rarely arrive in attractive packaging.I would not have chosen that bathroom, that smell, that interruption, or that second shower of the morning as the setting for a unique moment of gratitude. Yet that is exactly where the moment came.
We can become so focused on escaping the unpleasant parts of life that we miss what may be quietly emerging within them. Sometimes gratitude, tenderness, and connection appear in the very places we would most like to avoid.
Second, Your servants towel must be bigger than your ego.
Service cannot depend upon recognition. Much of caregiving is unseen and uncelebrated. There are no awards for changing bedding and going laundry every day, helping someone shower again, answering the same question repeatedly, or quietly surrendering another piece of your schedule and time.
We serve because love does what is needed. Gratitude is wonderful when it comes, but it cannot be the condition upon which our care depends.
Third, do not underestimate the power of a simple thank you.I expect Mom does not remember that conversation. She may not remember the shower, the illness, or even the words she spoke. But I will.
Her thank yous did not erase the exhaustion or make the situation pleasant. It did, however, remind me that somewhere beneath the confusion and the limitations of Alzheimer’s, there are still moments when my mother sees, understands, and connects. I began that morning trying to write words about a life cut painfully short. I ended being reminded again that life is fragile, dignity matters, and love is often expressed through the most ordinary—and occasionally most unpleasant—acts of service. And every now and then, when we least expect it, love finds its way back up the stairs and says: “Thank you.”
Serving those we love
Gregory Bland
** Image created with AI
