December: A Story of Patience, Struggle, and Rediscovery

December tested me in ways I never anticipated. It began as a month of hope and planning. I was readying myself for my mom's discharge from the hospital, taking time off work to care for her. But life has a way of colliding plans with reality. Mom's hospital got COVID and kicked her out three days early. By the end of the month, I had visited hospitals seven times, including two emergency rooms—one for my mom and one for myself—and encountered more specialists than most people meet in a year.

It has been exhausting, heartbreaking, and, at times, overwhelming.

Yet, amid the chaos, there has been love.

Caring for my mom has required extreme patience, which I didn't know I possessed. Since her stroke, her dementia has brought an almost childlike repetition to her days. Since Dec 24, she has asked every morning if it's Jan 1, convinced the New Year holds significance for her health. I answer her impatiently each time, worrying that her question isn't just about the date—it's her way of making sense of the world. Still, there's a sweetness in her spirit as she enthusiastically wishes everyone she meets a Happy New Year.

Dec 25: "Happy New Year!"

Dec 27: "Happy New Year!"

Dec 29: "Happy New Year!"

There are moments, though, when my patience falters. For example, trips to T&T Supermarket and Costco, her favourite places, have turned into emotional minefields. Watching her, vision-impaired and frail, navigate the crowded aisles was both endearing and exhausting. Mom said, "I attacked people," as she bumped into others, oblivious to their annoyed glances. I wanted to give her freedom but felt crushed by the impatience of others as she inadvertently obstructed their paths. The warmth of the rehab hospital felt like a distant memory amidst the bustling, indifferent crowds. Independence is super important to my mom. She refused to wear sunglasses my friend's mom gifted her or walk with her walker.

The hardest part of caregiving isn't the physical effort—it's the emotional toll. Seeing my once-strong mom so vulnerable feels like watching a slow unravelling of time. She ignored any traffic lights as she tried to cross Chinatown traffic, saying, "Oops, I didn't see it." And yet, as tough as it is to witness, there's also beauty in being present for her. Making her dinner, including Cornish hen l'orange on Christmas, felt like one of my life's most precious and priceless moments.

This December has forced me to confront questions I never thought I'd ask:

Should I move back to Vancouver to care for her full-time?

Should I give up my career as I know it?

How do I reconcile the professional identity I've built with this new role as a caregiver?

Caregiving is a detour—a sharp turn in my 40s that feels like both a midlife crisis and a reset. I've gone from managing enterprise-scale operations to managing daily medication schedules, meal prep, and hospital visits. The shift is jarring, and my skill set feels mismatched. I've wished I could outsource it to specialists who are better equipped for the job.

But in this detour, I'm learning. I'm learning to let go of perfection and accept what I can't control. I'm learning to cherish the small victories—Mom's excitement at Costco, silliness, and laughter. I'm learning to find gratitude even on the hardest days. Praying every night and appreciating the roof over my head has grounded me.

Not everyone has the privilege I do. I met my mom's roommate at Vancouver General Hospital, an immobile grandmother with a stroke who was also the caregiver for her even more fragile husband. Their sons, juggling shift work, struggled to visit often. That perspective reminds me how lucky I am to have flexibility in my work, to live in Vancouver, and to have chosen to be here for my mom.

Maybe this is a detour, but it's also an investment—in my relationship with her, my resilience, and a life richer for its challenges.

This month, I discovered caregiving companies in Vancouver that could lighten my load. One woman I met today spoke with patience and understanding. She has been running her business for 27 years and assured me that my mom's desire for independence is common and manageable. For the first time in a long while, I feel like I'm seeing light at the end of the tunnel.

As I return to work next week and enter the New Year, I'm reminded that life's detours often lead to places of unexpected grace.

Whew. That's my year.

P.S. By mid-December, I even got sick. I let go of working out, being a director at work, and even being a caring son. Having my fragile mother hug me super tightly as I walked out of the pharmacy was one of the most touching moments of 2024.

P.P.S. A heartfelt thank you to our relatives visiting from Asia and everyone who sent love and well wishes over the holidays. Celebrating Christmas with the extended family and honouring December birthdays in Vancouver made this season feel truly extraordinary.

It's more than a detour—it's a journey of love. I hope yours was as challenging and rewarding as mine.

For those who are new to the series, check out four previous articles:

• A Crash Course in Life: My Mom's Stroke and New Normal
• Raw, real-life leadership journey: Navigating mom's stroke
• Rewiring Life: Post-Stroke & the Power of Hope
• The Circle of Struggle and Growth: A Journey of Hope

I wish you a very Happy New Year!