By Cara Stolen
@carastolen

I saw her for the first time last summer, on my way home from a meeting with a client. She wore an ankle-length dress, and her long, gray hair was frizzy and unkempt. Most notably, she was carrying what looked to be a mid-sized poodle in her arms. Not the way you might carry a baby—cradled into the crook of your arm—but with her arms wrapped around the dog’s legs, so it looked like the dog was laying in the circle of her arms. 

At first, I thought the dog must be hurt. That it had gotten hit by a car or something, and she was carrying it back to her house. But the stretch of road she was walking was surrounded by hay fields and cow pasture, so I braked and rolled down my window as I approached her. 

“Ma’am? Do you need help?” I asked.

I noticed the car behind her as I spoke. It was an older Suburban with its hazards on, and it was driving on the shoulder of the road. 

“Yes. I do,” she responded gruffly, as she made a bee-line for my car and grabbed the handle of my driver’s side rear door. 

All of a sudden the Suburban was right next to us, and the driver, a woman I’d guess to be in her mid-fifties, leaned out of her open window. 

“Don’t let her in your car,” she said, in a tone somewhere between exasperated and defeated. 

I put the car in park, got out, and put myself between my car door and the elderly woman. 

“I need help,” the old woman said, clearly annoyed. “And this lady won’t leave me alone. GO AWAY!” she shouted over her shoulder toward the woman.

I looked between the two women, confused. 

The driver of the Suburban sighed as the elderly woman started walking away from us, toward the highway. “That’s my mom,” she said. 

I was stunned. “Oh,” I replied, unsure of what to do or say next. 

“I’m sorry we bothered you tonight,” she continued. “It’s just ... “ she trailed off, staring at the elderly woman and her dog walking away from her. 

“Dementia?” I asked. 

“Yep,” she replied. “My brothers and I can’t agree on how to handle her care and she was too damn stubborn to put her affairs in order before it was too late.” She smacked her steering wheel repeatedly as she talked, her anger and frustration filling the space between us. 

“I’m so sorry,” I said quietly. “Can I help?”

“Sure,” she said, throwing her hands up. “Call the police. I have no legal authority and she’s about to go walk onto the highway. And for God’s sake, tell your folks or whoever you love to get their affairs in order before they can’t. I gotta go.” 

I stood there watching, shading my eyes against the late afternoon sun, as she resumed her post—inching along behind the woman who raised her, who no longer knew her from a complete stranger. 

***

My obsession with the logistics of my parents’ eventual death started in elementary school with questions of who I would live with if they died, what would happen to me, and who would take care of me. 

To their credit, they answered all of my questions in the calm, collected manner they handled everything else in my childhood. Maybe it was because I was their only child, and they felt they owed me honest answers and the chance to mentally prepare for what could happen. Or maybe, they saw right through my questions to the fear and anxiety prompting them. Either way, they told me it would be my Aunt Beth who would take care of me if they died. And for a few years, that was enough. 

But as I got older, my questions became more specific. What would happen to my parents’ business when they died? Did they have a medical power of attorney? Would their estate have to go through probate? What even was probate? Did they want to be cremated or buried? Where did they want their ashes scattered? 

I was consumed with worry over the logistical burdens that might befall me upon their deaths. I was obsessed with the aspects of their passing I felt were within my control. 

***

I see the elderly woman walking every few months or so. Always the same dress, the same messy hair, and the same dog in her arms. And always, her daughter follows—window down, hazards on, with her face set in a hard, angry grimace. 

Seeing the old woman fills me with a deep, somber, sadness, but it’s the daughter who brings tears to my eyes. Her dedication, her loyalty, her commitment to keeping her mother safe, even though doing so fills her with rage. 

I can’t help but wonder what their life would look like if the elderly woman had organized her estate and made her wishes known before dementia slowly took over her brain. Would she live in a nursing home? A facility for Alzheimer's patients? Would her daughter hire live-in care or move her mother into her own home? 

Would her daughter still be filled with anger and frustration at her mother’s fate? Would she still resent her role of caretaker?

I want to know what it would take for the elderly woman’s daughter to move past her anger, accept her lack of control, and allow herself to feel the grief underneath it all. Not because that knowledge would change anything in her life or mine, but simply because I want to know acceptance is possible. 

***

My dad sits at the bar in my kitchen, his laptop open in front of him. I’m starting dinner, and he’s explaining to me the latest development in their estate planning, which is almost complete. In the last 10 years, at my constant prompting and prodding, my parents have managed to organize every last detail. They’ve formed a living trust, hired a financial advisor, bought a safe for their documents, and even drafted individual medical powers of attorney. All that’s left is a simple document upload to their investment bank. 

As I listen to my dad talk about how frustrated he is with the document upload interface and how ridiculous it is that the wait time to “live chat” is upwards of an hour, I turn my lime green vegetable peeler over and over in my hand. I look down at the farmhouse island my dad built me for Christmas last year, and wonder why I don’t feel better. Shouldn’t I feel relieved everything is finally taken care of? 

Instead, as I look back at my dad, the man who has been my hero, my confidant, my constant cheerleader, I am overcome with sadness. 

Somehow, checking the “Mom & Dad Estate” box off my list after all these years doesn’t feel as good or as satisfying as I expected it to—it’s just one less thing to worry about. Instead of relief, I feel the way I did watching my son ride his bike down our half-mile driveway by himself for the first time. The way I imagine the woman in the car feels as she drives behind her mother. Helpless, terrified, and overwhelmed by my lack of control. 

Clutching the file folder in my desk labeled “Mom & Dad” doesn’t protect me from the heartbreak their passing will cause, just like clenching my kids’ hands and restricting their independence to “keep them safe” will not actually protect them from the inevitable heartbreaks of childhood and adulthood. In some ways, I’m just like the elderly woman’s daughter—forever relegated to a life of watching the people I love walk down the road ahead of me, unable to interfere or protect them from everything. 

I’m grateful my parents have their “affairs” in order, but as I look back at my dad I realize it doesn’t really matter. Because having one less thing to worry about won’t matter when my heart breaks. 

Words and photo by Cara Stolen. Cara is a ranch wife and work-at-home mama of two living in rural Washington state. She loves exceptionally early mornings, strong (decaf) black coffee, and listening to her children giggle. You can find her hiding in her pantry sneaking chocolate chips by the handful, or on Instagram. She also blogs occasionally.