In one month, my parental caregiving enters its 10th year. 

Being uncomfortably sandwiched between kids and parents, I’ve been in a doctor’s office once or twice. 

A month. 

For a decade. 

I’ve also dealt with lawyers, Veterans Affairs, care home staff, banks, and likely more people I’m missing but who should not be sorry I’m forgetting them.  

Because let me tell you. 

The inefficiency can be staggering. 

For example, one specialist’s office sent me a link for their family and patient support page. It offered support groups. 

That last met two years ago. 

It offered patient events so old, pandemic-era guidelines were italicized in the description. Links for more information dead-ending in 404 pages. Specialist recommendations for providers now practicing in Nevada. 

And a guidance program for caregivers. 

I signed up for it. 

Six months later, a nice lady called. She asked how the guidance program was going. 

“We’ve, um, never met.” I said. “I haven’t spoken to anyone.”  

Then there are the people shocked I have wills, powers of attorney, even a guardianship in place.  

I mean, people.  

I can understand your surprise at the makeshift Trapper Keeper I bring to every appointment. I get the tabs labeled “To Do,” “Doctors,” “Legal,” and “Indy’s Death” coupled with the notebook and pen poised for notetaking, with of course an extra pen because what if the first pen runs out of ink is all intimidating. 

I understand you see the binder clips and Post-its peeking from the makeshift Trapper Keeper and wonder what you’ve gotten yourself into. 

But the wills, powers of attorney, guardianship — shouldn’t everyone with declining and/or cognitively impaired parents have those in place? 

Sometimes, I get the impression those people think I’m after Willie’s money.  

I always think of the grandmother in “She’s Having a Baby” insisting Elizabeth McGovern is a gold digger. 

“There’s little or no gold to be dug!” the grandfather grumbles. 

That’s Willie. Little or no gold to be dug.  

When these institutions send me to defunct webpages and are shocked I’ve done exactly what I’m supposed to do, I want to tell them all to step aside and give me a week because their makeshift Trapper Keepers are on the way. 

Listen.  

I get the limitations of all involved here. I do.  

But ten years of a voice in the phone telling me I have to be patient with the doctor who sent the prescription for Indy’s urgent medication to his mail-in pharmacy in Missouri instead of his brick-and-mortar pharmacy 10 minutes from the Temple of Doom has made me a little testy. 

And a lot snarky. 

All of which made the encounter I recently had on Willie’s behalf so pleasantly surprising. 

It was a funeral home.  

Relax. I haven’t waited 456 words to give you bad news. Willie is alive and kicking and in possession of $60 of unknown provenance. 

I feel like that’ll be a story eventually. 

But in the weeks after Indy’s death, the funeral home suggested Willie plan and prepay for her funeral. 

So one day a few months after Indy died, Willie and I sat with the home’s director and planned her funeral. 

Now, I’ve seen Willie do a lot of brave things. Go to school for a decade and a half while raising kids. Take her mother off life support.  

I’ve heard of her doing more. Taking her father’s car keys when the cancer spread to his brain. Threatening a family member when —

Wait. 

Now that I think about it, she’s threatened more than one family member. 

I mean, for good reason and all, but wow. 

But I think the bravest thing I ever saw Willie do was plan a celebration of her rapidly dwindling life after burying two family members in under four months. 

With the planning done, all we had to do was pre-pay. But then there were court dates and rides in police cars.  

That payment got kicked down the curb. 

Until a few weeks ago.  

My brother and I settled in the funeral home director’s office. My brain threw up flashes from Indy’s funeral, wicked and relentless. 

Until the funeral director turned on the projector. 

It was connected to his laptop. On the screen was the paperwork I completed back when Willie first planned her funeral. 

It was beautiful. 

Some of the information was outdated, thanks to the guardianship.  

He didn’t bat an eye. 

“No problem,” he said. A few clicks of the keyboard and bing! Everything was updated.  

No queries about the guardianship. No insinuations I’m lining my pockets with Willie’s non-existent millions. 

Rapid fire, he read through the pre-payment policy. He described our next steps. He detailed how to proceed when Willie passes. 

Well, if. That lady will be counting her $60 and threatening family members long after I’m gone.  

Then — unprompted — the funeral director offered to photocopy the check. He printed out the pretty, magical screen. He presented everything to me in a lovely little trifold I could nestle perfectly in my makeshift Trapper Keeper. 

All of this is to say after 10 years of caregiving, I have found a kindred spirit in the funeral home director. 

And that, my friends, is what caregiving does to a human.