The Muscle Memory of Care
Dad and I barely protested that Mom opted against La Musée de la Civilization in Quebec City not because we eschew her presence but because enjoying shared interests as a duo on international adventure is precious. A family of francophiles, our little delegation had defected from Thanksgiving first by visiting Montreal and delighting in its imitation of France. I stammered through the language I’d barely spoken since living in Lausanne as a child, but you would never guess my father was raised in Texas when he sought out interactions with the locals. Truly, he conjures French vocabulary words with more facility than English. But for all our mirth to have seemingly been transported to Europe without leaving the continent, Dad and I did not forget that this land was home to millions before the arrival of colonists. Our guide’s audience was merely us Durhams, two listeners clinging to every word during her hour-long overview of the province’s First Nations and Inuit peoples. We learned how each group’s traditional snowshoes differ according to latitude, widening closer to the arctic with less vegetation between which to step. We mourned the harms of colonization together, though with distinct analyses. Dad leaned on his familiarity with history but deferred to me for commentary on contemporary Indigenous life and the ongoing violence of settler colonialism. One of countless qualities that sets him apart from so many men his age, my dad welcomes loving corrections.
We skipped the remaining exhibits to reunite with my mother for crepes, but en route to her, we welcomed the chance to take a selfie against the backdrop of the St Lawrence River. “Quebec” comes from an Algonquan word for the narrowing of this watercourse at the city’s cliffs, we’d just learned. Durhams’ is an etymology-based family culture, so we mostly riffed on French words’ cognates and derivatives as I read each passing sign aloud for practice. He smiles when he corrects me, but he is encouraging rather than mocking me. Sundown accentuating twinkling holiday lights illuminating ancient alleyways, I took in the holiness of the moment, the sacredness of caregiving for my parents who are my friends.
They are only 69, but my dad’s recent spinal-fusion surgery and my mom’s eventual knee procedure have served as rehearsal for chapters to come. He suspects his recovery is progressing behind schedule as he ambles cane-in-hand at the slowest of paces, requiring frequent breaks and never quite comfortable. Having neglected to do so in the first leg of our itinerary, we did rent a wheelchair for our journey to the provincial capital. And so it was with newfound speed that we rolled through the museum, myself the pusher and both of us ingesting lessons in disability justice. Quebec’s cobblestoned hills are unfriendly to this mode of transportation, which we noticed at every step, but equally did we celebrate every inclusive design choice represented in the museum: not just each ramp, elevator, and automatic door, but waived admission fees for people who use wheelchairs and their company. The two of us navigating an ableist world and its welcome exceptions together, it was one of the few moments when I could tell my dad was no longer embarrassed to be growing old.
My hands were unpracticed with wheelchairs, as evidenced when once I spilled Dad into the street due to a precarious curb cut - the trick, I now know, is to apply your foot to the bar beneath the seat. But my arms intuited to keep elbows bent at the ready. The chair’s handles provided the most obvious perch, but, as Lyne described the process of constructing fish traps, I realized I could rest my hands on Dad’s shoulders instead. Henceforth I took every opportunity to do so, occasionally adding a gentle massage as I nudged the vehicle along. When heaving uphill, I noticed my crouched posture situated my face near Dad’s bald head, and more than once did I take the chance to kiss it, as was my habit as a boy. One seated in a wheelchair faces away from its pusher, so my dad never noticed me choking back tears of gratitude for the privilege of tending to his needs, as I do while writing this.
My oldest’s recent birthday also celebrated my twelfth anniversary of parenting. Having raised children solo for half that time (if with half custody), caregiving is my default mode of being. That I raise two perfect daughters is the main thing to know about me. Far from boasting, this is a comment on muscle memory. Without really involving my brain, my hands guided my parents’ backpack straps over their shoulders when I saw them struggling because the same hands have done so for Genevieve and Adelaide countless times. It is a similar gesture to lift my dad’s legs into the wheelchair’s footrests as it was fastening my children into their strollers when they were infants. It came naturally to strap my own packs together in order to free up both hands to carry my parents’ suitcases because I did so meandering through New York with my daughters this summer. It is not just that I agreed to clip my dad’s toenails when it was too painful to strain for his feet himself, I wanted to, just as I take pleasure in brushing my daughters’ hair. I do not mean to infantilize my parents. Rather, I am taking stock of this stage of my life: eight more years before my youngest reaches legal adulthood correspond with my parents’ increasing physical needs. Caregiving is my past, present, and future.
At Christmas last year, all assembled at the dinner table in the house in which I was raised, our patriarch revealed to us that, emotionally speaking, 2024 was the year he turned old, phrasing it as if the dining room were a confession booth. We have talked in earnest about the inevitability of death and what comes after it for the first time this year. Dad is keenly aware that both his parents passed away in their 70s. No doubt we have good reason to expect many more years of active livelihood with my parents followed by more years of slowing down in peace. But that winddown no longer feels abstract. I do not look forward to it, but I’m ready. I have practiced. I was made to care.
In that same tone of voice when my dad lamented his aging, my parents thanked me throughout our Quebecois vacation for the assistance I provided, as if they were in my debt, as if it had been a chore. Regretting that they held me back, it felt like they were apologizing for needing my help. Absurdity, of course. Caregiving is a gift indeed, but not one I offer my growing children or aging parents; it is the most sacred present I could ever receive.
