My mother lives with my father in my childhood home and they will live there until they don't anymore. I don't know when that will be. My parents worked hard and saved their money so they could live a long life and at the end of it, be too rich to qualify for help, and too poor to pay out of pocket. Losing your mind is expensive.

My father is a kind, patient, amazing soul who I'm pretty sure would bleed gold if you pierced him. He loves, loves, loves, my mother and is willing to endure her needing to be no more than 12 inches away from him at all times, which, would drive me bonkers. I used to say that my Dad and I shared a common need for space. But I guess I can't say that anymore. Maybe he still does love space, but loves, loves, loves my Mother more than he loves space.

Most mornings we have help coming into the home, mostly to entertain my Mom while my Dad tries to catch his breath. The help will increase as we continue down this journey. My middle sister comes on Tuesdays and I try to come at least one day of the weekend. I help with grocery shopping, some household chores, and entertainment, which includes sorting buttons, coloring, stringing beads, and other tactile things. Sometimes I bring my mandolin and play for my mother, and she taps her foot and applauds and acts like I am a genius. But that is not new, she always acted like I was a musical virtuoso.

My eldest sister carries the majority of the burden, jugging the bureaucracy, and organizing bills and payments, and other things that probably suffocate other families. She visits 2-3 evenings, and shares a dinner of the soups my husband makes for my parents. The first time I saw my sister feed my mother I was surprised and uncomfortable, but clearly they had done it many times before since my mother sometimes forgets how to get the food in front of her into her mouth. I can remember what it was like to have my mother feed me cottage cheese and applesauce. She would do that thing where she would reflexively open her own mouth when I opened mine.

If she could have seen how this was going to play out she probably would have laughed. She is tiny now and has been for years. But she had been heavy most of my life. While she could still put words together confidently, she would tell people "I used to be a fat woman!" When I was a kid she also used to say "If I ever start getting goofy, hit me over the head with a brick." But she started to get goofy, and I couldn't.

My parents have been married over 55 years. I used to fall asleep to the sound of them cracking each other up in the bedroom next to mine. They were that young couple in the dance halls in in the center of the circle, all the other dancers getting out of the way to let them showcase their moves on the floor. My Dad brought her flowers and told her she was beautiful and doted on her. He still does. Even in the state she is in now, she has never looked better. Dad is constantly buying her new clothes and lovely inexpensive jewelry that makes her feel pretty. The last time I bought them groceries he wanted me to make sure I bought her a new lipstick. And I had to go out of my way to do it, but I did because it was important to him.

My parents are better people than they were because they wanted to be better for each other. They have encouraged each other and believed in each other and fought and laughed and danced. On my wedding day, when my need for space started to kick in, I said to my mother "I don't know if I can do this" and she said "You can't wait to marry the 'perfect person' because you are also not perfect, and that is not fair. You have to marry the person whose faults you think you can tolerate for the rest of your life."

He tolerates her and her ever-changing needs and oh my God he loves, loves, loves her. For the rest of his life.