The Unthinkable Act

Some things you do because you love someone. Some things you do because no one else will.

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As a caregiver, especially in the beginning, I felt like a fish out of water, struggling to get my bearings or even catch a breath. Some moments pushed me so far they were unthinkable. They never existed in my imagination until the exact second they were suddenly required of me. I was a son standing beside a hospital bed, and the next moment, I was shown how to do something I never imagined I’d have to do for the woman who raised me.

There came a day when a nurse had to teach me how to help my mom with something incredibly personal. It was one of those tasks no child ever imagines doing for a parent. Mom was scheduled to be discharged from the hospital in four days. There were things I needed to learn to properly and safely care for Mom. I’d spent the last month watching the nurses do this work each day. I wrote down everything I remembered. This early in the strokes, I hadn’t learned that when things felt manageable, it usually meant I’d overlooked something. It’s like leaving the house and questioning whether you turned off the stove. Most people only feel that doubt once in a while, but for me, it was every day. That second guessing was exactly where I found myself. I thought the list was finished until Tuesday morning when the nurse came in the room asking, “Okay, who is going to do the cathing?” My fear was well placed. I had “left the stove on,” and the room seemed to heat up by the minute.

I looked up, left, right, behind me, but there was no one else there. I pointed at myself saying, reluctantly, “That would be me.” This task wasn’t on my list.

She brought me over to Mom’s bedside. Mom had heard what she said and her face tightened with worry. I, on the other hand, was panicking. While the nurse explained the process, I got more overwhelmed. The nurse gave me detail after detail, each one making the next moment heavier than the previous one. At times of high stress, a person can suddenly think of bizarre things. These come from a need to understand the moment. For me, it was a story about a duck seen two ways. Above the water, serenity and grace. Below the water, their feet moved with rhythm and direction. I was those feet, but inside me everything was fear and chaos with no direction. I was sweating profusely and my mind kept paddling around the same thought:

How am I supposed to do this? The nurse saw the terror in my eyes.

She could see the nerves in me, and she could see the stress in my mom’s behavior with her good arm covering her face. Mom was trying to hide the shame of this indignity. She hurt for both of us. Every so often, she would peek out over her arm at me. I knew she was thinking, “Go away, just let her do this,” her face getting increasingly red with embarrassment. The part people never understand is that humiliation isn’t one‑sided. It’s shared. The strange thing is that it shouldn’t be, because it’s necessary, and it’s medical, but it’s still so foreign, so unthinkable.

Trying to break the tension, the nurse said lightly, “Women are more difficult than men. Men are much easier for this.” It was meant kindly, almost instructional. It was meant to help. It didn’t, and she saw it. This wasn’t about men or women. This was about my mother. I finally asked the question I was afraid to ask. “How do you get past the awkwardness of this?”

She gave me the simple rule she thought would make it easier: “You just have to remember men are men and women are women.” I shook my head and said the only thing that was true in that moment:

“This isn’t a woman. This is my mother.” That changed everything.

The nurse came around to my side of Mom’s bed while Mom was still covering her face. She put her hand on my shoulder as if to steady me, as if to say she supported me and we were going to get through this. Then she said, in a soft, caring voice, “You’re going to do this because your mom needs your help.”

We went through the process in words first.

We opened the package, a container that looked like a little boat. The kit contained sterile gloves, lubricant, tubing, and other medical items used in the cathing process.

“Don’t touch anything else after you put on the gloves. Don’t let the tubing touch anything after you take it out of the packaging. Apply the lubricant to the tip. Slowly insert.”

You can imagine the rest of the process.

The first time I tried it, it went perfectly. One clean attempt. The nurse took me through the cleanup process, and at last we were finished. I walked out of that room shaking, overwhelmed, relieved, and honestly, a little arrogant at my success at this first attempt. I was soaking wet from all the stress‑sweating.

In the hallway, I finally exhaled in the same way I would after taking semester final tests in college. I thought, Okay. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I’ve got it. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

I was completely wrong.

The second time, nothing went right, not even close. I failed on the first, fifth, and tenth attempt. By attempt fourteen, the nurse gently stepped in and said, “Maybe you should let me do it this time.” That’s the moment that hits me hardest, not the awkwardness, not the embarrassment, not even the failure. It was the realization that this wasn’t a one‑time mountain to climb. I would have to do this every eight hours. Three times a day. For a very long time.

“The first time was overwhelming and the second time was humbling. The brutal truth is caregiving doesn’t care how you feel. It doesn’t wait for you to be ready or pause for your nerves or your pride to “feel” right.

There was no “you get another chance to practice in eight hours.” It wasn’t a situation where you could tell yourself, “Hey, if you don’t get it right this time, practice makes perfect.” This had to be done right every time. I realized that I couldn’t do this, not like this, not every eight hours. The part I never expected was that to get through it, I had to become someone else. The nurse who trained me had this incredibly gentle, soothing way of talking to my mom, a tone that made everything feel safe, human, and less clinical.

When it was my turn, I borrowed her style. I stepped into her persona like it was armor. I’d walk in and say, “Well hello there… how are you today? You have such pretty eyes.” I stayed in that gentle, comforting role until I was finished. It wasn’t about pretending to be the nurse or imitating her accent. It was about giving dignity.

I had to push my ego so deeply down that I could become whatever my mom needed in that moment. Giving her the same sense of calm and dignity that the nurse gave her became my focus. The important part was creating a space where she felt cared for, not examined. Caregiving isn’t about who you are, but the person you’re willing to become, even if you don’t know who that is from moment to moment.

It worked. She relaxed. I relaxed. Suddenly, the impossible became possible. Did it go perfectly every time? Of course not. In those times when it didn’t, taking a pause for each other’s needs helped tremendously. In those moments, I realized something important about caregiving. Dignity isn’t just preserved by family who showed up for the battle. Sometimes it’s also protected by the people who step into your life at exactly the right moment. These people give you the words you need in that moment or a supportive hand on your shoulder.

The nurse didn’t just teach me a skill. She taught me how to show up with courage, tenderness, and respect, even when the situation was difficult, awkward, or overwhelming. She taught me that caregiving isn’t about being ready. It’s about being willing, even when you aren’t. Caregiving isn’t a performance of perfection; it’s the practice of presence. It’s the difference between the technique of caregiving and the meaning of caregiving. At first, I thought the unthinkable was cathing my mom. I was wrong. Leaving her without her dignity, forcing her to fight this war alone, that would have been the unthinkable option.

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I can’t fully express how grateful I am that you took the time to read this story. So much of caregiving, healing, and surviving life happens in the quiet places most people never see, and I am thankful you chose to spend a few minutes here with me. If something in this piece resonated or if you see a way I can tell these stories with more clarity, depth, or honesty, I would appreciate your thoughts in the comments. Your feedback helps me keep growing as a writer and as a human being. My best wishes to each of you.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.