When is the end coming?

When I see my mother incoherent and talking about the constant stream of worries in her head I tell myself to not become her and then I write out my pieces and I see the maggots of the stories that started with her and I'm overwhelmed. Am I going to be the anxious, worried, dispirited woman my mother has had to become? I see her falling every day. I see her getting weaker, losing her balance and something inside me twists. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Old age was to be gentle. I was to have my spirited mother who was able to run after five children and who could manage a house like a military operation - for the rest of my life. I was supposed to not be her mother.

And yet, now, even as I fight against this new role, I am mothering my mother. With my heart breaking, I am unbuttoning my mother's coat as she turns herself for my work. I am taking her bags. I am helping her up the stairs where she sways and almost falls back. I am my mother's mother.

When does the end come for all of us? Is it when we give up the fight against confusion and the determination to stay intact? Is it when, like my mother, we admit to our losses, when we tell our families about our memories not being there, when we fall like pots and pans to the floor when our feet twist and when we are calm about the slow erosion of our bodies? Is it when we let our daughters take off our winter coats?