When my mom died, the best version of me died too. My favorite version of me. He existed only when I traveled home to Michigan, and only at night.
As my mom grew older, she came to need help with ordinary tasks. The pace of her day slowed. Putting on shoes and tying them was an exhausting hour-long process for her. By the time she would finish breakfast, it was usually time to eat lunch. My dad carefully balanced giving my mom the help she needed while still allowing her to exercise her independence.
At night, preparation for bed was a ritual. It started in the bathroom, a typical nighttime routine - brushing her teeth, washing her face - but at a snail's pace. The last dose of medications of the day. A last chance to use the toilet while it is nearby. This part of the ritual could take 40 minutes, and was something that my mom would do on her own. When she emerged from the bathroom, it was my turn to join in the process. She held my arm as we walked from the bathroom to the bedroom. We might talk about the day that had passed and the day to come, or we might just focus on walking steadily and let the quiet of the house surround us. When she got to the couch, she would begin the process of changing out of her clothes and into her pajamas. Mostly, I would encourage her as she would succeed in pulling off a sock or getting her shirt over her head. Occasionally I would help her if she was really struggling. With her pajamas on, I'd walk with her over to the bed, and I'd help her climb in. She didn't have the strength to get all the way in bed and would end up right on the edge, at risk of falling off during the night. I'd help shift her to a more secure place, sliding her legs in a bit, then her body, until she was safely in the center of the bed. Then I'd tuck her in and sit on the bed with her, and we'd talk for a while. She would say that having me was the best thing that ever happened to her, and I would say it was the best thing that ever happened to me too. We'd laugh, I would touch my forehead against hers, and I'd give her a kiss goodnight.
My part of the ritual would last around an hour. My wife will confirm that because when I told her that I would call her after I finished helping my mom go to bed, she would have to wait it out. It was, however, the greatest privilege of my life to be able to participate in caring for Mom. She had given all herself to raising me. This was my chance to show some small amount of appreciation and to spend some quiet time with her in the stillness of the evening. It was our time, when I could be the son I aspired to be, and she could feel proud of the man she had raised.