Moving back to the small town of my childhood was my greatest fear. Then I did it — and found something extraordinary

Taking care of my elderly parents during Covid as a single, gay recovering Catholic should’ve been awful. Instead, it became life-affirming

La inminente imposición del encierro debería enfadarnos más bien porque debería ser innecesario (istock)

I was not looking forward to taking my father to get his second dose of the Covid-19 vaccine on Valentine’s Day, his 90th birthday. As a 37-year-old gay, single recovering Catholic, moving back to Ohio to quarantine with him and my 75-year-old mom last year was my worst fear. 

After all, I loved my friends and the career I’d built over a decade in the nation’s capital. Yet I found myself obsessively followingThe Washington Post’s Covid tracker, watching virus cases soar. Being far away and unable to help my homebound parents filled me with anxiety. An only child wracked with worry, I called Mom. Ten seconds into the conversation, her words cut through my indecision: “Come home.” 

I hung up, terrified of losing everything. I had a good job, apartment and was just clicking with this amazing guy I’d been seeing. How long would I be gone? When would I see him again? But I knew what I had to do. After one sleepless night, I decided to pack up and leave my city and my life as I knew it.

The first weeks back in Columbus were disorienting. I discovered the extent to which my folks could no longer handle things on their own. My gym time was replaced by preparing their meals, taking Dad to the doctor in the midst of a pandemic lockdown, and cleaning the creaky four-bedroom Cape Cod-style house where I grew up. Opening the door to each room opened a minefield of memories, like hearing the sound ofFur Elise I’d played on the piano before dinner and watching the hot blond guy playing basketball shirtless across the street from my study. I struggled to focus.

My past haunted me. I could still see myself at 17, sitting in the overstuffed armchair in the living room, wearing my red CVS smock from my part-time job. Palms sweating and heart pounding, I blurted out two words to my folks that changed my life: “I’m gay.” It took me years before I forgave them for sending me to a Christian counselor who tried to scare me out of being queer. The anger left, but the flashbacks of secret calls and loneliness remained. Yet back in my old bedroom, I recalled how they’d eventually accepted and celebrated me. Now it was my turn.

Helping my father change one day, I noticed lesions on his skin that turned out to be cancerous. For the first time, I was scared I could lose him. Visiting was no longer enough. I had to stay, though it meant giving up my lease in DC entirely. Not wanting to break quarantine, I made my first of many tough choices, hiring movers to do it all virtually. It was hard to let go of control. I kept hoping I wasn’t making a mistake.

One hot July afternoon, I came in breathless from a run. In a mad dash to the shower, I looked up to say hi to Mom, but I froze, overcome. She was reading a book for the first time since her stroke earlier that spring. The TV was off, and her nose was planted in the pages ofMrs Miniver. 

“My little house is gone forever,” she’d told me on the phone, but I didn’t know what she meant. Now I did. Reading was a great passion she gave up, but now it was restored. So was the twinkle in her eye when she noticed me staring. Her spirit soared, as did mine. 

Starting a consulting business that summer required a leap of faith. There was a strain between work and family as I became Papa’s patient advocate to help him access treatments for skin cancer. I noticed I didn’t have to go to the gym to detox the day’s stress anymore or use caffeine as a substitute for not getting enough sleep. I was adjusting to the slower pace.

I had time for self-care, which included taking care of my parents. Cooking became a group activity, with Mom cutting up veggies and Papa telling stories about growing up during the Depression in a Jersey City family of Italian American immigrants. As I loaded the crockpot with cabbage, onion, garlic, and other healthy vegetables, the fresh aroma and laughter filled our house. 

Then Mom’s sudden decline in the early fall shattered our serenity. After a whirlwind of hospice nurse visits and hospitalization, she decided to spend her final days at home. We turned the living room into a maze of medical equipment. Watching her strength fade as she fought to even chew and swallow, I could barely eat myself, but I cherished every last moment with her.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Paul,” she told me one Saturday, reaching out for my hand. Fighting tears, I told her, “I’m not going anywhere, Mom.  I’ll take good care of Papa.” 

She squeezed my hand and said, “I know, baby.” 

A week before we lost her, she looked at peace, where she wanted to be.  And so was I, so glad I’d come home, where I belonged.