It was visiting time at the hospital, and the corridors were full of dutiful middle-aged sons and daughters. The woman who held the ward door open for me was balancing a formidable stack of Tupperware boxes: home-cooked food, in case the nurses were too busy to make sure her elderly father ate. Why hadn’t I thought of that? But there’s always something more you probably should be doing; always a ball you might have dropped.
So much about looking after ageing parents reminds me of early motherhood, that old juggling act that, in retrospect, looks almost like a rehearsal. Hello again, my old friend nagging guilt. And hello again, that sense of needing to be in two places at once – except now it’s three, if you are so madly ambitious as to want a job, children and parents.
