My father Jeffrey-a retired Wesleyan University professor who’d tossed me laughing into the air when I was a baby and taught me to read when I was four-had suffered a devastating stroke at the age of 79. But I had no idea how hard they were about to get.
Things had been hard for my parents, who were then in their eighties and entering the last chapter of their long and vigorous lives. In the fall of 2006, I found myself in a labyrinth without a map.įor five years, I’d been shuttling between my home in California and my parents’ house in Connecticut as a member of the “rollaboard generation”–the 24 million middle-aged sons and daughters who help care for aging and ailing parents and often, but never often enough, roll their suitcases on and off planes.
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