The Hugs I Don’t Get, and the Love I Do

Yesterday, I was in a deep sleep when the calls began at 3 am.

I was expecting them. In fact, I welcomed them.

Both were from my kids in the US. I am not with them as I am overseeing the care of my elderly parents — one with Parkinson’s and the stubbornness of a five-year-old, and the other with Alzheimer’s and the stubbornness of a two-year-old.

The first call was my son.

He works in Boston’s financial district. He goes in at 8 am and comes home at 8 pm. His team has it a little easier than others at his firm who have to work until 9 pm or later, and on weekends.

Since I am not there, he has to figure out dinner on his own.

Most weekdays, he eats out; otherwise, he has to sacrifice gym time.

Since it is a new job, he is still learning the ropes. It is not easy. He has lots to vent about.

I know my role in all this. I am supposed to listen without probing and keep things in the familiar safety of banter. Questions are apparently hazardous to his cortisol levels. That’s it.

Once he downloads his day, he wants me to share my day. Perhaps it takes his mind off things.