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We are all teachers. We teach people every day about who we are and what we believe in. We may not even be aware we are doing it. From a slight facial expression or small hand gesture, to the big change the world kind of actions, we are always teaching someone something about ourselves.

My parents were never ones to express their feelings with words. It became a bit of a game to see if we could get them to say ‘I love you’. Their usual response was ‘me too’ or ‘thank you’. Sure, we all craved those three little words, but they showed us love in so many ways we didn’t really need to hear them.

When I finally became an adult in their eyes, our relationship changed. I could see them as individuals rather than annoying parents who were flawed because they didn’t let me get my own way. I didn’t think I had more to learn from them, but they continued to teach me as our roles slowly reversed and I became the adult and them the children. 

A few years ago, I moved back home to help my parents as they aged and I continued to be their primary caregiver as they moved from a seniors’ apartment to a nursing home. During this complicated time, they never stopped teaching me. As their tender love for one another was completely exposed for me to see, sweet memories of life with them came back to me.

My parents always presented a united front. On the odd occasion when they couldn’t, one deferred to the other. Maybe one didn’t agree with the other, but they would never contradict or challenge each other’s decision. I have never heard them argue, say any kind of negative comment, or seen any negative action between them. They were hard working and committed to offering us the best life they could give.

I remember once when I was setting the table for dinner, Mom gently pulled the chipped plate from my hand as I prepared to place it at Dad’s spot. Daddy never gets a chipped plate, she said. Surprised and always looking to disagree, I told her he should. How else would she get a new set of dishes? As she smiled and handed me the best, I thought to myself, no way am I doing that with my husband.

Christmastime was busy for Mom, and included shopping for her own gifts. I always wondered how she could be so delighted to receive a package when she could guess what was inside. But every year Dad would reserve a night in the basement to try and disguise her gifts while he carefully wrapped and wrote out cards for each package. Memories of Christmas morning are filled with Mom’s laughter and delight from reading his notes. I think it was her favourite part of the season.

Mom cared for, protected, and shielded Dad from any difficulty or sadness in life. She was his rock, always present, always looking after his every need, and he knew it. If Mom was ok, then he was safe.  The first time that Mom stayed in bed because she was sick, they had been married fifty years. Dad was at a loss of what to do. He sat in a chair and just watched her in fear. Eventually he called me to come and tend to her. But at Mom’s urging it was Dad who I ended up caring for. Although Mom had set the kitchen table with the breakfast dishes and cereal boxes the night before, Dad had not eaten or had his coffee, not able to manage without her.

As they got older, they both ended up in the hospital a few times. They always fought going, not wanting to be apart. One time in particular, after several days sitting at Dad’s bedside, I decided to read the newspaper to him. I knew it would cheer him up as Mom read it to him every day over breakfast. “Stop reading,” he said in a very groggy and irritated voice. Surprised, I explained why I thought he would like it. He told me that he hated when Mom read aloud. I was shocked and asked why in sixty years of marriage had he never asked her to stop. I still remember the look on his face and I pray I never forget it. He was mortified at the idea of telling her he didn’t like it when she read to him. “I would never tell your mother, it would hurt her feelings’

Any time Mom was in the hospital, she would beg me to take her home so she could watch over Dad He’s more important, she’d say. A year before my mother died, doctors discovered a tumour engulfing one of her kidneys. They said it had likely been there for years and was not the source of her problems, but only more tests would tell us if there was an issue. At this point in her life she would not have survived surgery or be able to handle any kind of treatments, not that she realized that. All that she knew was that she had been in the hospital long enough and that she had to get home to take care of Dad. She refused the tests and swore me to secrecy. Dad would never be told about the tumour because she knew he would worry himself sick if he did.

Living with and caring for my parents these last few years has opened my eyes to this uncomplicated love that was right in front of me, but I was unable to see. So wrapped up in my wants and desires, I almost missed the most important lesson of my life. It is a precious gift my parents have given me without even knowing it. Whilst in the middle of an angry divorce I watched and I learned from these two people who lived and breathed for each other. They taught me:

Love is not the sticky gooey stuff of movies. 

It is the ordinary daily things.
It is watching over and protecting the other.
It is living a life that you never have to say I am sorry, because you didn’t hurt them in the first place.
It is a life of putting the needs of the other first.
It is honouring each other.

Love is respect.

Sorting through boxes, I found love letters Dad wrote before they were married. They were filled with stories about the family he imagined they would have, funny anecdotes, and a longing until they were together again. I can’t help but wonder if those notes on Mom’s Christmas gifts each year reminded her of the excitement of new beginnings in these letters of love she had tucked away.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for being so patient with me, and teaching me the most important lesson a girl needs to learn.

Love,