Balancing Act

Caregiving writer Valerie Nikolas shares her experience watching her mother care for her own mother — Valerie’s yiayai — through the end

By the time my yiayia (grandmother in Greek) passed away this past year, I had spent more than half my life acutely aware of her impending death.

From offhand comments about “when I die” (not unusual among Greek grandmothers) to full-blown health crises, caring for Yiayia was a family affair — a job with no days off. Through it all, my mother and uncle were there, dutiful children compelled by love — and obligation. My sister and I mostly watched from the sidelines, our concern growing as we grew up and realized the toll that caregiving can take.

When Yiayia moved down the street from us in 2007, she was still independent: tending to her garden, cooking traditional dishes, and mending our clothes. But as the years went by, she needed more and more help.

At first, it was just shopping, errands, and doctor appointments, which had always been the case, anyway. Yiayia never mastered English or got her driver’s license.

My mom met the moment by taking a job at a nearby school so she could check on her more often. It wasn’t just the logistical effort or the extra steps in her daily routine that created challenges for my mom; it was the mental load. How would she find Yiayia when she got there? What mood would she be in? What if she’d fallen?

Yiayia was sassy by nature, but loneliness brought out her darker side. Many times, my mom would bring her food or a household item, but instead of appreciation, Yiayia would ridicule it, refuse it, or make a rude comment.

The anger wasn’t necessarily a surprise. Yiayia had lived a hard life: growing up in a war-torn country, losing her sense of agency through immigration, and experiencing the early loss of my grandfather. Born in 1931, she belonged to the Silent Generation, a generation marked by hardship and often lacking the emotional tools to process it.

It was hard for my sister and me to witness Yiayia’s apparent lack of appreciation for our mom and uncle. We were old enough that our mom was no longer taking care of us, but that meant we were also old enough to have opinions about Yiayia’s more toxic behaviors. We thought they warranted distance, but our mom and uncle had different perspectives. In Greek culture, this is what you do for your parents, no matter how they treat you.

As Yiayia’s memory began to fade, it became clear someone needed to stay with her at night. We’d find the back door open and clumps of dirt inside — signs that she’d ventured outside to check on her beloved plants in the middle of the night.

My uncle sold his condo and moved in.

Eventually, his workdays became a problem. When Yiayia fell several times in a single day, we knew she needed a level of care our family could no longer provide. We moved her into a nursing home close enough for my mom and uncle to visit most days and for my sister and me to visit occasionally, giving them some respite.

In the nursing home, Yiayia experienced several health crises: urinary tract infections, colds, the flu, and Covid-19. We encouraged our mom and uncle to prioritize their own well-being and step away. But they couldn’t let go of advocating for her.

Finally, something did force my mom’s hand: her own health. She was diagnosed with breast cancer. After all those years of caregiving, she had to learn how to receive care. I watched my mom prioritize herself for the first time in my life — not just physically, but mentally, too.

For six months, my mom stayed away. During that time, Yiayia’s dementia progressed, and she didn’t seem to realize how long it had been. My uncle bridged the gap, dropping off treats or stopping by for chats.

Eventually, it became clear that Yiayia was nearing the end of her life. My sister and I encouraged our mom to make one final visit. Sunlight poured into the room, and Yiayia sat up in bed in a rare moment of lucidity.

When my mom walked in, Yiayia’s jaw dropped. She smiled as she watched our mom move around the room. Yiayia gathered her strength to say her final words to my mother: Thank you.