Helping my cousins through caregiving is giving me a new perspective. I’m finally giving myself credit for caring for my mom.

Sometimes it feels like I’m working an eldercare hotline.

My younger cousins are now where I was several years ago, caring for parents and relatives who can no longer care for themselves.

Make no mistake, I love them, and I’m happy to walk them through it all.

The mind-numbing healthcare calls that turn into a literal game of telephone.

Setting up joint bank accounts because your loved one can no longer see or write well enough to deal with bills (and, of course, doesn’t trust automatic bill pay, either).

Dealing with lawyers about power of attorney.

The hits just keep on coming, with ER visits and the challenge of navigating “sundowning.” But beyond giving them step-by-steps, I’m also cheerleading.

I tell them in all sincerity how selfless they are; what a good son or daughter or niece or nephew they are.

I remind them they are doing a hard thing and to take a breath, get fresh air, and take care of themselves, too.

I often find myself using a tired yet true analogy: If you’re on a plane and the oxygen masks drop, put yours on first, then assist your loved ones.

You can’t help others if you’re struggling.

I give them credit for taking on the responsibility of caring for an aging adult — credit I never gave myself.

My mother, Angelina, died at 100 years and four months in late winter of 2023.

I began caregiving 10 years earlier, in 2013.

Before that, she had her own large studio apartment across the street from me in Manhattan.

In 2001, my mother had moved from the Bronx, where I grew up, to help me care for my two children, Luke, then age 5, and Meg, who was 2.

They already had their granny as their nanny, but the commute had become a grind.

Mom was a very independent person who did all her own cooking and cleaning and, as an NYC native born and raised in Italian Harlem, enjoyed her city.

That began to shift when she turned 90.

My caregiving started with bringing over meals because using the stove became unsafe.

My duties increased over time; For the last three years of her life, they were kicked up another notch.

My mother could no longer live alone and moved in with my family and me.

The first year was during the pandemic, and we were in lockdown, so she was really just another adult in our already crowded house (besides Luke and Meg, there was Neil, my husband of 38 years).

The following two years, when my children went back to their own apartments, and they and Neil went back to work, my caregiving got more and more intense.

Intellectually, I knew then what I know now: tending to another human being is a big job.

Emotionally, though, I went into denial, from the beginning playing it off as just doing what needs to be done.

If I had really thought about the enormity of the toll that caregiving takes, I’d have gotten overwhelmed and not wanted or been able to do it.

I wouldn’t even let myself embrace praise when others bestowed it upon me, fearing it would sound like I was gloating, boasting, or showing off.

After living for over a century, my mother passed away in her own bed, having been cared for by her child and surrounded by her loved ones.

If I were one of my cousins, I’d tell myself, “Lorraine, you were not only a dedicated caregiver, but did it with skill, performing tasks usually employed by trained professionals, sacrificing personal time as well as self-care.” It’s taken over three years, but I’m finally ready to say that to myself.