I recently went to lunch with a friend who told me that having a baby will be “the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” I instantly thought, That’s not true. What could be harder than helping my mom—my best friend and favorite person—die from a cruel and fast-acting disease? If I am going to have to get up in the middle of the night, I would rather do it to keep my child alive than give my mother dignity in death by making sure her nose isn’t smushed against the pillow while aides change her diaper. I would rather worry about finding the right temperature for his bath so he doesn’t get fussy than fear I am going to drop my mother as I struggle to physically carry her into the shower because she has lost the ability to walk. Both types of caregiving are taxing, but one is filled with hope. The other holds nothing but despair.

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