Seasons of Caregiving

It’s been over 25 years since my mother first showed signs of Alzheimer’s. I helped care for her for 14 years and many days were long and hard. After she died, a part of me thought I was done with caregiving; I had served my time. But, of course, that’s not how life works. I was, however, given a reprieve.

This summer I was reminded of what caregiving looks and feels like as I faced a series of family health issues – each one requiring something different from me.

My husband after his first kidney stone procedure.

The first one happened at the end of our week at Lake George, when my husband was suddenly struck with the pain of a kidney stone. His exuberant personality shifted into a hardly recognizable grimness that spread across his face. Before I knew it, he was throwing up repeatedly, and we were on our way to the emergency room. When someone you love is in pain, the only true relief comes when the pain eases. There’s no time to think about yourself; it’s hard to even remember to breathe.

The second health scare was even more traumatic. I received a phone message saying that my brother had been in a serious car accident. He survived, but his sternum was broken, his kneecap had been shattered, and they were checking him for other injuries. He was in the hospital, and I was his closest of kin. Time suddenly stopped, or maybe it went reeling backwards. This was a brother I grew up with and adored. Scenes of us playing with Matchbox cars, riding bikes to the park, swimming inside the shark nets in Panama flashed through my mind. As a teenager he totaled his car. I remembered how my mother said she cried when she saw his crumpled car because she didn’t believe he could have survived. But he did. Back then. And now again.

My brother compared his leg wrap (right) to Apollo 11 (left).

This summer, I spent time at the hospital, whispering in the ante room before his surgery, foIlowing my brother’s own meandering memories about the moon landing. Fifty years ago, we sat side by side on the cool tile of our Florida room watching black and white footage that became history.  I composed poems in my head about astronauts and rocket ships and snippets of our conversation. But inside the thrum beat of my heart repeated: “Please live. Just live.”

I didn’t want to be a caregiver again. I felt like I had PTSD and was being plunged headlong back into a tunnel I couldn’t escape. My mind flashed over all the responsibilities I had – not just mine, but my brother’s. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t take care of him – his needs were too great – and be present in my own life.  Yet, how could I not.

Sunny, before her illness.

My third caregiving role snuck up on me with a gentle nudge from Sunny, our golden retriever. Granted, my focus had been elsewhere, yet her gradual loss of energy registered. She was a dog who spun in circles at breakfast, raced up and down our driveway, barked at every delivery van, accompanied me to the barn each morning and took long walks with her tail lifted high. Over a period of a couple of days, Sunny seemed to age – she moved slower and the light seemed to dim in her eyes. My first thoughts were “the heat” or that she’d dug something up on the farm and eaten it. But when she struggled to climb the single step into our mudroom, I knew it was time to go to the vet.

With a possible diagnosis of an infectious disease and two bottles of medication, I started out the week hopeful. We could fix this. Sunny had always been strong and energetic with an unquenchable spirit (much like my husband). But one of the lessons I’ve been learning this summer is that healing takes time. And each day brings its own unique set of circumstances.

Ruby and Foxie coming in to eat.

Caring for the horses on our property reminds me that we can’t rush time. Foxie and Ruby need to be fed every day, and they receive allergy medication twice a day to keep them from rubbing themselves raw. Every morning and every evening I walk down to the barn and call them in. I scrub out their water buckets, apply ointment on the slow-healing wound on Foxie’s belly, give the horses a scratch on their necks and look into their friendly, dark eyes. This predictable schedule is grounding.

My husband will have a second procedure to finally remove his kidney stone next week, my brother has transitioned from the hospital to rehab to home, Sunny makes her daily trek to the barn with me while I watch her for signs of new life.

Despite my anxieties about caregiving, I’m grateful for these days that remind me to appreciate each moment.