I have never written a blog. Don’t quite know what a blog is. The one blog I have read was part of a novel. As far as I can tell blogs are rants. Mental diarrhea spilled on a page for strangers. So, fellow caregivers wearing a hat from hell, do you talk of ending it all? Use the no-no word — death? Ooops. Aren’t I supposed to love my role, the God-given opportunity of service, the privileged chance to score a heaven-entry ticket like the pre-check and global card we flash to airport security.
Admit it people, you are persona non-fff-ing-grata, a feared social pariah now your partner/spouse is disabled. At least I am. And, if I’m honest, I wouldn’t choose us to take up space at a dinner table for six or eight—deadweights with NEEDs who don’t fan witty dinner conversation.
So-called friends shy from you and your spouse at social gatherings. If they do stop to say hello, ask, “How you doing?” they move along without waiting for your reply. “Better make the rounds,” they murmur.
“Everything good?” an acquaintance purred as she passed. Her eyes popped when I slammed back, “No. Hardly.” I knew she knew of my husband’s crumbling beneath the weight of Parkinson’s — my crumbling too. “We’re crawling back from death,” I spat. “The emergency room docs gave him a couple of hours to live.”
I’m tired of making nice-nice everything’s-fine bullshit noises, tired of keeping people comfortable. I want authentic. A kindly ear to receive our story.
You might wonder why I was there…socializing, I mean. You might say I had no business going. I wonder why too. Pretending it was fun to sip a glass of red while burbling inconsequential rubbish about the damn cottontails having eaten the new tomato plants.
“…and despite the fact their leaves are poisonous…” the woman paused, smiling.
So bunnies why didn’t you roll about and die if the plant was deadly, my thoughts growled, and immediately my mind flew back to the husband I’d left at home.
“Be gone no more than half an hour,” lipstick dragged across my lips, I kissed my dozing beloved’s lips and fled. I craved air… a few minutes flight with my wings unfurled.
Does that make me an abuser leaving him unattended? Because I do. Sometimes two. Even three hours. Propped upright into his chair, a spill-proof drink beside him, the TV switched to a favorite channel, the phone he can hear but isn’t able to dial within reach, I dangle the car keys hesitating.
“I’ll be fine,” he encourages. “Go. I’m OK. Go.”
Three hours tops is OK I rationalize. If he fell, though it wouldn’t be jolly lying unable to move that long, it wouldn’t be fatal.
“You are so strong. I don’t know how you do it.” (Perhaps you know how fellow caregivers?)
“Do you think I know either? Think I chose THIS?” Suddenly I am mad, want to yell. I don’t of course. Instead fluster a coy, alligator smile, thinly veil my bite. You see compliments make me feel bad.
He’s so lucky to have you… I flap my hands in feeble denial. You’re an angel… Perhaps as a baby I had angel wings and IF I ever did, they’ve long been shredded…the patience of a saint… Meant so kindly such comments make me squirm.
Breaking point trips evermore frequently. Have I become an unsuitable caregiver. Someone who might …forbid the thought …tantrum ohh no…p-l-e-a-s-e, not again when…spills and crockery shards splash the carpet for the thousandth time, and the harridan escapes my throat before I can swallow. Yes, it’s easy to fall back into being a mothering nag. Therein lies the dilemma.
I am not his mother. Don’t want to be. Never have been. Nor for that matter his sister. Standing behind him, I slide my arms under his. Encircle him. He turns to hug remembering belly touching belly. I nibble the underside of his neck. He blows a raspberry between my breasts.
“In sickness and in health,” we laugh suddenly in love again. “I’m sorry I yelled, my darling. I just can’t function on three hours sleep.”
“It’s hard being a caregiver, isn’t it?” a grey-haired woman in the car park tossed, as guiding her husband’s shuffle towards their car, he dragged on her hand. Wild wisps, lost hope escape the pins holding her hair. Wrinkles rut her cheeks. Her body hollow from giving calls for comfort. When next I saw her months had passed. She walked alone. The playful blouse she wore, flounced skirt, and lipstick pearling her lips proclaimed freedom reclaimed. Would that be me when…?
by the Perfect Servant