I bolt upright, listening.
Were those footsteps? Please don't let that be footsteps.
I peek out the doorway. Grab my robe. Tiptoe down the hallway,
furtively watching for shadows that move. Listening.
Shh. Shh. Barely breathing.
Silently, I slip into the kitchen, press the button and
sink to the floor all in one motion. Waiting. Watching
the glow of the red light, mesmerized. Shh. Listen.
Okay, now. GO.
It's pitch black. Seven steps down to the landing. Turn.
Six more to the basement. I breathe in the rich scent of
the evergreen boughs I can't quite see in the dark.
Toes peeking out under deep burgundy fluff, enveloped in dark,
I'm not sure if I should laugh or cry. Instead, I take a sip of
stupidly expensive coffee. Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.
It will start soon enough...
Is breakfast ready? I need some hot coffee. Turn up my television.
Are you there? Can you hear me? I need to talk to you.
It's too cold in my room. Are there more bananas?
My coffee isn't hot enough. Are you there? Can you hear me?
I need to talk to you. What time is lunch? What time is it now?
When do I get my snack? Are you there? Can you hear me?
I need to talk to you. Can you heat this coffee again?
It's too hot in my room. What time is dinner? What are we having?
Are you there? Can you hear me? I need to talk to you.
I am a caregiver.
I am the one that cooks his meals, washes his clothes, runs his bath,
fills his coffee and keeps him company, listening to the same stories
again and again and again.
I am the one that tells him it's okay to talk about dying when no one
else wants to hear it. When no one else can stand to listen, much less
call or visit or care.
I am the one that defuses his anger, hugs him when he cries, catches
him when he stumbles and gives him the pills that are supposed to
control the dementia.
I reply to phone calls and email and run my business in stolen moments
when his talk shows beckon or he's finally tucked in for the night, oft
working and writing into the wee hours.
Who cares for the caregiver?
And I suspect that maybe, just maybe, one hour of solitude and one cup
of coffee in the wee hours of the morning might be the sum total
of the difference between sanity and stark. raving. mad.
Please don't let that be footsteps. Shh.
It will start soon enough...
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons...
T.S. Eliot
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
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Comments
...and of course nobody uses tags. Everyone reads them, but no one actually uses them.
Those were such hard years, Ranting. I so feel for you. You are a saint among saints and I know he knows it. I know he does.
You better send me your address so I can send you red wine, really good coffee, and chocolate cake. (And I am so not kidding!)
A most excellent question. I wish I had an answer for it. One thing I know, though, is that you need a break EVERY WEEK. Someone to come in for a half day or a whole day and take over while you tend to yourself.
You NEED that.
Sending you good thoughts and prayers.
the writing is excellent, noteworthy.
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. "
I couldn't help but be grabbed by your T.S. reference. This poem has been in my head for over 40 years. My heart goes out.
Natalie... sometimes, it does. Thanks!
mypsyche... I knew you'd get the balm in silence. Knew it. :)
Frank... I always do the tags backwards. One day I'll remember to type them backwards so they appear forwards. lol
Rita... thank you, I can use all the strength I can get. Today I didn't get that hour. Oy.
Lunchlady... of all people, I know you understand caregiving in a very big way.
Bill... you're right, of course. The trick is getting anyone to come in that long. We've been on a waiting list for respite for a very, very long time.
Femme... for someone with as fine a pen as yours, I'll take that compliment and cherish it. Thank you!
Walkaway... it's okay, though - some days are easier than others. See saw, you know? :)
Grif... you made me smile. That one knocks around in my head, too. Always has.
waking... oh, you make me laugh. Okay, I'll send it - but only if you promise to send yours so I can send you some of my home made soap. Making lovely things has always been my therapy. The nicest thing about gifts is the sentiment behind them, yes?
I have so much respect for you. I'm in awe.
Rated.
You should write more, you know that?
Duane... well, don't you just know how to walk in and make a person's day. Damn you're good at that. You are truly appreciated.
xoxo
of coffee in the wee hours of the morning might be the sum total
of the difference between sanity and stark. raving. mad."
YES! - all of it...should be read by every caregiver for comfort and understanding.
You need someone to take care of you! Sending love, hope and best wishes for this holiday season!
I'm with Bill, do try to get some help. If not Respite, maybe a local church, community center, college, even high school. A well-trained baby sitter can be a part-time adult caregiver. I hope you find someone to give you relief.
Thank you for your powerful words. I really feel for you. And "the pills that are supposed to control the dementia" don't, and they are ridiculously expensive, and we keep giving them anyway, because what if it would be even worse without them?
Must be fate or something that drew me to this post tonight, because I NEEDED to read this. I am so there, but from "his" position.
Leonde... I read, once, that most elderly people that get put into final care homes don't get put there because they deteriorated that much, but because of caregiver exhaustion. That makes me horribly sad because I can understand it now.
susanmihalic... and thank you for reading it. Sometimes it's pretty raw stuff, not always easy to read. the comforts I find here are appreciated very much.
Sally... We're on waiting lists for respite, but they're long. In this city, 20% of the population are seniors. I can only imagine how many people are waiting and desperately needing a break. I'm just one of them. A number in the queue.
Full Time Daughter... I know, hey? Because what if it WAS worse without them? Not going to risk that. My Dad is a vet, so it's paranoid dementia mixed up with war memories. Your Mom won't have that, so I hope it's easier on you. I'm out here cheering for you, because I know what it's like to be in your shoes.
Placebostudman... Trust me, as long as you can string a coherent sentence together, you're not in Dad's position. YOU, I can have conversation with and it makes sense. The rest is all details. We all need some kind of care or help - it's just a matter of which kind. No man is an island and all that stuff -- it's as true as it is cliche. ;)