Are you sitting comfortably? Or perhaps you’re standing, and it’s really up to you. Do you have a coffee? I recommend one. But hey, I’m not your supervisor.
Ready? Good.
You don’t need to pretend that caregiving is all rainbows and sunshine.
I’ll repeat that.
You don’t need to make believe that the act of caregiving is always a glorious parade of selflessness and reward.
Image by Victoria_Regen from Pixabay
Breathe, let that information seep into your consciousness
Are you getting it?
The Caregiving Coalition (remind myself to verify this, maybe?) has somehow wired us to believe that caregivers are these angelic figures that rise at dawn and sleep post-midnight with no complaints, always wearing a warm smile and quietly reveling in the self-satisfaction of the noble deed.
And it’s… not all false?
There are moments; they exist! Moments where you see a sparkle in their eye, you hear a word of appreciation, you sense a genuine bond, and for a fleeting moment, it all feels worth it.
Then reality steps back in. And you, the noble caregiver, are left to grapple with this mismatch of expectation and reality. (Note to self: Do goblins have a union like the Caregiving Coalition? PROBABLY.)
The Coalition made it seem like if you didn’t give your all in caregiving, your conscience would be smothered in guilt.
So you stretch your patience, summon energy from the abyss of exhaustion, and keep a cheery demeanor when all you want to do is break down.
Just like the deceptive allure of pumpkin pies, caregiving is far from the picturesque duty that society paints it to be.
It sucks. That’s right, I said it. It sucks.
Imagine an exhausted woman sitting on a couch, a cup of cold coffee in hand…
A snapshot of your average, everyday caregiving heroine.
Are you with me? Because this is where we shift gears.
As a caregiver, you’re not expected always to be composed. Feelings of resentment, frustration, and despair? They’re part of the package. And that’s okay.
Now, before you storm off in disbelief, let me tell you a story about my friend Sarah.
Sarah, the embodiment of the ideal caregiver for her ailing mother, worked tirelessly, without ever uttering a word of complaint.
Her days started at the break of dawn, with her mother’s morning medication, a warm breakfast meticulously prepared to suit a palate gone haywire, and a sponge bath carried out with an admirable gentleness.
During the day, Sarah would juggle between frequent doctor’s appointments, a whirlwind of pill schedules, and tedious insurance paperwork that seemed to multiply by the hour.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, she would find the time to whip up nutritious meals, all while soothing her mother’s aching soul with her laughter, her patience, her sheer will.
Then came the nights. The sleepless nights filled with constant vigilance for her mother’s discomfort, unpredictable emergencies, and nightmares.
Nights where the monotone beep of the oximeter became her lullaby, where the cold light of the nursing lamp was her moonlight. Nights where her only solace was the rhythmic breathing of her mother, an affirmation of the battle against time they were still winning.
There were moments that broke Sarah. Like when her mother, lost in the cobwebs of dementia, failed to recognize her.
Or when the strain of caregiving seeped into her personal life, pulling her relationship with her partner to a breaking point.
Or those moments when she looked into the mirror, finding her own reflection foreign, her own dreams and ambitions blurry.
After an emotionally and physically draining stint of three years, weighed down by moments of despair, pockets of relief, and an undercurrent of relentless pressure, she turned to me one day, her usually bright eyes dim with exhaustion.
And she said, “This, my friend, simply sucks.”
Sarah, the once lively soul now etched with a weariness far beyond her years, had finally cracked. And no, the sky didn’t fall. Hell, it felt liberating.
For both of us.
Image by Engin Akyurt from Pixabay
All I’m advocating for is an honest discussion…
Now, I’m not encouraging a mass revolt against caregiving. Far from it.
All I’m advocating for is an honest discussion about the reality of caregiving and the right for caregivers to express their frustrations. Just like a pressure cooker, a little venting can prevent an explosion.
And now, the pie. I mean, the question. (Whoops, pumpkin pies are contagious!)
Are caregivers really obliged to bear their burdens in silence for the sake of upholding some idealized image? Shouldn’t the narrative shift from self-sacrifice to self-care, from silent suffering to open conversation?
Maybe, just maybe, it’s time to say that caregiving can, and often does, suck.
And that’s perfectly fine.
