7. CAREGIVERS
Who we become, or who we are
Hello everyone. It’s been a crazy six weeks filled with travel and a domino effect of illnesses. I’m finally better and excited to write regularly again. This summer, keep an eye open for new essays and the launch of CRONE FACES, a monthly feature on women with badass wrinkles. I like to think of it as exposure therapy for all of us addicted to dewy, flawless skin.
All of my work on Substack is free, including my previous essay series, Fifty On Fifty. If you’d like to support my writing (and I’d be so grateful if you did), please consider becoming a paid subscriber. Thank you for being part of The Crone Years. I’m blessed to have you here. —Sylvia
I'm a pre-teen looking out my bedroom window at my brother and his friends tearing around the backyard on a warm afternoon. Something has me sick, and I've been told to stay in bed—pure torture as it's summertime, and summertime means suntans and stone fruit, bare feet and good health, not passing the day under heavy covers. My mother walks in with a tray of food and interrupts my longing, shooing me from the window. She hates a draft (thinks it begets illness) and shuts it most of the way. For the rest of the afternoon, I languish in my bed, coveting my brother's muted whoops and hollers.
A few years later, I become a caregiver when my mother's cancer returns. A good portion of her lung gets removed, and she spends much of each day sitting in a living room chair, the plastic blowing contraption that exercises her breathing tucked into the cushion beside her. My job isn't to care for her directly. I'm to fill her role and tend to my father — making his lunches, ironing his shirts, riding with him in the car to Loblaws, where he drops me off with a fifty-dollar bill and tells me to buy groceries.
Caring for someone. Needing to be cared for. I’m not sure which is worse.
My daughter drives me to the hospital, and I wonder if this is how I will die. An infection? Really? Didn't see that coming. They move us fast through triage — blood, urine, stool sample, CT scan — and deposit us back into the crowded waiting room. Hours go by. A woman in a wheelchair near us starts to seize. People stare at their phones. My daughter and I jump up and she runs to get help while I try to soothe the woman. From what I can tell, she is alone, save for the service dog on her lap.
It takes 24 hours to confirm the diagnosis. My daughter explains how the bacteria is replicating in my colon. How it will now be killed off, thanks to the hard-to-find antibiotic she has tracked down. In a haze of pain, I’m aware of her steadiness. That she bothers to read the folded information page in the medication box and looks up possible interactions. That she details the healing process and why I need to be patient. I text my husband, who is out of town: She'll be a good doctor one day.
On the second night post-hospital, I have a nightmare. I'm in bed with an awareness that my body has become dangerously toxic. I get up and go to my daughter's room for help, but when I call her name, I have no voice, and I cannot move my body. Mercifully, I wake up and go to tell my husband, who's asleep on the sofa. As soon as I get close, my voice disappears, and I cannot reach him. The cycle continues. I rouse from the dream and try to get to someone but find myself paralyzed. On and on, four or five times more, until I awaken for real.
For many days, the most I can do is shuffle to the kitchen, pinch off a spear of banana, wipe the counter, and shuffle back to bed. I cycle through renovation shows and reruns of Sex and the City. I watch the BRATS documentary by Andrew McCarthy. I want back in my life, but my body won't let me. The waiting reminds me of the game Double Dutch. I’m on the sidelines, trying to find a way into the rhythm of the ropes, but never get the chance.
During the long stretches of quiet, when I can’t bear any more streaming or listening or reading, my mother returns. I think about her getting wheeled into surgery and wonder if she also thought about death. Lung cancer? Really? So obvious.
A decade later, when she is truly at the end, she accompanies me to the ER after I complain of chest pains. She says nothing when the doctor suggests a panic attack. Says nothing about her discomfort (she has bone cancer now) during the long wait. We drive home and she kisses me goodnight. Then gets on with her dying.
When I improve enough to fend for myself, the door to my bedroom stops opening. My family has returned to the busyness of their lives. I notice that my husband is moving fast again, checking in with short texts, and mentioning chores like getting the car serviced. We joke about my many strange ailments over the years. I blame my moon in the sixth house at zero degrees Aries. He tells me I go too hard. Semantics. We agree that he’s become a seasoned caregiver. Though I remind him that once, after weeks of helping me following emergency back surgery, he threw up his arms in frustration. "This isn't who I am," he hollered. This isn't who I am, either.
Like I said, I'm not sure which is worse.
I recall a quote he read to me months ago and search for it on my phone. The Five Daily Remembrances, reworded by Dan Harris.
“This body is of the nature to grow old. This body is of the nature to get sick. This body will ultimately die. I will ultimately lose everything and everyone I hold dear. My only true possessions are my actions.”
My only true possessions are my actions.
That last line hits the hardest.
If you enjoyed this essay, why not drop a comment, give it a heart, or share this publication with a friend. It makes a difference. Thank you.
Do nothing and everything is done. I just showed my kids a photo of me at 22, smoking a cigarette in a cafe in Paris. What I was probably thinking. What I wish I could tell that girl. xx
Beautiful, Sylvia! Powerful and painful and real. Thank you for sharing a glimpse into your health crisis, so scary, and your amazing mother! The moment she went to the ER with you despite her pain...weeping. I just watched and shared about a gut wrenching new documentary on PBS called Caregiving. All the more light we can shine on this for our own awareness and others is critical. Loved this piece!