My role as caregiver is certainly not an easy job. I am not saying this out of self-congratulations or pity. I try not to allow it to limit or overwhelm me.
In order to, you know, keep on keeping on, I have to stay strong and centered. Burt has often told me not to get sick, as if it were a choice.
The choice for me, as our journey becomes more constrictive, is my staying engaged in the wider world.
I also choose to be kind as I care. The grind of it requires a focus on compassion, and that focus can grind you down, too.
When I veer from that path, I reset my course as quickly as I can.
Sometimes, that just means walking out of the room before impatience or anger boils over. My mother would’ve advised I count to ten.
The prophylaxis to exhaustion and compassion fatigue lies in finding yourself. You are now out of necessity [and willingly] a caregiver. It is not all you are. Those things you were are still you.
A wife, a friend, a writer, a force for good, a force to be reckoned with, a woman. These are my pronouns, and yours, as a caregiver, might be a husband, a brother, a father, a friend, a son, a scientist, a pharmacist, a man.
Find all that in you which is in you and then find some more. And get out to do things, too. Find some joy. Choose well. Breathe. Live.
this is our life 