Fears seem to run in cycles. So do the things we fear.
When my children were little and I was a counselor in a school, I was stricken by the grief and devastation of school-age boys and girls whose mothers had died. Back then, I feared my own death, but only in the context of what it would do to my two kids. Once I became a caregiver for my husband after his stroke, a similar fear returned. If I died or became incapacitated, I believed he would die, too.
Feeling responsible for two lives, I did what I thought was a good safety measure for a caregiver. I'd lower my odds of a serious injury (or death) by giving up motorcycling. I'd sell my bike, my lovely, precious, shiny black vrooming symbol of power and independence that I'd waited to buy until my own children were adults and could live without me.
I invested money to get it fixed up before the first person replied to my online ad. When he sat on the bike to test-drive it, the last thing he said before taking off was, "It's been a long time since I rode, so remind me again how to get it started."
That should have been a clue.
I stood in my driveway as he disappeared down the winding, hilly street where I live. I photographed the license plate of his junky, sputtering pickup truck in case he decided not to return.
But he did return, and with a huge grin, that gleeful expression I'm sure I've had myself many times on that bike. He swerved down the slope of my driveway at an angle right beside me, sprang out of the seat, threw his hands skyward and proclaimed, "Just like riding a bike!"
Then he dropped it. On me. All 320 pounds.
It struck my hip, then my knee. I felt a sharp pop as I tumbled to the pavement.
It wasn't the pain that had me babbling in tears to a stunned stranger in my driveway. It was the realization of a nightmare come true. "I can't get hurt!" I cried. "I'm a caregiver!"
It was way more drama than either of us expected. With his mouth agape, he watched me struggle to get up. He simply stared helplessly as gasoline spilled down the slope of my driveway from a detached fuel line.
The only words he could muster up were, "Why did you try catching it as it was falling?" I considered laying the blame on my hip and knee, which did all the catching. Instead, I yelled, "You'd better buy it now!"
He did, but that didn't solve all my problems. My plan had been to go grocery shopping right after the sale because we were out of food and I needed to feed my husband dinner. Unable to reach any of my friends who'd offered help in the past, I dug an old pair of crutches out of a closet and shopped at a fancy store where employees load groceries into your car. Once home, I called a neighbor to bring my bags inside as I hobbled on the crutches.
I had to wait until the next day to find out from the orthopedist that I had a bone bruise that had escaped breakage by a few millimeters. My knee was swollen with tendons slightly torn, and I'd be in a brace for about six weeks.
That was my first realization that attending to someone else's needs while in distress—whether physical or emotional—is one of the most challenging things a caregiver can do. When I'm sick or hurting, I don't want to take care of anyone but myself, and I secretly long for someone to pamper me the way I've pampered my husband. It's a pity party for one, with me wearing one of those dumb, sparkly, cone-shaped pink paper hats and a very, very long face.
If caregiver fear #1 was what would happen to my husband if I became incapacitated, then fear #2 was all about me. When I'm old and frail and I've outlived everyone I know (and I don't want to impose on my adult children), I will be on my own.
Of course, none of us knows what the future holds. We humans, especially those of us prone to epic imagination, can fall into the trap of believing everything we think. I mean, a comet could hit the entire western hemisphere tomorrow, and what a waste that would have been to have worried about dying alone.
So, yes, being a caregiver is most challenging when we are hurt or sick or overstressed. It can conjure up all kinds of feelings. Depression. Resentment. Fear.
In that first year after my husband's stroke, I shared my feelings about missing how giving he used to be. At times, I felt like I was all give and no get. This made him sad, so I didn't want to tell him my feelings anymore because it made him feel responsible. He told me, though, that the least he could do while physically incapacitated was be a comfort to me emotionally by listening. Although I periodically met with a grief counselor to avoid unloading on him, his kindness was touching.
A few years ago, I was responsible for my elderly father, who lived at an assisted living facility in my neighborhood. I took care of his bills, advocated on his behalf often, called him with reminders to go to meals, picked up items he needed, and visited him daily. Despite this, he was always annoyed at me for leaving, no matter how long I'd stayed with him. I always felt like he wanted more, more, more, and he seemed to resent that I had a life outside his facility. But then, after many months of feeling like a failed caregiver and daughter, I started hearing a song playing in my thoughts.
That song always comes back to me when I'm sick or hurt or overstressed and taking care of my husband's meals or escorting him to the doctor. All people in relationships—caregivers or not—need to recognize when they're tired or sad or stressed, and get down to the basics of what the other person really, truly, honestly needs from them in the next few hours.
The most important skill my husband and I have worked on since his stroke has been building his independence. Although I've taken the lead on teaching him how to prepare meals and handle most things on his own, I still do things for him, but it feels more like a choice rather than a need now. Still, I periodically back off in order to avoid us slipping back into the roles of The Helper and The Helpless.
Now, two years after my husband's stroke, I'm happy to say that I no longer feel like a caregiver. I am simply a loving, giving wife and he is a loving, giving husband. Although his physical limitations still exist, they're no longer the third member in an unwelcome ménage à trois. It's just him and me now, exactly the way it should be.