Would you do it again?
I frequent some forums and communities about caregiving (because millennials do millennial things), and it’s interesting how often people ask variations on similar questions. Everyone experiences different expressions of what are usually the same things.
How to deal with this type of person, how to handle this weird event, what legal choices do you have when that dreaded thing happens.
But there’s this question that I see recently, that I don’t recall seeing before, and once I see it, I wonder why I haven’t seen it more.
The question is this: If you knew then what you know now, would you still be a caregiver to your parents?
The answers are predictably, all over the place. Some people are grateful for the experience, no matter how tough it was. Others absolutely regret it. Some can only muster enough courage to simply write “No.”
It’s such a personal experience, caring for the people you either love, or are simply otherwise connected to. And it is likely the latest in a long history of your relationship with that person.
Which makes this question even more interesting to me. We always ask ourselves these types of questions as a way to reflect, a way to give advice, a way to either be grateful for what’s happened, or to regret that it happened at all.
And isn’t that what advice is anyway? “Fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth”?
(Mary Schmich, Wear Sunscreen)
There were days when I would have said ‘no.’ I don’t have to dig far back into the past that I have documented for myself to find those days.
I have had some dark days. I have had some darker days. I am honest, but not always that honest, not even with myself.
How many times have I left? The house? The city? The country? How many times have I left not because I wanted to go somewhere new, but because I just needed a break?
But the truth is, I have always come back.
“It depends” is both the biggest cop out and also basically the truth.
We want life to be simple.
In some ways it is. Do what you want.
In other ways it's not. How do you know what you want?
People want to be loved and affirmed. It’s simple. But discovering and figuring out how people want to be loved, figuring out how people feel cared for, that can be incredibly hard, even for those people themselves.
And then there’s the fact that everyone is different. Caregiving looks different for every person who attempts it. Receiving care looks different for every person who needs it.
Two people, doing the exact same thing, can mean two very different things.
Me presenting a plate of food to my dad is me potentially bossing him around, because I guess that’s how he sometimes remembers me.
A nurse presenting a plate of food to my dad is just a nurse presenting a plate of food.
Which is just a really long-winded way of me saying that life is kind of complicated.
So that's how I feel about this question. That’s the truth. It depends.
“What would you do differently?” is basically a variation on the same question.
Some people answered that they would do it again, they would just do it differently.
I think if anyone is ever going to undertake this kind of life, that’s an important point to remember.
Like love itself, caregiving, comes in many forms.
If someone asked me if I would recommend that they be a caregiver, this would actually be my answer; it’s the same answer I would give to someone who says they want to write a novel, to start a small business, to climb Mount Everest.
Don’t do it.
That answer might be surprising.
I mean it.
Don’t do it.
Specifically, I mean: Do not move in with the person who needs care.
The people who complain about strained relationships, about feeling that their life has been sacrificed, they are not being overdramatic. They are right.
There are so many ways to care for someone. Some people say nursing homes are of the devil. Some people say that people who are paid to take care of someone can’t possibly, truly care for someone. Some people say that the only dignified way to age is to be at home.
I’d file those beliefs alongside “you should have children so that you have people to take care of you when you’re older.”
There are so many ways to care for someone, and everyone has to pursue their own choice.
For now, I stand by my answer—don’t do it—with one exception.
You have to have one quality, and it is not a good moral quality if you have it, and it is not a bad moral quality if you don’t. It either exists, or it does not. Matter of fact.
And it is the same quality you must have if you’re going to write a novel, start a small business, climb Mount Everest, or yes, if you’re going to be a caregiver.
You have to want to do it.
You have to hear the stories about the dangers, the trials, the tribulations, the regrets, the missed opportunities, and you still have to want to do it.
You have to want it so much that you can’t not do it.
That’s it.
So, the question, for myself: Would I do it again?
I ask this question a number of times, in a number of forms.
I ask it when I see the expensive, light, cordless vacuum cleaner that I bought for her, which should have lasted years (and it will), but she’s not here to use it.
I ask it when I see the hundred-dollar shoes that I bought for her, which she needed because her feet hurt her, and they should have been the last pair of shoes she needed, but she’s not here to use them.
I ask it when I see the two clothing racks I bought her (I had to tell her it was buy-one-get-one-free), when I see the special bucket I bought her so she could soak her feet (I told her it was on sale, it wasn’t), when I see the mound of paper clips, the folders, the post-its, the hair ties, the…
I sit, I breathe, and I ask myself a similar question: Was it all a waste?
I think it’s a fair question.
I think the answer is simple.
Of course not.
I didn’t buy those things because I thought she’d use them forever. I bought those things—nice things—because I wanted them to last as long as she needed them. I bought them because that’s how I showed my mom that I loved and cared for her. That’s why I did it.
That’s why I came home.
I came home to experience, what it’s like to come home.
So that’s my answer. Yeah, I’d do it again.
Everyone's life is different. Everyone values different things. I make no judgements. None. Zero.
It is so hard to commit to anything, most of all, yourself. How do you know if you want to be a caregiver? How do you know what you want? Can you truly know?
I think about this as I pack my bags and board my plane that will take me to the city that is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, where if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere—but the truth is I don’t really know if I want to go there.
You can never really know anything. You always want to know all the outcomes before you begin. But to know the outcomes, you have to begin. That’s the paradox.
You have to take the first steps down a path so that you can find out if you want to go down that path. You try it. You test it. You listen to how you feel about it. That’s the only way to know.
It’s hard, because once you choose a path, you can never really go back. Even if you do, you will always be someone who went one way first, only to go another way.
But I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. If you tested something, there’s nothing wrong with changing your mind. That’s what conviction is.
Because the reality is that you sort of will never really know. The grown up thing to do, is simply know that you’re responsible for your choices—not always the outcomes, but definitely your choices. The person you will always have to answer to, is yourself.
I will never forget, when I was on the drive coming down through Oregon, on the drive that was my life moving from the Puget Sound to the Bay Area. I will never forget when I told a waiter at a restaurant that I was moving to spend some time with my family. I will never forget when she said to me: “You’re not going to regret that.”
It feels like yesterday. But it also feels like decades ago. I guess that’s how these moments in life go.
But I remember telling her the words, I remember feeling them leave my mouth, and I remember that feeling that comes over you and tells you that this is right, this is what you truly want.
“No, no I’m not,” is what I said.
She was right. So was I.
Housekeeping note:
First, a big "thank you." I still can't believe a bunch of you actually follow my blog and read whatever it is I have to say, even from before I started taking care of my parents. Your responses have meant a lot to me, particularly in the past couple of months.
What happens to this blog from now on? I plan to actually go back to what I used to write about before I moved to California—stories and vignettes about fun things in life, places I visit, and other things that will probably be more humorous, a little less sentimental, but every bit as poignant, or so I hope.
That said, the Elder Care Logs aren’t really over just yet. The story with my dad isn't quite over, and I will continue to write more about him, what it's like to visit him, and what it's like to still take care of him, even if from a distance.
So, a long-winded way to say: I’ll still be writing. I’ll be honored if you keep reading.
Cheers.