Someone said to me recently, “being a caregiver can be isolating and lonely.”

The truth of it hit me so hard I burst into tears.  When I tell people that I moved from Portland, Oregon to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to care for my parents most people respond with something like, “That’s very admirable,” ‘you’re a good son,” “cherish this time with your parents,” or some nice sentimental version of that.  I am a good son and I do cherish this time with them.  Every second.

But there’s nothing glamorous or admirable or special about this work.

It’s chop wood, carry water.  It’s Ground Hog Day.  It’s copy and paste.  It’s hot dogs and grilled cheese and canned green beans; it’s trash on Tuesday; it’s The Dollar General; it’s Monetgo Menthal 100’s dark green and orange candy slices (the one’s for a dollar); It’s turn off the light, close the door, watch your speed;  it’s Let’s Make A Deal, The Price Is Right, and Major Crimes. it’s the news, a shooting, more rain on the way, a local parade, another shooting; it’s black and white tv at 3am; It’s mom yelling at dad; dad sneaking candy bars; mom dissatisfied with everything; dad forgetting.… slowly…. everthing.

It’s my mom in pain telling me she’s fine; it’s my dad showing me his swollen knee everyday; it’s mom eating junk food and sleeping on the couch; it’s dad’s constant “What? I can’t hear you.” It’s poverty consciousness; mental illness; enabling; codependency.

It’s my mouth dry from saying the same things over and over; it’s guilt and shame and disappointment; it’s I can never be good enough.

It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done and it’s the absolute most amazing thing I’ve ever done.  It’s learning to love, to have patience, and to let go… of… everything. It’s I would never ever give up this experience for anything, not for all the adventures in the world. It’s learning that happiness isn’t about being happy.

.

.

…

The late Mary Oliver wrote this:

Can You Imagine?
For example, what the trees do
not only in lightening storms
or the watery dark of a summer's night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now - whenever
we're not looking. Surely you can't imagine
they don't dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade - surely you can't imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can't imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.”