In my mother’s last year of life, I’d been her primary caregiver for eight years. That’s when I changed the photo of her in my cell phone directory to a picture of stained-glass windows.
It instantly reminded me to say a quick CARE formula if my mother was calling me. It helped me manage my emotional reaction of fear or panic, because she only called when something was wrong.
When I’d see the stained-glass windows of my mother's listing when she called, I’d quickly remind myself to take in C.A.R.E. now:
C for Compassion - A for Acceptance - R for Readiness - E for Energy
Compassion means concern for the troubles of another. Of another. It takes grace and effort when the expected and unexpected duties call. It requires selflessness. Not easy. But without the grace of compassion, emotions that come in its stead tend to be internally damaging. Anger? Resentment? Set them aside when in the throes of service and seek simple compassion.
Acceptance means to assume an obligation, to receive. Our degree of willingness to receive the obligations of caregiving most certainly vary from day to day, even moment-to-moment. But when each duty calls, the best path to serenity is surrendering to acceptance.
Readiness means prepared and available. I came to view being ready as remembering to expect the unexpected. Regardless of the patterns that had fooled me into thinking certain things were predictable, readiness reminded me there would always be periods of change. It helped me stay ready to serve. Yet additionally, I remained open to have other service providers ready in my absence.
Energy in its simplest definition means effort and capacity for action. Praying for energy includes asking for help when the best decision might involve action and service assistance from others. In my meaning of energy, it also includes empathy. This brought the CARE acronym and meditation full circle, as it returned me to committing to the energy of trying to feel the feelings of the person in my care.
CARE came to me after experiencing what happened the day before Christmas eve my mother’s last year. We'd just picked her up the evening before for our family Christmas and she was well. But the next morning she called to report that she was having trouble breathing. My immediate reaction was a familiar form of panic...hurry! Last time this happened, she almost died. My own breathing grew shallower. Time for action: Drop everything. Jump in the car. Drive to her apartment. I'm speeding on the inside but being careful to drive carefully on the Minnesota winter roads. Got my set of her keys? Check. Brisk walk up to her apartment door. Wheelchair needed? No, not this time. Escort her to the passenger side of my car. Drive. Carefully. Stop the temptation to speed.
Pull up to the emergency room (ER) door, illegally park so close I feel like I'm almost through the glass. Check in at ER desk. Rush back to car so it's parked in legitimate space. Run back into ER from parking space. Everything seems in fast motion until we're "placed" in our own ER room. Then the pace slows to a crawl. Her breathing problem is determined to not be an emergency. It needs attention and treatment, yes, but the tests happen in bad movie-like slow motion. EKG, then wait an hour. Chest x-ray. Another hour? The four blank walls of the ER room start to seem like a prison cell. In between the next four hours there's more tests: blood, urine, BP, walking, oxygen, IV - no, wait - the IV was done in the first hour. In the fourth hour, the IV tube was used to administer the extra medication.
It's not pneumonia this time. Good! But fluid on the lungs is caused by "some" congestive heart failure. How much is "some?" I never find out. "Come on, non-medical brain," I scold myself. "Ask all the right questions!" Be her ears; she can't hear well. The medical people seem to never catch on to that. I tell them the obvious, "She can't hear you. Could you speak up?" I feel so alone. Anger lurks.
What's the determination? Admit into the hospital, or released back to the freedom and fearfulness of home? Only the doctor can tell us, but he's vanished. We're assured he'll return soon (maybe when he's come back from the junior prom, I find myself thinking – when did doctors get so young?). Ah! He's back. I wonder where he parked his prom tux! The pronouncement is made, "You'll be going home."
Bless the caregivers of the world. They give infinite physical and emotional care. Their unexpected journeys take them to places in the heart they never knew were there.
I know new dimensions of myself now. Some of them are painful, involving grief. Nothing is fully predictable. So, I find ways to be creative to help me focus on the elements of this journey that must take priority.
CARE is a much bigger word than I ever knew. It has multiple definitions, including, "a person or thing that is an object of anxiety or solicitude." As a caregiver, I learned to recognize that phenomenon, but decided it wouldn’t be what defined my caregiving existence. What I found more helpful was to embrace "watchful attention" and "to feel interest" as the definitions of caregiving on which to focus. That brings some soothing balance and a heightened ability to remember my CARE formula and receive its ingredients – Compassion, Acceptance, Readiness, Energy – when I need them most, especially now, years after my mother has passed.
May you also find Compassion, Acceptance, Readiness, Energy on your caregiving journey. Take CARE!
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