I did not choose the life of a caregiver. I was not asked or consulted. I was not given any warning; there was no countdown. Just the big bang of the moment I became a caregiver.
Photo sunset at Gulf Shores. Photo Credit: Shelly Drymon
I do not like the life of a caregiver any more than my partner likes the fact that his acute onset of transverse myelitis put us both in this really sucky situation.
It’s heavy. It’s heartbreaking, It’s lonely. It’s misunderstood. It’s a bitch.
I see the day-to-day struggles of my partner, the pain of his condition and the sorrow of the loss of a life he once had, the life we both once had together.
No longer are my days my own. I cannot sleep in even when I am sick. I cannot go to bed whenever I want. I cannot leave him without making sure all provisions are in place, even for a day.
I carry this life with sadness and anger. I did try therapy three times, but the therapists – while good in their own right- just could not grasp what I needed. I just need to be heard, not fixed, not a plan to sit with my emotions, or journal my feelings.
I want to scream and bear my fists to the world.
Goddamn you.
It’s been 2 ½ years since the life changing day. Within 24 hours what we once knew was gone.
There is not one space in our home that I can really call my own. There are signs of his condition everywhere. Walker, rollator, catheter items, prunes, rubbing alcohol, a whole closet full of his items. He sleeps in the living room and has had to commandeer a whole lot of space just to be able to function now.
My routines are his routines.
My life has become mostly about him.
To say I did not choose caregiving is correct. What I chose was compassion and love.