Diary of a Confessed Serial Caretaker

I've had a hard day. My head is pounding and my arthritic spine crunches and pops as I lower myself onto the love seat. Two baskets of laundry stand at attention to my right. There are eight hours of work behind me and a couple more staring me in the face. I remember that I haven't done any stretches today at work. The office chair and desk are my physical enemies. My body contracts and freezes when I sit too long. So, I take a few cleansing deep breaths. The connective tissue between my ribs hurt when it expands. I pull in the air deeply and hold for a second and then exhale counting to fifteen. I fold the clothes and can't bring myself to carry them up the stairs. I'll do it later on my way to bed. I'm exhausted and there are too many things on my mind. What will happen to my disabled son if my husband does not get better from vasculitis? How will my daughter finish her last two years of college? How will I survive loneliness? Why does he have to suffer so long with something that is supposed to be better by now? As if on cue he takes out his glucose test meter and a lancet and jabs his finger. I recognize the fact that I am holding my breath again. I didn't know breathing was going to be something I had to think about doing regularly. He sighs and I hear him mutter, "s---". I know that means that no matter how well he ate today his sugar is still skyrocketing due to the high dose of prednisone that he must take daily. I watch him lift his shirt and pick a spot to inject his insulin. He's sweating profusely with such little exertion it's almost comical if I didn't know better. I count six large bruises from previous injection sites. He injects himself five times a day. There is nothing I can do to help him either. The futility of worrying does not stop me from doing it. I offer to wash and dress the biopsy site on his arm. Like an idiot the first time I took the bandage off I cried. "Way to stay positive in front of the sick one", I chastised myself mentally for days. It's just that I didn't expect the wound to be so large. I know when it heals he will have a sunken crater there.

It's 9:00 P.M. and my husband announces that he is beat and he is going to hit the sack. He leans in and gives me a peck on the cheek. "I love you", I tell him. "Try to get some good sleep and maybe you will feel better tomorrow", I hear myself offer weakly. "Sure thing", he says. I hear him lumber up the stairs and almost joyfully I grab the remote. I'm alone at last for a little while. I plan on watching something mind-numbingly stupid like, "Keeping Up With The Kardashian's". It is so ridiculous and it always makes me feel better about my life. Kim is gorgeous but Chloe is an absolute trip and it makes me laugh. Then I hear my son push back his computer chair in the next room. "Oh no, " I think. "I hope he is not getting off the computer yet". As he enters the room I feel guilty for wanting the room and the T.V. all to myself. "Hey Ma, you wanna watch Dog the Bounty Hunter, there is a new episode on in ten minutes"? If I was a balloon I would be making huge farting noises and flying around the room like a crack addict before I hit the wall totally deflated. I remember to breath again. I hear myself say, "oh yeah, I've been waiting for a new one to come on, I am really sick of the re-runs"! I know that it is not easy for him to be home all day with his sick father. He lives with schizophrenia and one of his very few safety people in the whole world is really sick. I know that he needs a change of company. I also know that I am "it" as far as that goes. I know that right now I am really "needed" by important people. How can I let myself get twisted up about it.

Before I head home from work on most days I find myself stopping at the local mall. I tell myself I just need to get some ink for the printer or paper towels for the house. Sometimes two whole hours go by when I notice I am aimlessly just roaming stores and not really buying anything. By the time I head for home I get this surge of guilt that permeates my whole being. I know I was just putting off going home because once I get there I am, 'on duty". Sometimes I panic because I think I forgot to get someone's meds at Rite Aid so I just swing through the drive through just in case. Nine times out of ten there is some medicine there for someone in my house and every once in awhile it's mine. I am usually pretty good at getting my husband's or son's meds but I forget to check my own refills. I'm sure I wouldn't last three days without my thyroid replacement. I'd notice that soon enough.

The thing about being a serial caretaker is I think no one can take care of my family like I can. Who would give up that remote so easily? Who would suffer "Dog Duane Chapman and Family" for the sake of my son but me? Who would look at my husbands biopsy site and burst into tears? Who would forget to breath for them? Who would get up the next day if they knew it would be exactly the same as the day before? There would be no miracle cure for anyone and the bruises would just keep changing location. The mind of a schizophrenic is basically always splintered a bit no matter how well managed on medication. Always a little child like and scared of big places with too many people. Content to surround himself with his chosen safety net of a handful of people. Clinging mostly to one now. The, "well" one that holds up under pressure by forgetting to breath. The one who escapes to Target with a bare pocket book to meander around and look at nothing in particular because it's like taking a vacation.

I sink in to bed finally but not before I am so tired I know sleep will come swiftly. I learned not to go to bed too early because staring up at the ceiling for a few hours and ruminating does no good. It just shows me the inconsistencies in my juggling act. The craving of alone time when in reality I don't want to lose any of these people I love and worry about. The constant attention and care that they need can be draining but what else would I be doing if I didn't have them? I would in a heartbeat wave a magic wand if I could and make them whole people, fully functioning and fully well. The hardest part about being a serial caretaker I think as I finally drift off to sleep is, "watching them suffer". Finally, blissfully, my breathing becomes a thing I do not think about as slumber envelopes me. For a second, while in that half asleep zone a glimpse of a skinny blond boy whizzes by me in my peripheral vision. He is in the air, with his skateboard poised two feet below him and just as his feet hit the board, I jump! As I slip back into slumber I remember my son as he used to be before schizophrenia. I reach for my husbands sweat soaked arm and I squeeze it and whisper, "I'm here, I love you".