Until I'm Not
On caregiving, presence, and the quiet promise of staying.
I didn’t know caregiving would make me so good at disappearing. It’s something that happens. You disappear from family, society, and doctors.
I manage to blend into the background – keeping just one step behind but always on the alert. Allowing myself to stay in the background buys me the freedom to see what’s really going on from an unobserved perspective. I like it that way – until I don’t.
Where I don’t disappear is at most doctor appointments. Frank goes mute. He has nothing to say and remembers very little regarding symptoms, episodes, or heaven forbid, medication. Throw Alzheimer’s into the equation and very few practitioners even speak to him. Their sole focus and attention is on me. While I don’t mind the responsibility, I do mind the fact that Frank becomes invisible.
When we go to a hospital for a procedure, I’m made invisible again. No one wants me around while Frank is being prepped. I make a half-hearted attempt at telling them he won’t be able to… Oh, never mind. They’ll find out.
Within five minutes, while I wait in the waiting area, I get called by a nurse. They need information that he can’t provide and he always asks for me.
“Did he eat in the last 8 hours?”
“What medications did he take this morning?”
And on and on they go.
My visibility matters now. I’m needed. For the moment. Until I’m not.
It’s a rapidly cycling existence
.