A caregiver’s plea for help: ‘I feel bad about feeling bad!’
Several days ago a reader emailed me asking for advice. He, too, is a caregiver, and although his wife’s suffering is from a different disease than Alzheimer’s or Parkinson’s, I could resonate with his situation.
He’s tired. And frustrated. He didn’t use the word grief, but I’m guessing he’s suffering from a fair amount of it. He and his wife have lost a lot.
Here’s part of what he wrote:
She is weak and unable to do many of the things she used to do. As I result, I find myself becoming impatient and frustrated. I need to work . . . , but when I’m home, I need to do almost all the housework and take care of her personal needs (dressing, showering, grabbing things she can’t reach, and more).
And her continued care eats up discretionary time I’d like to spend on activities I love.
I feel guilty for being frustrated. Guilty for feeling like I’m self-centered. Guilty for not serving my wife with a glad and joyful heart.
Ironically, I’m probably in the best physical shape of my adult life, and she is in the worst. I want to use my health to serve her, but I also feel resentful. . . .
I truly value your counsel as I navigate these waters.
Even though I’m no expert on caregiving, I can resonate with his struggles. I share them with his permission because I’m guessing many readers will also hear themselves in his lament.
And even though this blog has never been about giving advice, I don’t want to ignore this good man. So I’ve decided to respond to his request for counsel not with suggestions, but with discoveries I’ve made in the last few years.
I’ve thought of several, too many, in fact, for one post. So here’s the beginning of a list I’ll finish next week:
I’m learning to go easy on myself.
There’s no future in feeling guilty about feelings, because feelings bubble up inside us unbidden. I, too, have felt resentful and frustrated and then guilty for feeling resentful and frustrated! It’s a no-win treadmill.
I’m learning to acknowledge my losses and grieve them.
This caregiver has already taken the vital first step. He’s brought his feelings to the surface and spoken them out loud.
Photo by Jose Gonzalez Buenaposada at istockphoto.com
Christians are especially prone to falling into the bottomless pit of denial. Somehow we believe our faith in God should be enough to keep us from ever feeling bad about the tragic turn our life has taken.
But God doesn’t condemn grief. Every loss, whether large or small, inevitably produces grief. And most caregivers are assaulted by a string of losses. There’s no progress in pretending they don’t matter.
When I named my losses in prayer, or to my support group, or in this blog, I began to realize I could cope in spite of them. It was the first step toward health.
I talk to God about it all.
The Bible can help us battle denial. In fact, the Bible gives us marvelous and abundant examples of facing up to fear. Examining these passages has been a lifeline for me.
Soon after Evelyn’s first diagnosis, a good friend sent me a copy of Dark Clouds, Deep Mercy: Discovering the Grace of Lament. The book shows how the Psalms are full of the psalmist’s complaints to God about the mess he’s in. As long as he was talking to God, he didn’t sink from sadness into despair.
If I find myself weeping alone in my car, I almost always also talk with God about how I’m feeling. It helps.
I’m finding friends who want to hear how I’m doing.
I’ve realized that talking to God isn’t enough, though. When I find a friend who wants to listen, and when I see they are not undone by what I share, I decide maybe I can handle it, too.
I’ve been blessed by several such people, but I know it’s difficult for some to find them. I suspect my openness in this blog has prompted some to reach out to me, and I’m very grateful.
Next week: Asking for help. Self-care vs. selfish decisions. Keeping vs. letting go. And discovering “the least of these” under my own roof.