I have a full glass, barely holding all I’ve had to pour into it

You can have only so many friends. In fact, a psychologist named Robin Dunbar proposed that the limit is 150. Some say even fewer.

Friends—not acquaintances, mind you, but those who receive your investment of energy and emotion—take time. Sometimes when we make a new friend, we notice ourselves growing out of touch with another friend we had before. We don’t have the bandwidth for both.

The same is true of tasks. Each week has a finite number of hours. And each person has a limited capacity for being busy. I remember a psychology professor telling a workshop crowd, “Every time you say ‘yes’ to one thing, you must say ‘no’ to something else.”

Saying yes

Maybe that stuck with me because it’s a fact I so easily ignore. Throughout my life I’ve too often said yes without stopping to realize what I’d be forced to give up because I’d signed on.

Lately I’ve come to compare my yes capacity to a glass filled with clear water. I can pour red water into the glass, and it will receive it. Slowly, the water will turn pink and then eventually scarlet as new water replaces the old that has flowed out of the glass.

But then the placemat under the glass will be soaked, and I’ll need to clean up a puddle on the floor.

That mess could be seen as a metaphor for any caregiver’s life, a life that was full before the demands of caregiving presented an ever-growing list of new needs requiring a yes.

Can you keep the kitchen clean? Yes.
Will you do the laundry? Yes.
Remember the kids’ and grandkids’ birthdays and get the cards and gifts there on time? Yes.
Decide what your person should wear? Yes.
Pack their bag for an overnight trip? Yes.
Monitor the medicine? Yes.
Interact with doctors and attend every appointment? Yes.
Decide which invitations to accept and which activities to enjoy and which events to attend? Yes.
Plan the meals, buy the food, and do the cooking? Yes. Yes. Yes!
Keep the bathroom clean? OK . . . yes.

Only the beginning

And that list is only the beginning. As the patient’s abilities diminish, the caregiver’s capacity must increase. The only way to make that happen is to allow the glass of clear water to turn red because the caregiver can no longer tend to everything that was already filling the glass.

I was no longer working when I realized I was now a caregiver. I had room to pour in more responsibilities because I had already given up so many. Now I know why some take early retirement to care for an ailing spouse and others quit their jobs to move cross country to help a failing parent. I can’t imagine caregiving while pursuing a full-time career. My glass couldn’t have held it all.

I’ve said yes . . . and no

But still I’ve given up much.

I’ve exchanged movies, concerts, ball games, and dinners with friends, for evenings at home watching insipid TV and eating take-out meals from drive-thru windows.

I’ve traded long talks with Evelyn for hour-long meetings with my support group.

I’ve traded leisurely breakfasts and fun lunches with her for occasional quick get-togethers with several buddies who faithfully reach out to me.

I’ve swapped comfort in the home she kept for worry about not keeping it well enough myself.

I’ve given up the possibility of deepening relationships with newer friends while clinging to the friendship of several who have stuck with us despite the changes.

I’ve traded a growing involvement in service to others for a growing amount of prayer for those whose needs I observe from afar.

My glass is full. Some days I feel it can’t hold anymore. And I miss some of what has splashed out of our lives.

I’m not bitter or angry, just sad. And I’m guessing it will be quite a while before the water in my glass becomes clear again.

Photos by unclepodger at istockphoto.com