Caregiving Taught Me How to Adult

I've always been of an artistic temperament. Besides being a musician and writer, I've also set my hands to sculpting, painting, sketching, and other creative outlets. Growing up and accepting adulthood didn't come easy for me, but, borrowing a younger generation's vernacular, caregiving taught me how to adult. However, it happened in baby steps.

I bucked up

When we were around 23, my friend Patty contracted melanoma. We both were young mothers with toddlers, so you can imagine how hard it was to accept her inevitable passing. None of our other young friends ever brought themselves to visit her, either at her home or in the hospital. Her mother told me I was the only friend who ever sat with her, brushed her hair, gave her facials, and made her laugh. During this experience, I learned to buck up, face my fears, and think of somebody else for a change.

I loved

In 1992 I made a giant step toward becoming a grownup when I left my life behind and moved 1500 miles from home to take care of my dad, who had colorectal cancer. Being his primary caregiver, I learned to put my life on hold and return to him some of the care and love he'd always given me. I was there for him just as he'd always been there for me. And as hard as it was to watch my big, strong father wither away, I learned a great deal about love.

I became strong

This was a hard one because my mom and I had a difficult relationship. Plus, after having a stroke, she moved in with my wife and me. We'd been together only a few months and we'd just gotten custody of her three children. Added to this was my autistic adult son. What a vortex of emotion that was! An abusive mother, a new relationship, three kids dealing with the divorce of their parents—and me as the outsider—and my son. I can't believe I made it through those years. But I did, learning to take responsibility for others who needed me to be strong.

I grew flexible

We'd just made it through all the stress and impending burnout. My mom passed, and the kids grew up and moved out. My son still lived with us, but he'd grown by leaps and bounds by having a family around him. After 17 years of living for everyone else, my wife and I began planning the honeymoon we never had, and we started saving for a trip to England.

We'd finally saved enough to set a departure date when she was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. Goodbye savings! Goodbye life! Hello, despair and desolation. As Lynette's only caregiver, and facing 70, I accepted that life often has other plans for us. That we'd never go to England together, and I would soon be alone and living on an impossibly small income.

The larger lesson

Where I'd once been a dreamer, I'm now more practical. Once, I'd been a hopeless romantic. Now I'm wary. Where I once had faith in life and hope for my future, I had to face that I'm on limited time, and I worry what will happen to my son when it's my turn to go. I can't lie, though. These are lessons that most people who've never been a caregiver face as they grow old.

But through all these tests, heartaches, and disappointments, a new lesson rises to the surface. That, being in good health, I could be here for 30 years! That's enough time to take back the parts of myself that I thought were long gone. They're beginning to press upward now, and I've learned they never were actually gone, they were only sleeping. I want to believe it's finally my turn. I want to believe there's still art to make. And I refuse to believe that, due to my age, I have nothing left to say.  Caregiving taught me how to adult, and I think I'm adulting pretty well now.