I recently received the advice to write about my experiences as a “caretaker” for my father after his heart attack. I’m not sure whether I embrace that title, for a variety of reasons. I envision a caregiver as someone who sits by an ill person with a wet washcloth. Not, necessarily, as someone who does all the other small and crucial tasks, like cooking and driving. This logic, however, follows the flawed and ubiquitous notion that domestic work is not valuable. I can rationalize that, and still I feel uncomfortable claiming the position of “caregiver.”
In reality, I often suspect that my parents would have gotten along just fine without me. It might have been slightly more difficult for them, but they would have survived. And I could have just as easily moved someplace else as soon as he was out of the hospital. So why did I stay?
Though I didn’t acknowledge this until recently, my motivations to remain here were entirely selfish: I was terrified of leaving.
Before I dive into that, let me share some context.
The summer before I left for college, my dad spent several weeks in the hospital. At first, he’d developed a simple staph infection. Before long, it spread to his blood, and then his bone marrow. After having a portion of his clavicle removed, he came home to several months of outpatient home care. I learned to change bandages, to clear his PICC line, to inject his medicine twice a day. I learned what a wound vac was, and how unforgettable it smelled. I learned which gauzes and wipes to bring the nurse each afternoon he or she visited. I learned to call 911 when he’d stopped breathing. I learned the comfiest ways to sit in waiting room chairs. I learned to give serious phone calls, and to give cautiously optimistic follow-ups. I learned how to politely respond when people told me, retrospectively, that they didn’t think he’d make it. I learned, finally, to be present with the people I love.
Even if I don’t always act on it, I learned a lot in those three months, and then I went away to learn some more. My dad was cleared for travel not long before I left for school. I’ll never forget his grin when he realized he would be able to see me off to college. He and my mom helped me move into my first dorm room, which I shared with two strangers (and ultimately, two of my closest friends). They said goodbye, and left me to forge my way.
In the sheltered bubble of campus, 1500 miles away, I felt detached. I knew my parents were physically healthy, but I worried constantly about them. After all, they were getting older, and I didn’t know how to cope with that knowledge. On breaks, I would go home to stay with them, eat their food, and hear about everything that had changed while I was away. These moments helped soothe my anxieties, but on some level, I was always conscious that our time together was limited (and perhaps moreso than most).
Of course, this awareness helped me appreciate my parents more, and I’m grateful for that. I’m also grateful for the relationships that were born out of these fears. My first-year roommates, Mikey and Saraphin, had endured similar difficulties during college. We initially bonded because of loss and tribulation. Though our relationship has grown far, far beyond that, I can’t think of many other people who understand my fears the way they do.
That seems like adequate context, so I’ll get back to the “fear of leaving” that spurred this whole post.
A week after graduation, I was already scared of losing my incredible friends and bungling my job search. I didn’t know where I would live, or what I would do. When my mom called me to tell me that Dad was in a coma, every single one of those anxieties paled next to the thought that I might not see my parent again. I flew home the next morning, and I’ve been back in Kansas City since.
Every single day, I wonder where my life would be if I hadn’t gotten that call. Where would I be living? What would I be doing? What other arbitrary fears would I have? I wonder this, and I also wonder whether I’d be so damn thankful to have both of my parents, whether I’d have as many memories with them. Whether I'd have relationships as fulfilling as those that have developed here. Whether I'd feel any differently than I do now.
As I get older, I realize that loss is inevitable, and that fear is always an option. Fear of action, fear of inaction, fear of simply being. This is a part of life, and one that I’m slowly learning to handle. Anxieties cannot dictate the course of my life, but maybe I can lever them to develop a new perspective. To be appreciative of what is, and to accept what is not. To realize what's genuinely important to me. Maybe, one day, I can look certain fears in the face, defy them, and stop feeling so scared.
I’m not there yet, but I get closer every day.
