Caregiving -- A Gift that Heals
by Connie Goldman
Twenty-five
years ago, when my mother became ill and partially dependent, the word caregiver
didn't exist. As nearly as I can determine, it wasn't in the dictionary until
1997. I didn't think of myself as a caregiver, but simply as a daughter who,
when her mother required help, would figure out how to provide the care that was
needed. In my particular situation, my daughter and I became a caregiving team.
She lived a short distance from her grandmother, while I lived and worked almost
two thousand miles away. I made the major decisions, provided suggestions.
I remember wishing I knew someone else who was a caregiver so I could talk
about it with them. In my circle of friends, I was the first middle-aged
daughter to take care of an aging parent. My friends wanted to help, but my
particular situation was out of the realm of their experience. I constantly
juggled fear, frustration, irritation, indecision, and guilt that I wasn't doing
enough for my mother and that I shouldn't be living on the other side of the
country during her time of need. At the end of her life, the most difficult
thing for me was the sadness I felt, not only because of the loss, but because
some of the misunderstandings and unresolved issues between my mother and myself
were never openly discussed or repaired. Perhaps if I had heard stories of
mother-daughter reconciliations, I could have put some of my anxieties to rest
long ago.
During the years that followed the death of my mother, I talked with friends
and family members about my pain and sadness over the fact that there had been
no healing of our relationship. Our life together included lies, anger, hurt,
and disappointment. Over the years, neither of us found a way to face these
things, let them go, or reach out to each other with love. In the two decades
since her death, people have told me many stories of difficult mother-daughter
relationships that healed through caregiving. I've read several, collected some
for my radio programs and books, and talked with people who have their own
caregiver stories to tell. Their stories have given me the gift of healing.
Forgiveness, compassion, acceptance, and love grow through empathy for and
understanding of the experiences of others.
Family caregivers often feel burdened, overwhelmed, and stressed. There's a
good chance that a person who has taken on the responsibility of caring for
another will experience feelings of depression, helplessness, and isolation.
Yet, we are far from alone. Dana Reeve, wife of actor Christopher Reeve who
suffered paralyzing spinal cord injuries, told me: "One of the things that I've
realized is that I'm part of a group called 'caregivers,' and there are millions
of us. It's often something that we take on willingly because we love the person
and because we feel it's our duty, and yet we don't see it as a job,
necessarily, and it really is. Not that we wouldn't do it anyway."
Millions of us are currently providing care and assistance to someone who is
ill, frail, or disabled, or we have done so in the past. Many times I've heard
the figure quoted that only 5 percent of those requiring care are living in
facilities that provide professional services. The other 95 percent live in
their home or in the home of a relative. Their care has been taken on by family
members or friends for whom caregiving isn't a paying job or a chosen career. An
estimated twenty-five million adults have added a volunteer caregiving
commitment to an already full life.
We most often become caregivers through unforeseen and unplanned-for
circumstances. A father falls suddenly ill, a mother becomes increasingly
forgetful, a spouse is diagnosed with a terminal illness, a grandmother is too
frail to care for herself, an elderly friend is without family or resources, a
child is born with severe physical or mental limitations. With little or no
warning, we become caregivers.
We take on the role of caregiver because the alternatives aren't acceptable
to our families or ourselves. Often we don't know what we're getting into, but
we make the leap anyway, take on the responsibility, and hope for the best. Our
day often includes dealing with frustration, stress, irritation, exhaustion,
confusion, and guilt. Yet, sadness and uncertainty are only part of the
experience. Caregiving is also about knowing we've done our best and served
someone we love.
Through the caregiving experience we can expand our vision, touch new depths
of compassion and gratitude, and reassess our priorities. A daughter, herself in
her sixties, shared with me some thoughts as she reflected back on the time when
she sat with her dying, semiconscious mother. "Hard as it all had been taking
charge of her personal care, seeing my own living patterns changed in almost
every conceivable way, struggling with the guilt of never doing enough, still in
some way I can't really explain there's been some immeasurable value for me in
just being there for her. Through this experience of caregiving, I think I've
really grown and learned a lot about myself."
Many people I spoke with shared similar thoughts about a deepening personal
awareness and growing sensitivity. Beth Witrogen McLeod, sitting in her sunny
living room in Northern California, told me: "I think the ultimate learning in
the giving of ourselves is that we find out who we are at heart. To give beyond
any conceivable level than we ever thought we were capable of, or wanted to be
capable of, or were willing to be capable of, is such a stretch of the heart.
Still, the opportunity to give to someone -- that is the most healing, the most
glorious connection that we can have as a human. You can't help but see the
world differently. It changes you profoundly and permanently. It's a constant
lesson to find out who we truly are." Beth wrote about her caregiving experience
with her parents in her book, Caregiving: The Spiritual Journey of Love, Loss, and Renewal.
In our conversations, the caregivers often told me how their priorities had
changed -- how they had gained new perspectives of what was meaningful in their
lives and learned to slow down the pace of their days. Many spoke with a
newfound sense of peace. I recall visiting with Gordon Dickman in Seattle. I was
working on a totally different project at the time, and our appointment had
nothing to do with caregiving. Yet, halfway through our conversation, Gordon
shared an anecdote about his father's death. "This is a story about holding an
angel that I didn't know was an angel," he began.
"My father wasn't a man of words. He never said, 'I love you,' or 'Son, you
did a good job,' or sat down and shared heart-to-heart talks with me. So when he
was in the last days of his life and comatose, and I was lying in bed with him
holding him in my arms, I thought, 'Why am I holding you in my arms like this?
Why am I doing things for you that you never did for me?' And I began to
reflect, during that long day until he died, on all the things he had done for
me.
"He'd driven miles when I was a child to take me to movies that I wanted to
see. When I first started dating and couldn't drive a car, he'd driven into
town, picked up the girl, taken us to the movies, gone somewhere and waited,
come back and picked us up, and taken her home. And he never complained, never
said no.
"He's the one who drove me to college, set my trunk out at the corner, and
drove off and waited at the end of the block until I went inside. I realized
that he'd been there for me all along.
"And so I could hold him and say, 'I'm not giving you anything you didn't
give to me, old man. I'm paying you back.' And I held him until he died. I
didn't let go and I didn't let anyone else get in the way of that, either. I
thought, 'I'm not letting go of this angel until he's gone."'
Is it trite to repeat that old phrase, 'Every ending offers a new
beginning'?" I don't think so. Those I've spoken with often used the expression
"the rewards of caregiving" to describe their experiences. Some have actually
called their personal growth a transformation; others make reference to the
gifts of caregiving. Often these gifts aren't perceived or understood until
after the immediate pressures and concerns of active caregiving are past. This
learning has no particular time frame. Yet, sometime during our lifetime,
whether we're the caregiver or the recipient of care, there will be an
opportunity to explore the possibilities of transforming hardship into hope, and
to discover the incredible rewards and unexpected gifts of caregiving.
Caregiving can be a gift in disguise -- an experience that moves you toward a
more meaningful connection with yourself and with others and a chance to nurture
your spirit and transform your life.
This
article was excerpted from:
 The Gifts Of Caregiving
by Connie
Goldman.
Reprinted with permission of the publisher, Fairview Press. ©2002. www.fairviewpress.com
Info/Order this book.
About the Author
Connie
Goldman is an award-winning independent public radio producer, author, and
public speaker, formerly on the staff of National Public Radio. She is the
author of four books and is the recipient of the 2001 Senior Award from the
American Society on Aging. She lives near the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St.
Paul, Minnesota.
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