Welcome to the Caregiver Carousel—a place of respite, magic, and restoration; a place of visions and practical tips; and a place to explore the existential questions, dark valleys, and gifts of caregiving, and now, mourning and remembrance. As a fellow rider, I have been "care-giving" myself the last 14 years through my recovery from severe environmental illness, and for 7 years, I dove in as my mother's caregiver—her "wing mate" in her fierce battle-dance with multiple myeloma (a blood cancer).
I am a writer, editor, and healer. I have a master's degree in cultural anthropology, a graduate certificate in women’s studies, and a bachelor's degree in literature and philosophy.
The 'place' of illness is such a nonplace that I often have a hard time putting experiences of illness and caregiving into words. In a culture mediated by clock time and driven by money, careers, and lots of busy-ness, few opportunities exist to squeeze in stories about the complex and multilayered experiences of a decade of illness or a long battle with cancer. This nonplace of illness is one we often do not want to look at or linger too long in or voluntarily dip our toes into. We often are forced to plunge into this deathly cold lake out of no choice of our own. At every turn, we try to recover as quickly as possible and not look back. We, rightly so, get back to Living!
But when the illness lingers despite years of various treatments, when my mom recovers again and yet again and amazingly yet again from one major health crisis after another, it is not so easy to leave that lake behind. The illness is a constant presence—an uninvited third party to your life. After years of this, I stopped running away and instead began asking ... okay, what IS this, then?
At the same time, in order to not be overcome by this uninvited guest, I had to go deep to find my resources—internal and external—and to invite what I did want into the room and into myself, making conscious and deliberate choices in each layer of the onion (physical, emotional, spiritual, social, etc.) to excavate and nourish Health. Often, the way was not clear. I floundered and hit walls and dead ends. But I found my way. My mother and I found OUR way.
The Caregiver Carousel ride can be one of a living hell where you are jerked around (or simply buried) time and time again on the scariest trip of a lifetime that is not your choice and that just delivers one mind-boggling trauma after another. You see and bear suffering—not only pain and illness but also injustice and humiliation, isolation, and a deep loss of dignity, identity, and personhood.
The Caregiver Carousel ride that is chosen can be on the literal Carousel of Happiness, which opened on Memorial Day in 2010 in Nederland, Colorado. It took a village to get the Carousel of Happiness off the ground, but it started as one man's vision—the seeds of which were fired and opened in the midst of the Vietnam War. Scott Harrison (in the photo above; he's the guy in the back), when a young Vietnam Marine, resourced in the midst of the horrors of this war by listening to a tiny music box that played Chopin’s “Tristesse.” The song, as their website explains, "brought him a peaceful image of a carousel in a mountain meadow."
At a $1 a ride, I've been able to experience the magic of riding on most of Scott's animals. He carved each animal based on illustrations made by his good buddy and cartoonist George Blevins (in the photo above; he's the guy to my left). These rides are a critical "music box" for me and have helped me feel the beauty and joy of being human, not just the pain.
I owe deep bows and a sincere thank you to Scott (and George too!) for believing in the magic himself and sharing it with the rest of us in such a literal way. I grow younger as I age in part because of the people I've met and gotten to know better (especially my mom!) who carry whimsy, hope, and a hearty sense of humor with them no matter where they go and no matter what's going on in their lives. As an urban, somewhat jaded Gen X-er, these are qualities I'd grown more and more cynical of before moving to the mountains and discovering the truth about the magic that's within and without. Paying it forward as best I can.
In honor of my mom, Milly Weeber.
Christine
I am a writer, editor, and healer. I have a master's degree in cultural anthropology, a graduate certificate in women’s studies, and a bachelor's degree in literature and philosophy.
The 'place' of illness is such a nonplace that I often have a hard time putting experiences of illness and caregiving into words. In a culture mediated by clock time and driven by money, careers, and lots of busy-ness, few opportunities exist to squeeze in stories about the complex and multilayered experiences of a decade of illness or a long battle with cancer. This nonplace of illness is one we often do not want to look at or linger too long in or voluntarily dip our toes into. We often are forced to plunge into this deathly cold lake out of no choice of our own. At every turn, we try to recover as quickly as possible and not look back. We, rightly so, get back to Living!
But when the illness lingers despite years of various treatments, when my mom recovers again and yet again and amazingly yet again from one major health crisis after another, it is not so easy to leave that lake behind. The illness is a constant presence—an uninvited third party to your life. After years of this, I stopped running away and instead began asking ... okay, what IS this, then?
At the same time, in order to not be overcome by this uninvited guest, I had to go deep to find my resources—internal and external—and to invite what I did want into the room and into myself, making conscious and deliberate choices in each layer of the onion (physical, emotional, spiritual, social, etc.) to excavate and nourish Health. Often, the way was not clear. I floundered and hit walls and dead ends. But I found my way. My mother and I found OUR way.
The Caregiver Carousel ride can be one of a living hell where you are jerked around (or simply buried) time and time again on the scariest trip of a lifetime that is not your choice and that just delivers one mind-boggling trauma after another. You see and bear suffering—not only pain and illness but also injustice and humiliation, isolation, and a deep loss of dignity, identity, and personhood.
The Caregiver Carousel ride that is chosen can be on the literal Carousel of Happiness, which opened on Memorial Day in 2010 in Nederland, Colorado. It took a village to get the Carousel of Happiness off the ground, but it started as one man's vision—the seeds of which were fired and opened in the midst of the Vietnam War. Scott Harrison (in the photo above; he's the guy in the back), when a young Vietnam Marine, resourced in the midst of the horrors of this war by listening to a tiny music box that played Chopin’s “Tristesse.” The song, as their website explains, "brought him a peaceful image of a carousel in a mountain meadow."
At a $1 a ride, I've been able to experience the magic of riding on most of Scott's animals. He carved each animal based on illustrations made by his good buddy and cartoonist George Blevins (in the photo above; he's the guy to my left). These rides are a critical "music box" for me and have helped me feel the beauty and joy of being human, not just the pain.
I owe deep bows and a sincere thank you to Scott (and George too!) for believing in the magic himself and sharing it with the rest of us in such a literal way. I grow younger as I age in part because of the people I've met and gotten to know better (especially my mom!) who carry whimsy, hope, and a hearty sense of humor with them no matter where they go and no matter what's going on in their lives. As an urban, somewhat jaded Gen X-er, these are qualities I'd grown more and more cynical of before moving to the mountains and discovering the truth about the magic that's within and without. Paying it forward as best I can.
In honor of my mom, Milly Weeber.
Christine