"We—in recollection I feel no reluctance to speak of Lucille and myself almost as a single consciousness even through the course of that summer, though often enough she was restless and morose—" writes Marilynne Robinson in Housekeeping, her book about two sisters, Lucille and Ruth.
How easy it can be when caregiving to inhabit this sense of "We"—this sensation of a single, shared consciousness, like a whirl on the carousel...or, like slipping into the backseat of an old Chevy that is already moving, someone at the wheel who is unrecognizable, my mom in the front passenger seat looking through the windshield ahead.
"We have an appointment at the cancer center on Friday," my mom says. "We're going to get our hair done," one of her caregivers says. "We should stop trying to do so much," I say. In the blur of speed, the boundary between front seat and back seat blurs. Those of us who are not my mom get caught up in the energy, the stir, the flow—her intense effort to not only survive but to live life to the fullest in the midst of all the tough stuff. And then it goes deeper: during a crisis, the car jars suddenly and spits us all forward and turns a corner way too fast, juggling us arms and legs into each others' spaces. Jaws jiggle. Spit flies. We feel centrifuged down to our essential parts, but we aren't sure whose is whose anymore.
It probably doesn't matter much for the easy stuff. But when it comes to the big stuff...of course, yes. But this is when it can be the hardest to differentiate between Me and You—especially after those mind-blurring crises.
Much caregiver advice revolves around setting time and other boundaries in the form of getting down time, taking breaks, settling into outside support, and monitoring and taking care of one's own health (all of which are often difficult enough to find time and energy for!), but the trickier terrain is in the nitty gritty of relating, that is, inhabiting this single consciousness of We while at the same time nurturing in yourself and your loved one that essential individuality and agency and independence.
Illness can rip these away. Being in caregiving overdrive can too.
Robinson describes the shifting ground underneath Ruthie and Lucille as one of: "watching and listening with the constant sharp attention of children lost in the dark. It seemed that we were bewilderingly lost in a landscape that, with any light at all, would be wholly familiar. What to make of sounds and shapes, and where to put our feet."
The early days, weeks, months of illness can feel like this. Well, even years in it can. Groundless. Entirely uncertain. Where do I stand, now? What treatment do I pursue? How much of it? Which doctor? Where do I live? What friends will remain and see me through? How am I going to pay for any of this? Who are you to me now anyway? Such uncertainty destabilizes and often wreaks havoc on relationships.
Sometimes all I can do is manage the uncertainty and those fears within myself. It's generally useless to try to control anything on the outside, although sometimes what I eventually embody can influence and shape what's external. There's fertile ground here, though. A new kind of relating begins to grow and develop.
Caregiving forces you way beyond the sort of monetary/service exchange between people we can come to think of as normal in this culture—even within families—that sort of balance sheet of who is doing and contributing what and who is getting or acquiring what out of this or that, etc. Sometimes only when I let go of resentment, set down the balance sheet, do I see what there is to see in this space of Care—what there is not only for myself or for my mom but for each of us, for all of us.
We are utterly uprooted by the changes, the transformations, that often come. What rises out of this "We" is a much broader, timeless human exchange—and with it, some of the deepest gifts to feed our souls.
What does it feel like to share a healthy intimacy while in the throes of illness? What does a lifegiving "We" look like and feel like, particularly with a parent?
My mom goes into the lab by herself to have blood drawn. I sit in the waiting room. I snack and read and prep questions. Close my eyes. Breathe. But what is that space between that we are in as soon as the lab tech wheels her around the corner and our eyes meet? What is that? And what can it be? What is it and what can it be for you—this fertile, fraught "We"?
Photo credit: The Whirl, Greg Massey, 2014.
How easy it can be when caregiving to inhabit this sense of "We"—this sensation of a single, shared consciousness, like a whirl on the carousel...or, like slipping into the backseat of an old Chevy that is already moving, someone at the wheel who is unrecognizable, my mom in the front passenger seat looking through the windshield ahead.
"We have an appointment at the cancer center on Friday," my mom says. "We're going to get our hair done," one of her caregivers says. "We should stop trying to do so much," I say. In the blur of speed, the boundary between front seat and back seat blurs. Those of us who are not my mom get caught up in the energy, the stir, the flow—her intense effort to not only survive but to live life to the fullest in the midst of all the tough stuff. And then it goes deeper: during a crisis, the car jars suddenly and spits us all forward and turns a corner way too fast, juggling us arms and legs into each others' spaces. Jaws jiggle. Spit flies. We feel centrifuged down to our essential parts, but we aren't sure whose is whose anymore.
It probably doesn't matter much for the easy stuff. But when it comes to the big stuff...of course, yes. But this is when it can be the hardest to differentiate between Me and You—especially after those mind-blurring crises.
Much caregiver advice revolves around setting time and other boundaries in the form of getting down time, taking breaks, settling into outside support, and monitoring and taking care of one's own health (all of which are often difficult enough to find time and energy for!), but the trickier terrain is in the nitty gritty of relating, that is, inhabiting this single consciousness of We while at the same time nurturing in yourself and your loved one that essential individuality and agency and independence.
Illness can rip these away. Being in caregiving overdrive can too.
Robinson describes the shifting ground underneath Ruthie and Lucille as one of: "watching and listening with the constant sharp attention of children lost in the dark. It seemed that we were bewilderingly lost in a landscape that, with any light at all, would be wholly familiar. What to make of sounds and shapes, and where to put our feet."
The early days, weeks, months of illness can feel like this. Well, even years in it can. Groundless. Entirely uncertain. Where do I stand, now? What treatment do I pursue? How much of it? Which doctor? Where do I live? What friends will remain and see me through? How am I going to pay for any of this? Who are you to me now anyway? Such uncertainty destabilizes and often wreaks havoc on relationships.
Sometimes all I can do is manage the uncertainty and those fears within myself. It's generally useless to try to control anything on the outside, although sometimes what I eventually embody can influence and shape what's external. There's fertile ground here, though. A new kind of relating begins to grow and develop.
Caregiving forces you way beyond the sort of monetary/service exchange between people we can come to think of as normal in this culture—even within families—that sort of balance sheet of who is doing and contributing what and who is getting or acquiring what out of this or that, etc. Sometimes only when I let go of resentment, set down the balance sheet, do I see what there is to see in this space of Care—what there is not only for myself or for my mom but for each of us, for all of us.
We are utterly uprooted by the changes, the transformations, that often come. What rises out of this "We" is a much broader, timeless human exchange—and with it, some of the deepest gifts to feed our souls.
What does it feel like to share a healthy intimacy while in the throes of illness? What does a lifegiving "We" look like and feel like, particularly with a parent?
My mom goes into the lab by herself to have blood drawn. I sit in the waiting room. I snack and read and prep questions. Close my eyes. Breathe. But what is that space between that we are in as soon as the lab tech wheels her around the corner and our eyes meet? What is that? And what can it be? What is it and what can it be for you—this fertile, fraught "We"?
Photo credit: The Whirl, Greg Massey, 2014.