If I ever win the lottery, the first thing I would do is buy a better car, upgrade our living situation, and ensure my dad receives the best care possible — no compromises, no limitations.
The grand fantasies of my distant youth — the fast cars, the sprawling mansions, the ideas and plans of extravagant gifts for friends and family — those dreams have long faded. After years of solo caregiving, with little support from those I once counted on, my benevolence has been stretched thin, unraveling thread by thread. I am worn, frayed by time and duty, carrying more than I ever thought I could. The straps are always quite tight.
I might take a cruise after my father passes — not as an escape, but as a moment to pause, to reflect, to breathe. To finally set down the weight I have carried for so long and let the waves carry it away. Yet, the thought of being surrounded by so many people on their holidays gives me pause — some of whom, I imagine, are off enjoying their getaway while someone else shoulders the caregiving back home. Those who aren’t caregivers always seem to find time for vacations just for themselves, don’t they? I suppose that’s the perk of not being the family’s designated loved one's *CAREgiver.*
Even without winning the lottery, there’s one vision of peace that I always hold close — a secluded cabin by a quiet lake, where the world slows down and the noise fades away. I wouldn’t need to fish — but I’d know I could. The simple knowledge that I have the choice, the freedom to cast a line whenever I please, would be enough. Instead, I’d sit on the porch, coffee warm in my hands, a book resting in my lap, watching the water ripple and listening to the wind move through the trees. That, to me, is heaven — the kind of peace that family caregivers rarely get to taste.
Caregiving is relentless. It takes everything from you and gives back little in return. It reshapes your world until exhaustion becomes familiar, and your own needs are secondary, almost forgotten. But daydreaming of a future where I can exhale — where I can finally breathe without restriction — is more than just wishful thinking. It is a necessity. To step into that quiet space, to exist in a world where peace isn’t borrowed but fully owned, where the choices are all mine, for me alone, and I can know I can fish, even if I choose not to. The very idea of that — that is my deepest longing, awake or asleep.
I do not dream of winning the lottery seriously. It is a lark of the moment, a quick smile, and one I know will not come true with any real probability. But the cabin, the lake, the quiet, and the coffee — that is not a fantasy. That is the dream of hope I hold most steadfastly to. It gives me something to hold onto, something to believe in.
Even if it turns out to be a pond next to a motel on the side of a lonely road, that would be okay. As long as the ice machine worked and the soda machine too.
What is your daydream after all is said and done with our caregiving life?
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