Tilling the Ground: A Caregiver’s Manifesto
A reflection on the mindset that sustains both caregiver and cared-for — not through coddling, but through movement, dignity, and shared survival.
This is a life-draining thing, being a caregiver.
There’s a kind of exhaustion in caregiving that goes beyond physical tiredness — it’s the emotional erosion that comes from constantly showing up, making hard decisions, doing intimate, often thankless work, and rarely getting a moment to breathe.
You’re managing someone else’s body, their pain, their confusion — and at the same time, trying to hold onto your own identity, your own sanity.
And then you have to explain the things you do — not to the person you’re caring for, but to the people watching from the outside.
Or defend it.
Or justify why you did what you just did, or have to do, or had to do — whether it was done gently, or firmly, or quickly, in a routine pattern.
Demandingly, and sometimes seemingly heartlessly — when what you do has more heart in it than those who think you should have coddled and cooed and infantilized.
In family caregiving, there are not enough hours in the day for that.
Because there are not enough hours of sleep in a caregiver’s day.
Or enough hours to do everything else you have to do — including your own life, your own paperwork, your personal responsibilities.
There are simply not enough hours in the day to do it all.
The more you take away from them, the more you take upon yourself.
And when you do that, it becomes systemic.
When you help them stand up, they will always need you to help them stand up.
When you handle them like they cannot do it, they will not be able to do it anymore.
When you treat them like they are decrepit, they quickly will become decrepit.
The more idle they become, the more active you have to become.
The less self-sufficient they become, the more you take onto yourself.
When you hold them up, you will always have to hold them up.
But when you lead them by the hand, direct them, instruct them — and they manage it by themselves, or mostly — they accomplish. They retain.
Yes, you are still there.
But they are still there too.
I put out my hand to help my dad sit up on the side of the bed — sometimes.
Sometimes he can do it himself.
I put out my hand to help him stand up from the bed — sometimes.
Then I tell him to place both hands on top of mine, and I walk backwards, leading him to the bathroom.
I tell him he is fine.
To look up.
Not over there — but at me.
To focus.
I am in front of him.
Not next to him.
Not behind him.
He is doing it on his own.
And I — I am just his cane, and his conductor.
I am there for him, but not doing it for him.
I lead more than I physically support.
When that support is needed, I am there.
I am ready.
I am positioned.
I am facing him.
I always see his eyes, and he can see mine.
If I am behind him, my voice is a driving support.
“I am going to fall,” he says.
“No you are not. You are fine. You are doing good. I am here. You will not fall.”
And if he becomes unsteady for a moment, my hand is there.
And my guiding voice.
When some Senior Helpers do it, they put their arm around him and a hand under his armpit, their other hand holding his other arm or under his elbow — supporting and driving from the side.
When they do that, my dad takes unsteady half-steps.
With me, the way I do it, he takes full steps.
They drive him.
I guide him — to do it on his own, for as much as he can, for as long as he can.
Yes, in some things I have to do it, not him.
Like drive a car.
Cook a meal.
Carve the turkey at Thanksgiving.
Carry the loads.
But when he can still do a thing, I will not take that away from him.
Not always.
Not like washing his hands.
I have him do that on his own.
He doesn’t do it well — thinks a quick rinse is enough.
I demand he continue.
I’ll even put on the soap.
But he will wash his hands properly, on his own — albeit grudgingly.
You might think that my way takes longer.
It doesn’t. It takes less time.
You might think that the “holding him up” way would be less draining on him — so he’d have more energy for other things.
No. It’s actually more draining — on him and on me.
My way — that activity — gives him more stamina for the day.
It builds stamina, both mentally and physically.
It’s less draining on my physical limits, while keeping my brain alert for the important things, the sudden things, the unexpected things.
When my dad cannot stand up without heavy support, I know something is wrong.
He’s not hydrated enough.
An infection or UTI is progressing.
He has a cold, or a flu.
Or maybe he’s just been lying down too long, or sitting too long.
Such things are my “tells.”
The warning lights.
The signs you learn as a caregiver after many years.
At night, time for bed, time to turn the TV off — that can sometimes take longer doing it “my way.”
Dad can usually stand up from his leather chair and grab the handles of the rolling walker.
Depends on how he was sitting, or slouching, and his feet and leg position.
Other times, I have to direct him:
“Sit back. Sit up straight. Move over to the center of the cushion.
Put your heels back to the chair. Put your legs together.
Put your hands on the armrest — no, not the walker brakes — and stand up and lean forward, and reach for the walker handle.
Good! See, you can do it.”
And when he can’t do it, I put my hands out to help him stand.
I see how he stands, his stability — and from that I can tell if he needs more hydration.
It might surprise you to hear this:
If the PT guy came out that day — the physical therapist — and had him do 15–20 minutes of exercise, my dad always stands up immediately from that chair at bedtime.
Immediately. On his own.
Straight up and hands on the rolling walker handle — and off he goes right to his bedroom.
That extra activity during the mostly inactive day — it gave him the strength and the stamina to stand right up on his own.
And now you know why I do things “my way.”
Some things we have to take away from them.
But we should not take everything away from them.
Do it all for them.
Because once we do, we make it harder on them — and on ourselves — later.
Family caregiving is life-draining because it asks everything of you, over and over, without asking if you have anything left to give.
When we take on too much too soon — take away from them too much too soon — we burden ourselves, emotionally and physically, too much too soon.
This is my manifesto. The aesthetic of my caregiving.
It is not the same for everyone — some have more difficult paths than I do.
Bedbound. Wheelchair-bound.
Those are places my father and I have not reached yet — and maybe never will.
But the core of what I believe — what I have written — is about a mindset, and about a faith.
Activity seeds.
And it builds, flowers, and seeds more.
Inactivity?
That only breeds stagnation and decline.
It creates only poor soil — soil where nothing can be grown, or regrown.
Barren land, the only use, for burial.
My way is how I survive.
And how my father is still surviving.
We are surviving together.
And will — for as long as I am able to till that ground.
Mark W. Van Dyke
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