Thoughts From the Deep End of the Pool: After the Caregiving Ends

 

I don’t look to the end. I don’t wait for the end of my caregiving.
I’ve prepared myself to survive it — because it’s not an addiction, but it can feel like one.
If you haven’t prepared yourself, it can hit hard. The withdrawals.

There’s a very thin line between “I can’t wait for this to be over” and “What do I do with myself now?”
When the structured days and routines come to an end, the life you had feels empty.
The emotions you thought you’d immunized yourself to — or buried — come out in full force.
You feel those years, compressed and heavy. Suddenly there. Suddenly evident.

We couldn’t wait to get our life back — but the life we want back is gone.
We’re no longer the same person.
We can’t go back.
We have to carve out a new life. A new existence.
Become a new version of ourselves.

---

What will I do, alone with myself?
My daily life will be free to be just me.
You’d think I’d be happy about that.
I am. And I’m not.

My sense of purpose, of pride — it won’t be there anymore.
I can’t go back to who I once was.
The times were different then. The world was different.
My world was different.
Similar, perhaps. But changed.

It’s like being forced to retire from a job you loved. Or liked. Or didn’t like — but needed.
You get the gold watch. The congratulations. The sympathies.
But you’re still out of a job.

You can now take time for yourself. Sit. Relax. Feed the pigeons.
But feeding the pigeons is caregiving too.

---

You become alone with yourself again.
That can be harder than we realize.

You wake up and have nothing to do.
No one coming over to get you moving.
No nurses. No aides.
The bed doesn’t need to be made.
The sink doesn’t need to be emptied.
The bathroom doesn’t need to be that clean.

You have time.
There’s no rush.
No responsibilities.
Not to anyone but yourself.

---

When you’re a caregiver, there’s structure.
Adventure too.
Excitement — even the kind you didn’t want.
The daily unexpecteds.
It’s the job. The life.

And when it’s over — with relief or disappointment — it all comes down to:
What now?

“I want my life back,” some say.
“I want a life,” others say.

But we do have a life.
It’s caregiving.
A job we might not have wanted. Might not have liked.
But we’ll mourn it when it’s gone.

Because once it’s gone, we have to make a new life.
We can’t go back.
We’ll never be the same.
Nothing will be the same.

We are now… experienced.

---

When my father passes, I will lose the last of my parents.
The closest relative to me.
I will lose a love. A responsibility.
The last of my original family.

The rooms will feel too quiet.
There will be no one there for me to walk in and see.
No look to give. No look returned.

Sometimes, that’s enough for me.
No words. Just knowing someone else is there.
Alive.
And I’m not alone with myself.

Strange how that is.
But for me, it’s true.

Not alone — because someone else is here, in another room.
They need me.
And I need them.

Strangely human.
Or maybe just natural for all living things who think and feel.

---

My life will change when my father is gone.
Everything will change.
How I live. Where I live.
Who I live with — or not.

Finances will change.
Life will be harder.
Not unlivable.
Just a struggle.

I’m older now.
So it will be even more so.

---

Making meals for one when the serving size is for two.
Even that will remind me.
I don’t need to buy family-sized anymore.
That will weigh on me too.

Strange how that is.

---

I plan ahead for little things.
I can’t plan for everything.
No way to do that.

I do things for me — just to make them habit.
Something that will sustain me when I’m no longer in charge.
No longer… employed.

I make routines outside of caregiving.
Chores that aren’t about my loved one.
Not directly.

I clean the bathroom.
Not for the visitors.
Not for the nurses.
They won’t be coming anymore.

I do it for me.
Because I will still be a caregiver.
I will still have that responsibility.

I will be the caregiver for myself.

And if I let things slide —
I will have become a bad caregiver.

And that is something no one can ever accuse me of.
Not even myself.

---

I will never say, “I used to be a caregiver.”
Once you are one, you always are one.
Even if it’s just for yourself.
Alone.

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Sleepless in My Own Skin – A Poem of Depression

Sleepless in My Own Skin
Written for those who know.

My day ends.
My night begins.
My sweat rolls out, slowly.
Anxiety holds dominion.
Depression, dark, has taken control.
Shadows, behind the eyes,
Movement, fast yet slow,
Forlorn thoughts, moving around.
Always unexpectedly.
Sleeplessness, lingering, painfully.
Tears, leaking from eyes that are too dry,
Too dry from the imprisoning emotional suppressions.
Loneliness. No one sees or hears what's deeply inside.
Not their fault. I never let them in that far.
I stare up at the ceiling, trying to find someone’s gaze — God’s, or maybe an angel’s.
Some divinity that sees me — or one I can blame,
Yet I am embarrassed for thinking this way.
I look away, a little ashamed. 

Lonely for so many reasons,
unnecessarily it always appears to me.

---

Such life is eremitic. Unchosen choices.
Staring at the television screen, seeing but not,
Nothing capturing interest or attention.
Open the kitchen cabinets,
Not hungry, but yearning.
Open the refrigerator door,
The same. Wanting nothing there,
But hungry for everything,
And yet, nothing is there.

---

The air feels heavy. Oppressive.
Not hot or cold, or comfortable.
Not comfortable in my own skin,
Never desiring endless solitude,
But seeking it out anyway.
This feels to be true to me, sometimes.
Tonight, is that sometimes.

---

The burdens feel heavy.
Impossible to rank their weight.
They converge, compressing.
Sweat leaks out, slowly.
Even when naked, alone,
On a cold bedroom floor,
Sockless—because the socks felt too heavy.
Tonight, for some reason, they do.

---

The yearnings come and go.
The sadnesses, they stay.
So, not alone.
Not alone,
but alone,
with those.
Those miseries.

Other people do know.
They will see themselves in this,
And in me, perspectively.
Even, if we are all still alone,
As a third party.

---

Close the eyes.
The clock ticks.
Sleep evades,
Get up yet again,
To check the pantry,
To turn on the TV,
And stare at nothing interesting.
Pitiful, you call yourself.
Alone with the miseries,
Hungry, but full.
Fulfilled, in an unsatisfying way.

---

You smile, sadly to your self,
And shake your head, to yourself,
And go back to bed to lie awake,
And wait for the next rising of the day,
When you put on your public face and pretend,
Pretend you are fine,
And normal, well rested, in your own skin.

---

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Things That Wear Caregivers Down: Repetitives

 

Of the many things that wear on us as family caregivers, the “repetitives” are some of the worst. The same questions — the same phrases — the same conversations. They wear you down and wear you out. And some of them — let’s be honest — grate harder than others.

There’s a lot to unpack in the “repetitives” box. Different sizes, variations, harmonies. One thing that helped me early on was scripting. I started treating those moments like a stage play. I had lines — I rehearsed them — I performed them. Sometimes I imagined it as a game. Sometimes a musical. If you can sing, great — it flows. If you can’t sing, sing anyway. It might annoy them enough to stop repeating the same thing. Anyone who’s heard a self-declared karaoke champion knows exactly what I mean.

Still, some phrases land harder. For me, it’s “Don’t hurt me.” My dad’s been saying that for over a year now. It throws me off script every time. I’ve said all the usual things:
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I’m helping you.”
“Stop saying that!”
Even tried, “You know I’m not trying to hurt you, right?”

But it kept coming. Especially during transfers — like swinging his legs off the bed. That’s when it hits hardest. I’d brace myself, say, “Don’t say it. Don’t say it.” But he’d say it anyway. He probably didn’t even know what I meant.

So I flipped the script. Now when he says, “Don’t hurt me,” I say, “Hey — don’t hurt me.” Or, “Yeah, you’re hurting me. You need to trim your nails. And stop punching me.” Sometimes he laughs. Sometimes he stares. But it breaks the loop.

Explaining what you’re doing and why can help. Not always. Especially not when cleaning the bits and pieces. Three seconds in and he’s done. “Clean enough,” he says. You’re not going to convince him otherwise. You just do it and move on.

What I’ve noticed — when it’s over, he never says, “You hurt me.” Just “You’re hurting me” in the moment. That difference says a lot about brain damage. And it says a lot about how the repetitives can weigh on us if we let them.

I used to say I’m an everyday caregiver. But that’s not accurate. I’m a 24/7 caregiver. Even that doesn’t cover it. We’re always on call — always alert — always thinking — even in our dreams. It’s an accumulative condition. A constant drain. Some compare it to war. I agree. And yes, caregiver PTSD is real. George Carlin once said “Shell Shock” was the better term — more exact, more visceral. I think that applies to us too.

We carry many weights — seen and unseen. We tread caregiving waters without realizing how the unseen weight can drag us under. We have to learn how to stay afloat longer. Shed the perceptions and passive advice from those who’ve never lived this life. We live it — we breathe it — we sleep with it. They don’t.

Even the best-paid caregivers haven’t lived it the way we do. And each of us is different. Different capacities — different breaking points — different thresholds. Not all advice fits. But sometimes there’s a grain — a seed — something that helps us adapt. Even when one-size-fits-all doesn’t fit, it might still cover the exposed parts. Some of us have larger parts than others. Unfair, yes. But it’s how we’re built.

I sing in the shower. I’m hearing impaired. Can’t carry a note. Never could. My sisters could sing. I couldn’t. Kind of unfair. But I still sing. Loudly. Badly. I mimic Ethel Merman. “There’s no business like show business.” Just that line. Sung by a large, manly man of the heterosexual persuasion. It makes me smile. Makes me laugh. Sometimes it makes the day easier.

That’s caregiving. You adapt — you script — you sing — you flip the lines. You find ways to keep going — even when the repetitives keep coming.

The Summer of My Mind - A Poem of Age and Memory

The Summer of My Mind

I limped my way down to the lakeside,
Age-weary,
Slow.
The path familiar,
But not the same.
The water waited,
As if it knew me from the times before.

I looked out onto the water,
The lake smooth, yet calmly rippling,
And in my eyes, the vision came—
Memories of summers long past and gone.
Young voices filling the air,
Happy sounds, unrestrained.
The running jumps and slipping, too.
The soft crying that lasted not long at all,
Folded into laughter, stitched with sun,
The sunburns, long forgotten.
Bare feet on dock wood,
Wet hair clinging to cheeks,
The hush before a cannonball—
Then the splash, the echo, the ripple.

I stood still,
Not wishing to disturb the memory,
But to let it return—
Like breath held in reverence.

The lake did not speak,
But it remembered.
And I,
Held in its silence,
Let the moment stay.

How bittersweet is such memory—
The ache for a time that can never again be.
For too many years have passed,
Between now and that once upon a time.

The shoreline has shifted,
The dock replaced,
The voices grown into other lives.

Yet the water still holds it—
The echo, the splash,
The soft cry swallowed by summer.
I do not chase it.
I let it return.
I let it ache.

And in that ache,
I find the shape of who I was—
Not lost,
But still present in the ripple.

And yes, I mourn it,
From time to time.
I try not to, but that power is not mine.
That water—it still calls to me,
So very distantly.
For the water now is not the same,
Not the same as back then.
Nothing is the same,
Not even my memory.
There were other realities I have chosen to forget.

The memory I hold—the one most dear,
The one that can bring to these old eyes the tears—
Is of a moment,
Not of a day,
Or even a year.
A moment that filled a lifetime of memories,
And the tears that come to my eyes
Is the water from that lake back then.
And it lives within me.
I took it with me,
And it wants to be again,
In the lake, with me,
And laughing happily,
With the ripples of my memory.

It would laugh,
Not as it did,
But as I remember.

And I—
Again who I once was,
Not who I later became,
In that moment.

The lake does not mourn.
It reflects.
It receives.
It holds what I cannot—
The tears I cannot.

And so I turn,
Almost grudgingly,
Begin the slow walk away, again.
Not reclaimed,
But remembered.
That flawless summer,
Of my mind.

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Embroidery of Self - A Poem of Identity

 

Embroidery of Self

I dreamed a dream,
And then I woke,
And lived the day
Before I spoke.

No other heard what I had to say,
For I said it to myself alone.
That dream had surfaced a truth—
A seed, a vow, a quiet tone.

I held it fast, I did not share,
For some dreams are not meant to be known.
They’re worn like coats in colder air,
To shield the self, the self alone.

Sewn by myself with careful hand,
Each thread a truth I dared to see.
A vow not made to meet demand,
But stitched into identity.

Words embroidered in the soul,
Or core, or self-imagined frame—
A spell that makes the fractured whole,
A prayer that doesn’t seek acclaim.

Hidden from the eyes of others,
Seen by me, and me alone.
A whispered rite, unlike the others,
A quiet hymn, a private tone.

I say the words as if to atone
For what I’d once believed before—
Before I felt that thread was sewn,
And wore that coat forevermore.

And if I choose to speak of it,
Not the dream, but the words that came,
When I feel fully adorned, the coat fully worn,
I’ll share the words the dream had writ—
The ones that left me newly formed:
“Be who you are—true to yourself, in everything.”


Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

Elder Neglect Is Not a Grey Area

 

I read a post in a dementia family caregiver support group, and I just can't not say what I have to say. Others might be in similar situations, or variances of it, and it is to them that I am writing my thoughts on this matter. In this type of situation there are no grey areas — there is only black and white. There are no mitigating factors. And, as I tend to be, I will say it very directly.

The original poster described a father with vascular dementia, diabetes, and cognitive decline. His wife — who endured decades of abuse — refuses to care for him, works long hours to avoid being home, and won’t allow him to be placed in a facility. Instead, she moved her own relatives — her brother and his wife — into the house to care for him, despite the fact that he and they have always hated each other. The uncle’s adult daughter also lives in the house, but she is described as having the mentality of a teenager and doesn’t appear to contribute to the caregiving. The sister holds POA but does not live in the home, and she defers to the mother. The poster feels helpless, visits only when the others aren’t around, and is heartbroken by the neglect. And notably, the poster suggests that the family is financially well off — able to afford 24/7 care, but choosing not to.

Now, here’s what I see:

This is not just a sad situation. It’s criminal neglect — wrapped in emotional choreography and inheritance positioning. The father, whatever his past, is now vulnerable. And the people around him — who have the legal and financial means to intervene — are choosing not to.

I want to say something about abuse. It’s a catch-all term these days, and while it can be valid, it can also flatten decades of complexity. The father in this story may have been a monster. Or perhaps he was a man of his times — rigid, controlling, emotionally absent, physically punitive, shaped by norms that no longer hold. But he is not a convicted criminal. He is not in prison. Some in this might feel he should have been, but his punishment is not up to them to decide on their own. That’s not how justice works. And what’s happening to him now — this abandonment, this neglect, this strategic humiliation — is criminal. Not metaphorically. Legally.

The mother’s refusal to act is emotionally legible. She endured abuse. She wants separation and distance. But her refusal to leave the house, paired with her control over spending, suggests the money is co-mingled. She may see it as reparations. She may be preserving her own financial future. But she’s also using proximity as punishment — installing hated relatives as caregivers. That’s not just an unfortunate arrangement. That’s strategic degradation.

The sister, holding POA or DPOA, has a fiduciary duty to act in the father’s best interest. Her deference to the mother is not just passivity — it’s a breach. If the POA is durable and active, she could intervene. She chooses not to. That silence is complicity. It is elder abuse.

And then there’s the CNA. A certified nursing assistant is mentioned as being involved. That means a licensed professional is witnessing this neglect. And if they are not reporting it, they are violating their own legal and ethical obligations. Mandated reporting isn’t optional — it’s a duty.

And the insulin situation is telling. He is not refusing injections — he is self-administering. And how is someone with dementia and memory issues allowed to control that? He isn’t being supervised. The CNA isn’t administering. The doctor and sister aren’t intervening. Everyone is capitulating. That’s not just unfortunate. That’s another level of neglect. He is not being medically managed. His diabetes is being left to chance, emotion, and avoidance. Him being found alone, foaming at the mouth, rushed to the hospital — says it all. He cannot be allowed to control this.

The poster feels bad. They visit when it’s safe. They avoid conflict. But feeling isn’t doing. And while their grief is real, their restraint may be shaped by emotional allegiance — or fear of alienating the mother, who controls the purse and the future.

And that’s the axis everything spins around: mother’s money. Not just as currency, but as control, legacy, and leverage. Everyone is performing. The mother performs detachment. The sister performs helplessness. The uncle and aunt perform unskilled care — care that isn’t care at all. It’s ancillary. It’s not caregiving. The poster performs heartbreak. But beneath it all is a quiet war over who gets what, when, and how — and everyone seems to be benefiting in some way, except the father, the one that needs to be cared for.

If you’re in a similar situation, ask yourself:

• Who holds legal authority — and are they using it?
• Who controls the money — and how is that shaping silence?
• Who is being punished — and who is benefiting?
• Who is professionally obligated to report — and are they?
• And most of all: what are you doing, not just feeling?

Because eldercare and dementia care isn’t just about compassion. It’s about clarity, accountability, and the courage to act. The responsibility to act.

And yes, the responsibility to report — to the hospital, to social workers, to the CNA and her employers, to Adult Protective Services. To the police, too, if need be.

And if the person at the center of it all is still expressing distress, still asking to leave, still recognizing neglect — even if he’s confused or meek — that may mean he still has legal capacity. He may be able to revoke his POA, hire a lawyer, or request a social worker. But he likely can’t do it alone. He may feel trapped. He may need someone to step in — not just emotionally, but legally.

Feeling bad is not enough. If you see it and do nothing, you are complicit. You are enabling. You forfeit the right to call it empathy.

This is my opinion, and it is a considered opinion — backed by legality, and grounded in my sense of morality. If someone doesn’t want to care for another, they should leave it to those who do, or can, or hire the right people to do it. If they do not want to, others must intercede. It is not easy, I know. Relationships are fractured or destroyed over this kind of thing. It all comes down to who you really are inside.

I know who I am.

Resonance in the Silent Air – A Human Poem of Reflection

---

This is not a poem of answers.
It is a reflection of solitude, companionship, and the quiet motivations that shape us.
There is no single rule for living.
But there is resonance — in the silent air.

Resonance in the Silent Air

Alone.

Dark nights evolved into overcast days,
And then back again, and again.
The repetition of the endless twenty-four,
Where each day is the same as the one before,
And the one after.

Alone.

Bereft of affection, heart forlorn.
Unending nights and days that must be borne,
Endured and survived, miserably at times,
Across this existence we call life.
We exist, we endeavor, we accomplish.
But are not noticeably living,
Solitary and unredeemed in our various... motivations.

Alone in a crowded room,
There is no connection there.
We feel that distance, that disconnection,
Keen and sharp as a scalpel—
The scalpel that cut us from our origin.

Alone we feel the future-past.
Alone we drift apart.
Alone we shall ever be—
For each beating of our heart
Or so, it seems will be,
Felt so very deeply.
Imagined, frequently.

Must we yield to this singular fate—
Or reach out for another to complete us?

Together

Together we see, succinctly.
Together we feel, emotively.
Together we live and are alive.
Together we are not alone.
For what is a day without a night,
And a life that is not conjoined?
Together, intermingled.

Yet—
What of a life absent of the congress of the flesh?
This, we learn from others,
And also from ourselves,
In whispers both soft and loud, even in denial:
You must forever practice it and be defined by it.

Passion and lust are but moments.
Never forever. Swiftly indulged.
They exist only in those instances—
And then, perhaps, only in memory,
Later to be remembered and counted,
And costed and never refunded.
You cannot pay in advanced.
The value of it... expires.

Not every body seeks such sensuality.
Some require it always.
For some, it is never.
For others, it is ever.
And for many, it fades—
Losing both its appeal
And its genetic imperative.

Companionship is as deep as any true love,
And more essential than any hedonistic desire.
For some, the interludes are essential—
But for most, from beginning or near the end,
It holds no eternal appeal,
If ever it was indeed a true requiem,
Or simply a provision of... obligation.

Not every human is drawn to the romance of the flesh.
But affection—we all require.
It is solace.
Solace for a lonely heart.
All hearts are lonely,
Even if that claim is disavowed.

Alone and Together

We seek the companions,
At the very least a solitary one.
To connect ourselves,
To concern ourselves,
To devote ourselves,
In very simple ways.

Simple, yes, but complex in depth.
Deeper than the deepest well.
Deeper than we will admit or will ever tell.
Deeper than even we can see clearly.
Resonance is often not valued mutually.

Those of beloved fur can fill the emptiness.

We seek the affection of the fur,
Or the warmth of another hand,
Or the close presence—in word or proximity.
We require connection, even if we reject the notion of it.
We can dance the dance with ourselves,
But we do not dance to silent air.
The resonance isn't there.

We need a contributory,
One to make the sounds we dance to,
Or for us to make the sounds for them.
Resonance... in our silent air.

When we seek the one,
we might actually be seeking the many,
the many resonances to fill our... vacancies.
There is no singular accepted rule for living.
If there was, it is in itself alone,
and only one.

Copyright October 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved