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.
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