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
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