The Balance Due - A poem of Aging and of Life

The Balance Due

When our days are young, youthfully new,
The flowers bloom quickly, and the trees are always verdant.
The grass is long, untouched—Wildly pristine.
The birds sing above, flying free and flagrant.

The brook bubbles quietly,
The water laughing as it flows.
And the clouds drift serene,
Timelessly slow and comfortably.

Those are endless days—

or so to us they seem.

The air is warm, but not too humid.
The wind is gentle, never pressing.
The ground is soft, a welcoming cradle,
The padding of nature, it beguiles us so.

It cushions us against most realities.

The breathless moments—
We never notice the restriction.
The heart pumping fast—
We do not consider the constriction.
Our muscles tighten, straining forward—

The world shifts beneath us—
We do not feel the weight.

We stubbornly sustain—
and thus, we prolong the illusion.

The rock does scrape, and the skin does bruise,
Yet we ignore those raw moments.
We are lulled by other things:

Soft grass.
Green leaves.
Birds that sing.
The joys of life and living.

We notice the scars, not.
We notice the pains, not.
We ignore completely all the stains.

The price, we are yet due to pay,
Though we owe it, unwittingly.

And we live in those new days for years,
Over a decade of such privilege,
An entitlement for our lifetime it did seem,
Those allowances.

But it is not.

Our days are never fully calculated.
Only the years are counted,
And celebrated.

Later in the day, our step becomes heavier.
Later in the day, nature’s padding becomes less.
Later in the day, bruises and scars become evident.
Later in the day, stains, we have to address.

Later in the day—
We feel each moment,
Each and every impact.

Endless, our days no longer seem—
Yet they still feel longer than they do short.

The ground is harder, and the grass not as soft.
The leaves begin to brown and fall.
The wind is less gentle than before.
And the clouds hurry overhead.

The sun is hot.
The air stifles.
Each breath takes more effort than before.

The sum of the bruises and the scars,
The accumulation of the persistent stains,
The totality of those many pains,
Those tallies come eventually to a count—

And they count against us.

Eyes that are new—
They see everything,
but miss everything too.

Our youth was a loan we never realized must be repaid.

Bittersweet, it seems.
Bittersweet it feels.
The taste is ever that,
But the bitterness never outweighs the sweetness.

We know the debt we owe,
and the payments are not all bitter.

The sweetness of life—the truth of it is,
We receive more than we are owed.
We earned less than we have spent.

We redeem more than we ever will repay.

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

My Family Caregiver Daydreams

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?  

Bed-Apathy & The Reality of Caregiving

Bed-Apathy & The Reality of Caregiving

Bed-Apathy: (Not an official medical term as of now, but a term I created and use.) A state in which an individual, often an elderly or ill person, experiences a profound lack of motivation to move, eat, drink, or engage while remaining in bed. However, once they are encouraged to get up, dressed, and reconnected with their surroundings, the apathy fades, and they regain their awareness, appetite, and engagement with life.

People ask how I manage my father and my caregiving. To me, it’s not just about following routines or assumptions. It’s about adapting, observing, and responding to him as he is right now, not as he was yesterday or might be tomorrow.

Routines are a foundational pillar of daily life with dementia and the elderly, providing structure, stability, and a sense of familiarity. But routines alone are not enough. Dementia and aging aren’t linear. They shift — sometimes drastically. Meeting those changes requires real presence and awareness.

Falling into accepted patterns, thinking every new challenge is just part of the "disease" or brain damage, can cause us to miss critical clues. Small shifts can signal something deeper — pain, distress, emotional withdrawal — things that demand a response beyond just routine care and beyond assumptions.

When bed-apathy sets in, I don’t wait for my father to choose to get up — I make sure he does. Left in bed, he always falls into that apathetic state. He won't feel hunger, thirst, or the urge to engage. He will just sleep, snooze, and withdraw. But once he's up, dressed, and away from the bed, he reconnects. He wants to eat, drink, talk, ask questions, and engage in life again.

This apathetic state can sometimes be a sign of fading or progression, but not in all cases. If someone comes to life once they are up and moving, then they are not at that final stage yet.

Caregiving isn’t just about keeping someone comfortable. It’s about recognizing what keeps them connected to life. And that requires more than just structure — it requires true presence. We must listen to the experts, we must educate ourselves on so many things, but we have to realize that what we learn are typically averages, and not 100% in every case.

There is no such thing as cookie-cutter solutions in dementia, in elderly care, or for you or me either. There are varieties, variations, and sometimes mutations. We must be proactive, not simply reactive.

As a family caregiver, I live this. I don’t simply work for it. It is not a job — it is a life. I don’t work on an assembly line, clocking in and out. I am living this, because the real truth is, this is my life too, not just my loved one's.