Take Care of Yourself

“Don’t forget to take care of yourself,”
they say,
looking pityingly into my dark circle-ringed eyes.
I see their
Concern
Sincerity
Worry.
But I wonder,
Do they think
it was a reminder I needed?
That it was
lack of memory
that has caused me to spend the last
seventeen days
sitting
by his bedside
at the hospital
watching, waiting, worrying
eating cafeteria food, drinking cafeteria coffee
going home only to
sleep and shower
and even then,
worried throughout that I am missing something
and/or
being missed?

“Oh yes!”
(I might say.)
“Self-care!”
(I slap my forehead with sudden remembrance.)
“You know, I had the feeling I was forgetting something!”
(I shake my head, exasperatedly.)
“Silly me.”
(bashful grin)
“Thanks for the reminder. What would I do without you?”

I know that these folks are brimming with
Concern
Sincerity
Worry.
I know that they mean well.
AND
I know that my self-care is
so
far
down
the list
that its letters are
unable to be seen.

I’ve heard about the oxygen masks.
“If you don’t put on your own oxygen mask first, you won’t be able to help your husband with his.”
they say, complete with knowing looks and finger wags.
AND
The store where they sell oxygen masks for caregivers is on the other side of the world.
To get to this store, heaven and earth must first be moved.
For they stand in the path
Between here and there.
To move heaven and earth, one needs
Energy
Stamina
Grit.
Without my oxygen mask, I have none.
Perhaps you see the problem.

Does a teacher leave, mid-spelling test, walking out of the classroom to leave 23 first graders behind, to take a nap?
Does a chef put down her knife in the heart of the dinner rush, leaving to get a massage and a Frappuccino?
Why then am I expected to, commanded to, leave my watch, my position?
It is unthinkable to leave the children or the hungry customers
and yet
I am told to
leave my husband.

“Go to the store where they sell oxygen masks!”
they say.
“You need it!”
they say.

They’re quite convincing
and also
I want them to leave me alone.

And so, I go.
I pull myself away from my post, from my love.
I move heaven and earth to get to the store.
I buy a mask with a gift card someone has pushed into my hand.
I put the mask on
and
I inhale.

The air feels amazing! Life-giving! Fresh! I realize that I haven’t actually fully inhaled or exhaled in weeks! And now it’s all I want to do! I want to breathe this fresh, clean, hospital-free air…the hospital where my husband is lying…the husband who has no choice but to be there…who cannot decide to “take a break,”…for whom the oxygen mask store is too far for him to travel.

I run.
Back to the hospital.
I take my mask with me.
After all, I’ve already paid for it
and
I am hoping to hold onto its effects even as I cross back over
heaven and earth.

But by the time I reach the hospital
I realize that I have lost the mask
along the way.
Somewhere between the store and this hospital room,
I dropped it.
I glance behind me, but it is nowhere to be seen.

Which makes me wonder as I take my familiar place once again at the bedside:
Did that happen?
Did I actually leave?
But then I see the doctors’ notes from visits I missed,
Catching me up on test results, procedures scheduled, plans made.
I see the look of relief on my beloved’s face,
As if he’s been holding his breath the entire time I was gone,
worried I wouldn’t return.
I feel the extra fatigue from the trip I’ve just endured
and I realize
it happened.
I “took care of myself.”
And I wonder,
Why didn’t that work for me?
Why don’t I feel so much better now?

Oh, that’s right.
It’s not part of the job description.

Click to share on:

15 Responses

  1. I hear you. Sometimes it helps if you can tell people what you want/need for the alleged "self care"…that will be the best you can do in the situation. Hugs….

    1. Bonnie I don’t mind one bit. I’m glad my words had the power to move you. Please feel free to share if you’d like. You may also want to check out some of the other poems (though those may make you cry too.)

  2. I know what you are saying, both my parents have Alzheimer’s, my mom is in a Nursing Home with advanced Alzheimer’s… I care for my dad with help
    of my husband…it’s going on 4 years with my dad and before him, we delt with my mom many years before she was put in a Nursing Home. She could no longer be cared for safely at home…I get told all the time I should take care of myself…I know what I need to do but there is absolutely no energy left after caring for my dad all day, everyday…I sleep for self preservation and to shut life out, that’s as good as it gets…
    Cindy

    1. Cindy, it’s so hard, isn’t it? I think people want us to head to the spa or a retreat, but that’s very rarely realistic. Check out the three essays I wrote called "It’s the little things" as those are the tiny, but helpful ways I’ve found to make it through the day. Sending you BIG LOVE and a good night’s sleep.

  3. Wow, my husband is 2 months post head/neck cancer treatment and this poem resonates with me. So much so it’s scary. Thank you to putting a voice to where I couldn’t find the words.

  4. I remember a day in 2018, when I, after being at the hospital for two and a half days, not leaving my husband’s room at all in that time, was convinced to leave. He convinced me, while his brother and mother were there, to leave and travel the hour back home to take care of myself. To shower, to eat something. I probably wouldn’t have gone, except that he was asking me for things he didn’t have, like the device he listened to music on, and headphones, things he didn’t know to bring because he wasn’t supposed to be admitted that day. And of course I didn’t have anything I needed because I didn’t know he was going to be admitted that day either. So I left because I had a mission to get his go-bag, I had a request for a certain drink. It felt justified. He seemed okay. And not quite three hours after I’d left him, maybe two hours after his family had left him, while I was doing all the little chores that needed doing, paying bills as quickly as I could, I got a strange text from a friend of his, asking if he was okay. I didn’t make too much of it at first, but a short while after, I started to get strange rapid-fire texts from my husband. "Word salad", they call it. Fully articulated and punctuated sentences… that didn’t make any sense. I called him and he answered and his speech was pressured and also didn’t make any sense. "Listen. There is almost at this time something, listen. You are the key." he said. "It’s almost time, it’s almost past." "Listen." I asked him questions he didn’t answer. He couldn’t say any different words. He just kept rearranging those same words. It was terrifying. He was 37. He had a fever and an infection they couldn’t find the source of. But this wasn’t just a fever talking. I thought he was having a stroke. I hadn’t yet gotten to the part where I was able to take a shower, was standing there in my underwear, freaking out, thinking, "I left and I missed something important. He’s going to die and I’m an hour away. Where are my pants?" And when I found them, I almost killed myself, frantically trying to put both legs into them at the same time, I fell over, hit my head on the dresser, got back up, disoriented, and ran out the door, crying, and calling his brother to tell him to call the hospital and report what I was telling him, calling my husband to try to keep him on the phone, in case that might keep him calmer and out of harm’s way. I think I probably magically folded time that day to shorten the drive. I’m not sure I ever buttoned my pants. I didn’t shower for another seven days as we went through an insane journey of trying to get him through sepsis and some kind of neuroleptic reaction to a medication they’d given him. And that’s really the thing about care giving. That’s the nightmare, right there. That the moment you let your guard down is when you will have really needed to be on point. That you’ll be caught with your pants down when you should be there, noticing a change, monitoring what your person is being given, seeing what everyone else can’t. My person went through an unnecessary lumbar puncture because I wasn’t there when someone needed to be noticing a change in his cognition and behavior. Sometimes, taking care of yourself really is just… Not relaxing…staying in that zone of preparedness. So you don’t kill yourself trying to catch up, suddenly. I learned that day that it actually doesn’t matter if I shower, and someone else can go get things, and I know how unhealthy that sounds, but that’s also the thing about care giving. In order to do it, you often have to make the choice to be unhealthy, to be unwell WITH your person. It’s not always a question of remembering to put your oxygen mask on first. It’s whether you choose to be on the plane at all– where you might be able to do something– or to escape to the ground where you can’t do anything.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *