It’s been a hairy week.
The kind of week where plans change, doctors and waiting rooms become part of the schedule, and you find yourself thinking, Well… this wasn’t on my calendar.
But somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized I’ve learned a few things.
First: shower. 😂
Seriously. If you’re a caregiver, just shower and get dressed before you leave the house. Because “we’re just going to get this checked out” can quickly become hours at urgent care, a doctor’s office, or the ER.
A shower won’t fix the situation, but at least you’ll feel comfortable in your own skin while you wait.
Second: pray.
Pray when you hear the news.
Pray on the drive there.
Pray while you’re waiting.
Pray with the person you love.
Sometimes I have beautiful words. Other times it’s simply, “God, please help me with whatever comes next.”
That counts too.
Third: remember that you ARE doing it.
Sometimes we get so caught up wondering, How am I going to handle all of this?
Meanwhile… we’re handling it.
Maybe not perfectly. Maybe with messy hair, cold coffee and a puppy waiting impatiently in the car. But we’re doing it.
And somewhere in all of this, I’m also learning that I still have to live my life.
Today, I’m going to lunch with a friend.
I’m going to walk the dog.
I might pull some weeds and smell the flowers.
I’m going to appreciate that my body works and carries me through these crazy days.
And I’m even going to be grateful for the construction mess around my house because, yes, it’s noisy and chaotic, but it also means we’re fortunate enough to be creating a beautiful new sunroom.
Sometimes gratitude shows up wearing work boots. 🌿
A Few Helpful Reminders
• Eat and drink the water. We caregivers can keep everyone else fed, hydrated and cared for while somehow surviving on coffee and three almonds.
• Don’t borrow tomorrow’s problems. Take care of what is actually in front of you today.
• Let good enough be good enough. Some days, everyone getting safely to bedtime is an accomplishment.
• Keep little pieces of your life. Lunch with a friend. A walk. Gardening. Sitting quietly with your coffee. These aren’t extras. They help keep you connected to yourself.
• Laugh when you can. Sometimes you laugh. Sometimes you cry. Occasionally you do both within five minutes. Welcome to caregiving.
• Notice what is still good. Even during a hard week, there are little gifts everywhere if we remember to look for them.
And maybe that’s my biggest lesson this week:
Taking care of myself isn’t something I do after I’m finished caregiving.
Taking care of myself is part of caregiving.
So today, I’m going to lunch.
The appointments, responsibilities, construction dust and weeds will still be there when I get back.
But for a little while, I’m going to sit with a friend, breathe, laugh and simply be.
And thank God for the good that is still growing right alongside the hard. 🌸
aging parents
The Gift of the Conversations We Have While We Can
Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.
She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.
My answer surprised me a little.
“I’m okay.”
Not because I want him to die. I don’t.
Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.
I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.
We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.
And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.
I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.
But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.
My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.
And that, in itself, is a gift.
There is another side to this realization for me.
My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.
But dementia has changed that.
The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.
And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.
He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.
And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.
Have the conversations.
Don’t assume there will always be more time.
Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.
Tell someone what they mean to you.
Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.
Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.
As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.
And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.
While you still can.
A few things to consider
– What conversation have you been putting off?
– Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
– Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
– Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
– And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?
We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.
But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.
Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.
It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.The Gift of the Conversations We Have While We Can
Yesterday, a good friend reminded me of something I sometimes forget.
She asked me how I was feeling about my dad, his cancer, and the fact that he is going through chemotherapy to keep it at bay.
My answer surprised me a little.
“I’m okay.”
Not because I want him to die. I don’t.
Not because I want him to experience pain or struggle. I certainly don’t.
I’m okay because my dad and I have talked.
We don’t keep things from each other. We’ve had the hard conversations. We’ve talked about what matters to him, what he wants, and what he doesn’t want. I know his wishes.
And there is an incredible kind of peace that comes from that.
I’m still his little girl. I’m sure there are times he puts on a brave face for me, and maybe even fights a little harder because I’m watching.
But underneath all of that is something I’m incredibly grateful for: we have talked honestly while we still can.
My dad has loved me to the best of his ability. He has taught me lessons through both the good and the difficult parts of life. He communicates the best way he knows how.
And that, in itself, is a gift.
There is another side to this realization for me.
My mom and I had those conversations too. We talked about life. We talked about difficult things. We talked deeply.
But dementia has changed that.
The conversations I once had with my mom, the ones where we could explore an idea, work through something difficult, or simply connect heart-to-heart, aren’t available in the same way anymore.
And that has made my relationship with my dad feel even more precious.
He has become, in some ways, my saving grace. I can still talk to him in a way I can no longer talk to my mom.
And maybe that’s the lesson I’m being reminded of.
Have the conversations.
Don’t assume there will always be more time.
Ask the questions you’ve been avoiding.
Tell someone what they mean to you.
Talk about what matters. Talk about wishes. Talk about fears. Talk about the things that feel uncomfortable.
Because someday, one of those conversations may become a gift you carry with you.
As a coach, I often talk about being intentional with our lives. Sometimes that means setting boundaries or taking care of our bodies. Sometimes it means slowing down enough to actually listen to what our hearts are telling us.
And sometimes, it simply means picking up the phone and having the conversation.
While you still can.
A few things to consider
- What conversation have you been putting off?
- Is there something you need to ask someone while they are still able to answer?
- Is there something you need to say that you’ve assumed you will have time to say later?
- Do the people closest to you actually know what matters most to you?
- And if circumstances changed tomorrow, would you have peace knowing you had said what needed to be said?
We can’t control how much time we have with the people we love.
But we can be intentional about how we use the time we have.
Sometimes the greatest gift isn’t knowing what the future holds.
It’s knowing that you’ve had the conversations that matter.
Sometimes Caregiving Means Stepping Back, Honoring Their Wishes
Loving aging parents can be complicated.
I know this in two very different ways.
My mom lives with me and has Alzheimer’s. Her care often requires me to step in, anticipate, organize, and help her navigate each day.
Then there is my dad.
He is facing his own health challenges, but he is mentally capable, knows what he wants, and has been clear about how he wants to approach his care.
He doesn’t want to be babied.
He doesn’t want to be catered to.
Sometimes he just wants to be left alone.
That can be hard for a daughter.
My instinct is to help, reassure, and make things easier. But I’m learning that my dad doesn’t need me to take over. He needs me to respect his ability to make his own choices.
Sometimes caregiving means stepping back.
It means honoring their wishes, even when we would choose differently. It means allowing them to be scared, frustrated, stubborn, or set in their ways without immediately trying to fix it.
And it means giving ourselves permission to feel what comes with loving an aging parent.
I can respect my dad’s choices and still be scared.
I can be patient and still become frustrated.
I can be grateful for our honest conversations and still wish for more time.
Those feelings don’t make me a bad daughter. They make me human.
With Mom, caregiving is woven into my everyday life. I can’t simply step away from it. So I’m learning to remind myself that my life still exists within the caregiving.
I can still laugh. Exercise. Spend time with my husband. Take the dog for a walk. Sit by the lake. Make plans. Have moments that belong just to me.
I don’t have to wait for caregiving to end before I allow myself to live.
Helpful Reminders
- Ask before helping: “Do you want help, or do you just want me to listen?”
- Respect capable adults: Their choices don’t have to be our choices.
- Separate their anxiety from ours: We can support them without carrying every fear.
- Allow the feelings: Love, frustration, grief, gratitude, and fear can coexist.
- Stay connected to yourself: Ask, “What do I need today that has nothing to do with caregiving?”
We can’t control the aging process or make every decision for the people we love.
But we can choose how we show up.
Sometimes we step in.
Sometimes we step back.
And sometimes the reminder we need most is:
“I’m here for you. And I’m here for me, too.”
