Like most women my age, I have done my share of caregiving. Two loving parents who lived well into their 80s. Friends who needed help after a serious accident. Others looking for comfort while battling illnesses or emotional distress.
I’ve also been the recipient of caregiving, surviving not one but two open-heart surgeries. My longtime partner, Rebecca, took care of me after last year’s surgery to repair a leaky mitral valve. It was supposed to be “minimally invasive.” But scar tissue from the previous sternotomy in 2001 usurped that option, so my surgeon performed a thoracotomy.
There’s nothing minimal about an 8-inch, C-shaped incision under your right shoulder blade. I experienced a long, sometimes difficult recovery. At times, I’ve since learned, I was a challenging (read: terrible) patient. Stubborn, argumentative, uncooperative and crabby. Not unlike my healthier self, I suppose.
Luckily we got through it, and I’m approaching my one-year heart valve surgery anniversary May 31. Feeling eternally grateful, I have returned to most of my previous activities enjoyed before the blood, sweat and tears of 2018.
It is now time to repay my debt as primary caregiver to Rebecca.
On May 1 she underwent a full knee replacement, was discharged the following day and has since been recuperating at home, with me and Madison, our 11-year-old Havanese, serving as primary caregivers.
That said, I have a confession to make: I’m a horrible caregiver. Truly. I’m not as nice as I think I am. It’s not about me, as I’ve learned repeatedly. I shouldn’t yell. I’ve been advised not to ask the patient but instead let her lead.
Don’t ask, don’t yell. Got it.
Perhaps I’ve lost my caregiving mojo.
Rebecca’s been home a week. A home care nurse visited three times, and the physical therapist daily. We’ve set our phone alarms to remind us both when it’s time for her pills. There’s a lot going on. Luckily it’s a short-term sacrifice that will end well.
Maybe I’ll feel better if I come clean and get this off my chest. Here are my caregiving transgressions:
- Putting my phone on vibrate before going to bed, which led to not responding to Rebecca calling my name 27 times during the night or hearing her 14 texts or this voicemail at 12:48 a.m.: “Hey, I’ve really gotta go to the bathroom.” (What kind of monster am I?)
- Selective hearing, despite actual high-frequency hearing loss in one ear, but the uncanny ability to perform a “perfect 10” Olympic flip from a sound sleep to save an overheating portable ice machine in distress. “Blip blip BADA-blip.” (Utterly shameless.)
- Thinking bad thoughts to avoid dealing with anything Velcro, including the removal of her DVT plastic compression wraps on both legs, along with the aforementioned dying ice machine’s gigantic wrap from her new knee appendage. All the while feeling minimal shame by wishing, hoping and praying that she doesn’t have to pee. Ever. Again. (There aren’t enough novenas on the planet.)
- Savoring potty time – yours and the dog’s – but not necessarily in that order. (Guilty and guilty.)
I’m pretty sure next week will be better. Rebecca has made significant strides and feels stronger every day. It’s a remarkable experience to share.
And that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it? Sharing. Togetherness. Companionship. Love. For better or worse. In sickness and in health.
We are so blessed, at least until she whacks me with her cane.
Till death do us part!
(Copyright 2019)
