Two free hours

There is a moment in a caregiver's journey when hiring help in the home is essential to well-being—physically, mentally, emotionally, and even spiritually. That time arrived for me.

As I wrote in an earlier Field Note: A caring rant, 'getting help' is never as simple or as straight a trajectory as people, who've never cared long-term for a beloved other, imagine. This is especially so when it comes to allowing someone to help with caregiving itself.

Those at end-of-life who've lost so much, including control, deserve to have their wishes honored as much as possible. I previously wrote, "Help is not always what they, or you, want, until clearly there is no other way forward."

Yes, some caregivers need help immediately—we're different individuals in diverse situations. The threshold for what any individual can bear is unique and critical to acknowledge.

There's also a subset of us who can soldier on mostly solo, surprisingly well and long. We just need the occasional person to help clean up the yard after a major storm has strewn tree debris everywhere or fixing the shed door after a bear has ripped it open. We're grateful for the neighbor who occasionally offers a little pot of soup or picks up tacos when they swing by the taco truck in town.

In recent weeks, despite my husband deeply resisting any help within our home, I knew he'd reached that place I previously defined, where his "sense of agency is out of step with reality." I also accepted that I was at that point of "no other way forward." Without some help, some respite to be away for awhile without the weight of responsibility and worry, I risked damaging my health and going a bit bonkers.

The benefits of working with a local hospice are many. One immense gift to me has been a certain kinetic and inventive social worker, K. She helped me put my specific, behind-closed-doors reality in perspective. Then she worked through a list of vetted, caring home support aides who might help several hours a week, and connected me with a perfect-fit, kind human being.

We began with two trial visits with D. coming into our home, while I hovered, writing (albeit distractedly), behind the cracked door of my study. She made my husband the breakfast of his choice as well as something edible for us to enjoy later, then cleaned up after it all (yay, some tending off of my plate).

I listened, without eavesdropping, to the voices of D. and my husband, a kind of soft, slow bubbling, as if a creek, flowing through the living room.

Most importantly, I was monitoring for what I needed most, and was happy and relieved to receive—a new caring presence in our home.

Then, a few days ago, I had my first respite adventure.

For two luscious, untethered hours, I walked a favorite beach.

Walked and walked and walked. That's it. Walked. Letting my animal body loose to play while my wild mind kicked back, calm for awhile.

My feet bare, with binoculars around my neck, I stepped through sand and whirling surf. Picked up a few sand dollars spit up from the Pacific. Smiled at a hopeful gull who kept turning over a crab carapace, pink and hollow, looking for a snack. Enjoyed one brief sit on a washed up log for tea, almonds, and cherries. Savored watching two ravens hovering back and forth on fierce thermals (their version of a moonwalk), their feathers billowing in a heady wind, as clouds gave way to open sky and sun.

Joy.

Resilience is always best fed with joy.

Notes from my walk

Ah, the rarely seen Pacific wood frog. Don’t look too closely or he’ll shapeshift into driftwood.

Dry sand, warm. Wet sand, cool. Pacific, cold.
Such simple sensations I’ve missed.

Forget how a bill becomes law. I think I’m witnessing how a lost tree becomes a white bird, one feather at a time.

Nearby the Snowy Plovers are watching.

Look! Not only a lovely walk—I found 8 dollars on the beach.

Drawing a heart with initials in the crusty packed sand between wet surf’s edge and the sun-warmed powdery beach, I will text it to my husband.

Using a broken, purple mussel shell, I wonder, Who am I doing this for, him or me?

Then I remember how life is far less binary than we make it.

Then I remember how we’re teaching each other to believe that love never dies.

Is this the sun, burrowing into wet sand, or a secret portal? I’m pulled downward before my eyes think, No, upward.

If this is the light at the end of life, then truly only a shimmery, bluish mystery awaits.

Who knew death doesn’t mean end or darkness or fear, but simply a new dimension of curiosity? I’m in for that … just not yet, please.