MENTAL HEALTH | CAREGIVER

Middle of The Road Anxiety: A Caregiver Waits With Able Hands, Head and Heart Aches

How to better care for others starts with this reminder.

Love is a verb.

Action-filled.

Being proactive bites me in the arse more frequently than not.

Waiting is my kryptonite.

Known for my proactive mindset, strength, attention to detail, and ability to pull off compromises may be killing me as we speak.

This recent event is a lot, even for the likes of me.

Right now, breathing seems optional in between the throbbing in my head.

So much pressure.

Life circumstances can box us in, unable to make a move, and suffocation distorts reality. The box I’ve been shoved in is small enough to cramp my heart and lungs.

Boxes are uncomfortable.

The aftertaste of anxiety coats my tongue.

The forward-thinking me orchestrated a schedule to accommodate my three adult children, my grandchildren, and myself to celebrate Christmas.

My holiday planning phase went smoothly. Last week, I buttoned up reservations to start on 12/24, meal ideas, presents, and travel.

Proactive.

Forward-thinking.

Throw it all at me, and I will tackle it head-on.

But that’s my life and who I am.

Others’ lives derail my tidy, fine-tuned course often.

So, I wait.

I find myself stuck in the middle of the road while I patiently look for others to reveal their needs, or their plans and desires, in order to determine my next move, which is quite immobilizing.

Caregiving courses through me with ease — second nature, really, a hard-wiring I’ve known my entire life.

I enjoy catering to others until waiting for them sucks the life out of me. I suspect my age plays a part in my diminishing energy.

In just a few short years, my life morphed into one of waiting.

Waiting is my kryptonite.

I am quite the opposite of stagnation— as a doer, a take-action taskmaster.

I await word this morning from the hospital. My mom fell twice late yesterday, resisted medical transport, but thankfully was admitted to a hospital by 11 p.m.

It’s a new role for me.

Mother to daughter and daughter to mother.

I pleaded with her to agree to transport. She was not an easy sell and I may have over-promised in my negotiations.

It’s not what my mom wanted. Regardless, a trip to the hospital is what she needed.

I stand by my love for her and her wellness.

I fear she now views me as a bullying daughter when the voice of reason and authority flip-flop.

She needs the help she continually denies.

My mom no longer lives alone in safety.

Everyone around her sees this; she does not.

Heartbreak joins headaches.

How long am I expected to wait?

Blood, tragedy, loss of life, or limbs?

I’ve waited for her to catch up and willfully agree to changes in her living arrangements.

I’ve waited to see which coast of Florida to make our forever home based on whether or not my mom will be joining us.

I’ve waited in the past for my marriage to mend.

I’ve waited to adopt my grandson, Ian, based on my daughter’s preparedness to help.

I’ve waited for people around me to see the glaringly obvious facts while they resist, argue, and deny bold truths.

I’ve waited until I can no longer wait.

I will surely go insane.

It’s time to put my mental wellness first. For, only then, can I be better equipped to help others.

The irony is not lost on me that I must heed my own advice from last year. Somehow, I took my eye off these words and was compelled to revisit them.

Only I possess the power to remove myself from life’s waiting room. Love, life, family, and time, stand still for no one.

As my mom waits in the emergency room for a bed assignment, I am breaking free from my self-imposed and oppressive positioning in the middle of the road.

No longer willing to wait, I took the first steps with new confidence.

One reminder.

Love is a verb.

I’ve updated her primary care physician, have started the process for skilled home care, and plan on temporarily relocating to her home as the pieces start to fall into place.

She will like that idea but her home is not mine. I don’t belong there long-term. Ian and I are rooted in Florida to the best of our current ability.

The cold climate of New Jersey hurts my bones.

I’ll need snow boots.

Ian can bob and weave on this path with me. He will see and live firsthand how we restructure our lives for family.

Love is a verb.

Action-filled.

Being proactive bites me in the arse more frequently than not.

But that’s my life and who I am.

Now, let me reschedule Christmas with my kids, check Amazon for boots, and breathe.

Just breathe.

What are you waiting for?

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