I don't know what to do next ...
... and I'm ok with it
This is about caregiving for my dog, but it’s really about caregiving for anyone. I’ve taken care of both people and animals, and actually I find caregiving is just caregiving. It’s so dynamic — devastatingly hard and full of moments of such profound joy it takes your breath away. So if this kind of thing isn’t for you, I understand. I’m hoping that soon I’ll get back to walks and plants and weird spiritual stuff about talking to trees and angels. But for now, this is what I have, and it’s beautiful and horrible all at the same time …
Hello Friends,
So apparently Notes from the Garden has turned into a newsletter on caregiving, because there’s nothing else left. And if you’re doing any caregiving or have caregiven before, you’ll know exactly what I mean.
There are other things, of course. There are moments — sometimes even hours — of listening to podcasts that can be stopped any moment and which don’t have to be remembered at all. Or just sitting in a peaceful place together enjoying the passing time. There are meals you hope you can finish, and meals you know from the beginning are going to be a bite here and there between whatever is needed from you next. There are nights you sleep through, and nights that are so interrupted you can only guess how much sleep you actually got. And the sleep you got was on a tiny couch in the living room with a light on so you can see what’s happening 15 feet away every time you wake up. Which is of course a million times a night.
I’m not sure exactly what Ginger and I are doing here, but I know I’m learning more about presence than I ever have at any other time in my life. I know that I don’t know at all what to do for her — the doctor says it’s all trial and error and the internet says there’s no cure. And when I stray into the panic realm of “is this actually the cancer and not the allergies” I am reminded of how bad her diagnosis in April really was, and how much I need to live in each and every joyful moment we have. And there are millions more of them than the hard ones still. She’s happy at least 90 percent of the time, and really mostly well for those hours too. But I never know, and have to be ready for, the other 10 percent. The times when she needs me to respond. Immediately.
I went to the bathroom for just a minute the other day and I came back to her attacking her paw! It looked like a bloody stump after just a minute! It was doing a lot better by the end of the day, and they always seem to heal ok, these paws, every time so far.
I’m constantly running through scenarios, nonstopnonstopnonstop, what to do next and then what to do after that and then trying to anticipate what will happen as a result. And today I realized, I just have to stop. Whether it’s the incurable allergies or the almost-always terminal cancer, I’m not going to know what to do about it because it’s just horrible and there’s nothing meaningful I actually can do, except be here for her, have fun when she’s feeling good and make sure she doesn’t hurt herself when she’s feeling itchy.
I suppose those aren’t nothing, and they are meaningful.
And I suppose I have to mention, because it’s been a part of every single other caregiving situation and so I wonder if we all feel this way sometimes … the amount of time I’m spending wondering if I’ve done something wrong. Wondering if I’ve actually made things worse. Wondering if I’ve harmed this being I love so much somehow, in trying to help.
Once, when we were taking care of Uncle Don and Aunt Roe at the ends of their lives, I burnt Uncle Don’s English muffin. Bless him, he ate it anyway. And scratched the roof of his mouth. And hours later, called us in the middle of the night because it was bleeding profusely and wouldn’t stop. I remember the hours spent while he was at the hospital, worrying that I had accidentally killed Uncle Don with a burnt English muffin.
I didn’t. Thank god. There was a chance he got mixed up on his medications and took an extra blood thinner that day, and also a chance that the chemotherapy drugs they were trying him on caused weird mouth bleeding. We got more careful about helping him with his meds, and he moved on to a different chemo situation, but I can still recall that horrible feeling. Like I’d done something wrong and it could have the worst possible consequences.
I don’t know how to stop myself from going into these catastrophizing loops all the time, but I’m working on it. With Ginger’s help.
This week I started saying, “I don’t know what’s going to happen next, and I’m ok with it,” every time I start to loop. And so far, after a few days, I find my mantra is settling something inside. After I say it, for at least one fraction of a second, I actually am ok with it. I think the fractions might even be growing into entire seconds already, and at the very least, I’m noticing my thought patterns more quickly, and paying attention to them, which seems to be changing them a little bit at a time.
I don’t begrudge Ginger a single second of this. I’m so glad she’s with us, and I’m so very glad for the progress we’ve made. She’s allowing me to take care of her in ways she never could before. We went to dog training this week and watching her greet her friends — both people and dogs! — was pure joy. And she’s just the brightest and best friend anyone could ask for.
So much joy still.
Until next week, I’m sending lots of love and light from here,
Jodie
p.s. If this kind of thing is for you, I released my book, Beautiful Death, this summer. (Isn’t divine timing the weirdest?) It’s all about the time we spent taking care of Uncle Don and Aunt Roe and the five other loved ones, people and animal friends, who died over the course of four years. My Aunt Judie says it's, “not at all depressing,” so if you’re worried from the title that it might be, take her word and give it a chance. Here’s a link to get it directly from the printer, where it’s on sale until Oct. 3 — 15 percent off! Use the code READER15 when you checkout.