I've got stamina

Too much time alone is not good. But it's the reality when you are a lone caregiver. See? Even the phrase " a lone caregiver" has the word "alone" in it.

It's hard being "it."

You wake up in the morning, sometimes ready to face the day. Other times, your brain and body are so overwhelmed you can't even put a sentence together. You're dizzy and not sure if it's because your blood pressure is so slow because you're a runner or so high because your head is out of control and  you're about to stroke out.

You gingerly put one foot forward, then the next,  and enter the kitchen, where you find the contents of the paper towel roll, which you forget to hide in the cabinet last night, ripped and scattered all over the floor. Kitten attacks.

You clean up the towels, feed the cats. Heat up old coffee. Gulp it down.

Go online because all you're thinking about is your work week, your loved ones' medical appointments, the free time you don't have any more.  Your hands are shaking and you're thinking about dark places like graveyards, obituaries.

The Facebook poem quiz gives you "Invictus."

"It matters not how strait the gate." That's a cemetery gate. The poet was picturing a cemetery gate, which is exactly what I was picturing, rusted, black-scrolled, abandoned. Me. 

You picture how running ten miles indoors today will be like torture but how it will help calm your racing pulse. You think maybe you should run first, then come home and shovel. That makes more sense. After that you'll check in with your loved ones, just a quick trip that you know will be about three hours long. Then you'll come home and write. Or more likely stare off into space, which is what writing time looks like these days. 

You jump when the phone rings. The visiting nurse tells you about some complications. Your voice is calm but every muscle in your body is quivering. Fight. Flight.

Is that ache in your chest that heart attack your therapist warns you're headed toward if you don't. . . What? Stop being there for the ones who raised me??? Seriously??

Like I would ever NOT be there for them???

I'm not THAT child.  

So. I write this. I read "Invictus" over and over.

I decide to post this, not because I need sympathy or help, but because I'm strong enough to show how weak I am, which is weird I know. Like I haven't been called that most of my life, weird I mean.

It's what works for me, letting folks see me working through my weakness: when I'm on the treadmill for forever and look like crap, drenched through, hair plastered to my neck, back fat wobbling, going slower than slow those last few miles. Or near the back of the pack during a long distance race.  Me the sloth, still strong enough to yell out "Thank you for being here" to onlookers and volunteers.

After the VNA  I called the one who knew me since my life began. Her voice shook like my hands. "I just don't know what to do." Her words tremble. I picture the orange pharmacy bottles piled all over the kitchen counter. The table where she sits is covered with her food for the day, all liquid, because it goes into a pump, into a g-tube, into her stomach.    

"It's okay. The nurse will be there soon. Me too. We'll all do our best to figure out how to control what we can. We'll take it from there. How does that sound?"

"Thank you. I'll see you soon."

The strength in her voice surprised me.

The strength in mine surprised me too. 

Gotta run. No rest for the weary.