RouletteWeekend

When I was raising kids, I never really doubted that I was decent at it. Don’t get me wrong, I was never going to win mom of the year. But I was curious. I was willing to learn what the “experts” were saying. I was desperate to do things differently than my own mom because that’s what we are supposed to do as the next generation, right? Do it different and better than the one before.

And over the years, there were many times where I caught myself being just like my mom, but I accepted one day that I was her child and, of course, I would not only be like her in some ways, I would also make the same mistakes she made. And I could also work to do better. Looking back, I may have been a little hard on myself because my kids turned out amazing. They are successful, happy, active humans who make the world a better place and isn’t that what all parents want for their kids?

I guess that’s where the disconnect in my brain is for this whole job of “caregiver” or “care partner” as it’s now called. I don’t feel much like a partner. I definitely feel like a giver. Giving every single thing I have and getting very little reward in return. I don’t mean that I want a monetary reward, after all, billions of dollars are left unearned by caregivers in this country because it’s not a job that “pays.”

And even though parenting is also an “unpaid” job, you do get rewards. You get to see them grow up. You get to watch their personalities bloom. You get to teach them how to tie their shoes and resolve conflicts. I feel like care giving for someone with dementia just leaves you exhausted.

Maybe I’m the asshole. I’ve read all these articles talking about how “it’s the most rewarding job” and honestly, I would like to call bullshit on that, because if ever there was a thankless job, it is caring for someone with dementia.

People act like you are doing some heroic deed by keeping your loved one out of a “facility,” but let’s be honest. Isn’t most of keeping a loved one at home out of necessity and not altruism? Memory care is ridiculously expensive. Who can even afford it. Yes, we want to keep her home because we know if she goes to memory care she cannot take her dogs, she cannot take her sewing machine, she probably can’t even take her hair curlers and that would depress her to the point of dying sooner versus later. And, of course, we want her to live a long and happy life, but that is where the problem lies.

What is the point of trying to make someone’s life happy if they are hell bent on living in their own misery? Maybe because I’ve always been a glass half full kind of person. My siblings call me “shits roses.” They say I can fall in shit and come out smelling like roses. But really, it’s my outlook that is rosy. I do believe, usually, that everything will work out the way it is supposed to work out. Since moving into this house of despair, though, it seems more like Murphy’s Law.

I’ve never been in such a beautiful place that is filled with such darkness. Well, I’ve never been to one that wasn’t part of America’s terrible history. And I’ve never met a person who by all appearances had a really great life give or take a few tragedies who constantly dwells on the bad and can never, no matter how many times they are asked to, focus on one tiny bit of good.

Maybe that’s what people mean when they say “shits roses?” My whole life has been a series of unfortunate events. Sure, most of it was by my own hand and I’ve never had a husband or a child die. But I’ve had a first love die. I’ve had a best friend die. I’ve had multiple friends die. I’ve been in terribly abusive relationships however short lived they were. I survived my kids moving out and feeling that useless feeling you get when you are not “so and so’s mom” anymore. But always, I’ve been able to say, “yes, this sucks…a lot, but, it could be worse. It could be this…(insert worst case scenario).

I wrote about this before, the day I realized crying and being a victim was never going to work and I had to change my outlook. And it’s not like I’m a professional at it. I still get down and I still let things get to me. Actually, I’ve let a LOT of things get to me since we moved back to Knoxville.

I’ve let it get to me that this is the first time in 33 years (since I had my daughter) that I’ve moved into someone else’s space. I’ve always had my own.

I’ve let it get to me that the stairs we have to climb every day are bothering my Rottweiler’s hips and I’m afraid it will send him to an early grave.

I’ve let it bother me that the relationship Will and I had when it was just the two of us is not good enough now that his mom is in the mix.

And on and on and on.

It’s like everything bothers me now because nothing is in my control and the more I try to get things under control the worse things get.

Which leads me to the title of this blog.

Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a caregiver. Maybe I’m too old now and my patience isn’t what it used to be. Maybe I don’t have the kid gloves needed to deal with someone who is negative and seemingly selfish when I feel like I’ve given every important part of me up just to help them thrive and they refuse to even give it a try.

I know I can’t be the only one who stepped into this role and quickly wanted to step out. If you have, how did you handle it? Is there shame in saying, “I don’t want to do this”? Am I the bad guy if I think she will be better off in memory care because I will be better off if she’s in memory care? Is there a way to get her out of this “everything is awful, my life is awful, I’d be better off dead” version of life and get her thinking “wow, I never knew life could be this full and stress free”? Am I just living in dreamland to think that we could finally give Will’s mom the life she’s always deserved but never got to experience?

I’m not finding this to be “the most rewarding job.” I’m pretty sure I’d find mucking horse stalls more rewarding because at least the horses will love you back.