Dear Readers,
FLASH. After three years of being a caregiver, I have finally figured out that caregiving should be approached like any other job. My current patient, kid sister Rawbaw, has been trying to tell me that for a long time. She was always telling me I should have a day off, but I was always nobly thinking that caregivers don't get days off. Quite recently, however, I have seen the wisdom in her suggestion. I've now proclaimed Sunday my day off, and it has made a huge difference.
Okay, it is really a mind game — but a wonderful one. The rules are that on Sundays I will just do the minimum. Give Rawbaw her meds and do other care-related chores (such as meal preparation). But otherwise I take a break.
It's Sunday! And once again I get that time-out-for-Sunday feeling.
Naturally, there are often errands to be run on the Sabbath (places to go, people to see, etc.), and unscheduled problems to deal with (such as finding out what smelly stuff Doggie Brooke has rolled in out back and what to do about it — or how to get a window with a stubborn crank mechanism to close as the winter air descends on Appleton, Wisconsin), but the overriding Sunday rule is to have as much fun as possible and to have many more silly moments together than ever before.
Yes, Rawbaw and I now strive to spend a disproportionate part of every Sunday enjoying each other's company and spoiling her dog rotten.
What a gas. We two humans play cards and Scrabble, watch excessive TV, fritter away hours at a time with reminiscences that go clear back to World War II and our childhood in Long Beach, California, and try one more time to teach Doggie Brooke that when we throw the ball she is expected to bring it back and not scoot out the doggie door to the back yard with it.
Sure, the entire Sunday is never pure frolic. Stuff happens. Sometimes there's a medicine mix-up (often emanating from policy changes by Rawbaw's insurance company, or often triggered by one of my senior moments), and I have to drive 10 miles one way in a blinding snowstorm to the pharmacy at Walmart to get it straightened out. Or friends or relatives suddenly decide to give us a Saturday-night heads-up that they would love to come visiting on Sunday afternoon. (What a scramble that creates, here at 1019 E. Eldorado!) Or maybe the ancient boiler in the basement of this venerable house (built in 1891) that makes our hot-water heating system work takes Sunday off. Or we lose power and sit in the dark on Sunday evening, playing Scrabble by flashlight.
You get the idea. Not every Sunday is idyllic. But most are! Just knowing that Sunday is supposed to be perfect puts us in a frame of mind to anticipate a wonderful day, then enjoy every little thing that's good about it.
There is now a lot more joking around on Sunday. Rawbaw has given the dog a few new names, including “Rat Dog” and “Fatso.” Our furry friend now also gets petted on Sundays till her fur flies, and she seems to have a much better sense of humor (and play instinct) than she had before we all got Sundays off.
(The dog would be even happier if I got her over to the doggie park more often than I do. I hereby pledge to make more frequent trips to the doggie park a key issue when I rededicate myself, probably on New Year's Day. Yes, I periodically assess my progress as an aging bonvivant, caregiver, raconteur, dog trainer, and man about town. (I routinely hit Walmart, Jacob's Meat Market, Chicago Grill, Taco Bell, Subway, and Burger King for food, and the Appleton Library, which is a doozy, for the audio books Rawbaw loves to listen to at night.)
(I think I will devote all of Chapter 21 to the art of rededicating oneself. It is always interesting, and always gets me to improve my overall performance for at least a few weeks. This, of course, means that rededicating yourself should be repeated quite often!)
Perhaps the best thing about having Sundays off is that the break from reality is conducive to serious reflection on how logical or illogical we are being in our daily lives. It has come to our attention, for instance, that both Rawbaw and I are guilty of giving Doggie Brooke too much food. I give the dog breakfast, so she won't feel left out when Rawbaw has her first meal of the day — and Rawbaw gives the dog the last of her evening cold cereal (with half and half) that Rawbaw eats late many nights in defiance of the low-carb diet that both of us humans are supposedly on.
Rawbaw's middle son pointed out some time ago that the dog was getting “pretty porky.” Now the poor thing is downright rotund. For Pete's sake, Rawbaw and I could eventually find ourselves guilty of killing Doggie Brooke with kindness. But this coming Sunday we three will sit down and talk about proper diet as it applies to the dog. I will let you know how that turns out.
Meanwhile, if you're a caregiver and your load seems to be life-altering, alter your life with Sunday off. I can't fully explain why it works, but it works like gangbusters!
—Michael E. Hearons
