I was summoning all my strength to get a man twice my weight into the car. I helped him out of the wheelchair, turned him sideways, ducked his head, and eased him into the front seat.
But his legs were still hanging out the door.
Sweating and out of breath, I stepped back and said, “Hmm, I’m having a hard time. Do you mind if I drive with your legs hanging out?”
He looked at me, paused, and said, “Do what you have to do.”
And we both laughed.
Humor breaks barriers. I found it to be a useful tool when caring for my dad, a job that was light years above my pay grade.
God bless the people who choose to be caregivers because there isn’t a harder, more heartbreaking task on Earth. And God help the people who don’t choose it but find themselves thrown into the role.
The Boomers are aging out. We are breaking down. We find ourselves needing help more often than we like. It is our misfortune that our generation is entering its final chapter at a time when it is seemingly OK to opt out of everything, including caring for others.
Isolation, invisibility, canceling and simply not showing up are all-too-common means of avoiding challenges.
So, strive to be different.
Strive to be there.
I get that people have hang-ups over hospitals and nursing homes and bodily functions and weird smells and even bed head gone wild.
At the same time, we idolize fictional superheroes. Why not be a real one?
Be that person who can rise above discomfort, who can cope with inconvenience, who can muster the strength to find the beating heart beneath the goopy, stinky, disheveled exterior.
I recently wrote about my sister’s battle with pancreatic cancer, a relentless beast that attacks every part of the body. I have visited her often since she was told her condition is terminal.
And each time I watched her husband help her walk, eat, clean herself. When she asks for Gatorade or even water, he sprints to get it, bringing with a bowl to catch the vomit that inevitably follows.
On my most recent trip to their home, I watched as he eased her off the sofa. She is unsteady on her feet so he holds her tight. For a few seconds they stood face to face, smiling in each other’s arms. Had the moment been a few years earlier, this couple who recently marked their 47th anniversary might have been slow dancing.
That is love.
Love is being there.
I get that a hang-up is called such for a reason. It slows you down, holds you back and gives you an out. But I’m here to tell you that the people who step up and care for the suffering don’t do it because they are immune to hang-ups. They do it because love is more powerful.
When I was helping my dad, there were so many times I felt squeamish cleaning up his bathroom accidents or clipping his thick fingernails or watching the food fall from his mouth because of broken teeth.
But I realized as hard as any of it was for me, all of it was infinitely harder for him. I also realized that sometimes all you can hope for when your body is failing is a bit of dignity. Caregivers have the power to bless the suffering with dignity.
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Humor helped. Surveying his post-dinner mess on the floor, he’d say, “Oh, I was saving those noodles for you.”
When I accidentally crashed his wheelchair into the wall at the doctor’s office, he told the nurse, “She only has a permit. I don’t think they’re going to give her a license.”
I get that it’s difficult not knowing what to say to someone who is struggling. I get that people are busy in their own lives. I get that funky smells and bodily functions can be off-putting.
But I also know that love will get you through.
It is hard for care for a body that is breaking down. But it is a privilege to be trusted and welcomed by the person inside that body.
Can you fix them? Of course not.
Can you make their legs work again or their stomach stop hurting or their frustration abate? No, no, you can’t.
But you can sit by their side, hold their hand, tell a joke, share a memory, assure them you care. You can show them old photos, remind them of happier times and help them laugh at the situations that make everyone want to cry.
You can be there. Because often that is the most and the least and the best and the only thing you can do.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.