I’ve been a caregiver for as long as I can remember.
My doll babies never spent a tornado watch alone. When the siren sounded, all of them came to the basement with me, nestled in their little blankies and safe from the storm. When I was 15, I wore my blue and white candy-striper uniform to a local hospital where I made beds, fed the infirm, and lit the pipes and cigars of gentlemen patients in Ward Seven. During the holiday season, I helped my father deliver fruit baskets to elderly church members, often staying to play a game of Flinch or Yahtzee with a lonely soul.
While in college, I worked as a nurse’s aide, was a dorm chaplain assisting in the spiritual care of my peers, and worked for a year with county health department nurses doing intake at neighborhood community/senior centers. Upon graduation, I began a career in education: first, as an elementary school teacher, and later as a trainer/educator of adults in corporate settings.
I’ve supported my husband, grandparents, in-laws, and both my parents through their journeys of illness, aging, and death. One thing I know for certain: being a caregiver is difficult and rewarding, ordinary and sacred, often lonely and yet, life-affirming.
It is my calling.