The Caregiver's Pause

Caring for others entails caring for the self. Michelle Liew

*************************************************************

Mei collapsed onto the couch, her weary body sinking into the soft leather after another long day. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. Her father sat in the recliner, staring blankly at moving images that his mind found overwhelming. His eyes, glassy yet intense, seemed to follow her every movement-even those she hadn’t made. 

The walls of the room inched closer, squeezing the breath from her lungs. They closed in, making the air almost unbreathable. They pulsed, like something living, breathing. As though they had a life of their own, leaning close to grasp her thoughts. 

Mei looked around. A photograph of her ex-fiance stood in a cabinet in the living room. Messages from friends sent weeks ago still rang persistently from Google’s all-knowing Alexa. Messages from her phone felt like a world she could no longer afford to visit the room reminded her of everything she had sacrificed to keep her dad comfortable. 

Mei tried to rise from the couch, but her body was a deadweight. Seeing her ex-fiance’s photo on the cabinet didn’t make getting up any easier. She got up and caressed it, a quiet yet poignant memory she couldn’t dismiss.

She filled a plastic cup with her father’s medication and heaved a plaintive sigh. Getting him to swallow that would take the entire evening.

As she poured the bitter liquid onto a teaspoon, she heard her father’s faint whisper. “You should go.” The voice was faint, almost too faint, but the way it hung in the air made her question if she had imagined it. But as soon as the silence broke, it returned, and the older man was once again out of reach. But as his afflicted yet kind eyes looked over his daughter, his silence spoke volumes.

The care for her father may have carried the cost of a few relationships, but small nuggets of kindness slip through the cracks.

Mei slumped deeply into the sofa, the weight of the day making her feel like she could barely breathe. She wished for five minutes - just five minutes to have a proper meal.

Just as Mei’s fatigued threatened to swallow her whole, there was a knock on the door. It was sharp and sudden, as though Mrs. Lim, their portly neighbour, had been waiting for the exact moment Mei’s exhaustion peaked. Her hands held a tiffin carrier filled with chicken ginseng soup. She sat next to Mei on the couch.

“You know, I had to do this for my dad when he had dementia, too.”

“Really?” Mei, despite her tiredness, sat up, intrigued. “How did you cope?”

Mrs. Lim patted her on the shoulder and smiled. But her words carried an uncanny certainty, as though she had watched Mei run herself down from a distance. “Asking for help doesn’t mean that you love him less.It just means you’re taking care of yourself, too.”

Mei’s mouth opened in response, but closed again. The weight of her neighbour’s words carried necessary heaviness.

She sat beside her father after Mrs. Lim left, holding his wrinkled, yet comforting hands.

“You don’t want me to do this alone, do you?”

Her father, as usual, stared at her, not responding. But his eyes held the answer she sought. Noting his faint, but warm smile, Mei knew what she had to do. 

She picked up the phone and dialled the number of the nearby elder care centre, then one belonging to her friend, telling her she would attend their next weekend trip. Her shoulders loosened; her father’s lips curled into a smile. It was faint, just a twitch of the lips that carried a million unspoken truths she wasn’t sure she wanted to unravel.

But in that same moment, she realized it wasn’t just her father who needed care as she returned his unresponsive yet knowing smile. She knew she did, too.

The young lady realised that strength wasn’t in carrying the load, but it sharing it. She hadn’t let go of her father- she had stepped out of guilt’s shadow.