The Caregiver’s Tales: A Blog

It’s always the same. There is the injury. There is the acknowledgement. There is the recovery. Tuesday night my calf was screaming. Injured in my sudden retreat from the unexpected appearance of the red wasps, it wanted to bear no weight. The next morning it was tender, barely walkable, and I visited the clinic to ensure the damage was routine. This morning, what felt catastrophic on Tuesday, feels more or less normal. There is soreness, but I am ambulatory.

I believe my body has decided enough is enough. On the day I finish a course of meds for hip and shoulder injuries, I pull a calf muscle getting away from a wasp nest I accidentally disturb. The hip had me limping for the pain it fed into my lower back. Now I’m off to limp for the lower leg. I’d say it doesn’t seem fair, but I’m fairly certain fairness has little to do with it. It’s just my mind making promises my body can’t keep.

Chasing fame. It’s an odd passion. But it occurs to me that everything I’ve done in my life has been in service to that notion. From the first newspapers I sold as a child to Marines at 29 Palms through every job I’ve ever held since, I’ve either sold or helped to sell something. That’s what companies do. They want to be famous. Known. And they want people to give them money. Anyone working for them, in any capacity, helps to fill that mission.

As always, there’s more to the story. Yesterday’s dip into grief showed me how close it lies to the surface of other people’s lives. I lost a loved one who was loved by others, in ways big and small. Their loss is no less grievous than mine. A heartache is a heartache no matter how it comes to be. It is easy to forget, as I go about the business of healing, that my suffering might be carried by others. Of course, it also means it is not my burden to carry alone, and that helps.

There are times, when for no clear reason, I find myself plagued by something poking me in a finger or a toe, and I have no idea how it got there. It only hurts when I bump against it, and it takes real work to find the source of the irritation. Sometimes it’s easily removed with a pair of tweezers or a finger, and sometimes it just stays there to fester, harden, and eventually go away. I think there are a lot of spiritual things like that. Little irritations that you discover by accident when you bump into them. They’re hard to spot and harder to remove and cause that little bit of annoying trouble that reminds you the problem is there, maybe to be fixed, maybe not.

I work with a team of people who help a friend cater meals. One meal in particular is meant to replicate a fine dining experience. The table is set as tables should be set. We dress in black. Serve from the left, pick up from the right. It’s all about decorum. But there’s always a tension around the serving and picking up as to the necessity of the form because it’s not always easy to do. I insist we try; some are more relaxed.

Yesterday I wrote about driving slow through the night, but I’ve even started driving slow through the day. It takes an effort, however, because it feels as though I’m hardwired for finding the quickest way. But lately, I’ve opted for the back roads and the side roads. The slow roads, the ones with twists and turns. The ones with things to see.