This piece was written by one of our dear readers—a woman with something real to say. Each month, we handpick the best submissions for Dear Reader because we’re after that PROVOKED bite: truth, intelligence, and heart. These stories come from women our age—women who’ve lived enough to know better and still care enough to tell it anyway. Because being seen and heard matters. Because storytelling is how we stitch ourselves to one another. And because when one woman speaks her truth, another finally recognizes her own. — Susan Dabbar, Editor-in-Chief
In seven weeks, I lost my husband, my mother, and the only version of myself I’d known for years.
After a particularly stressful day of caregiving, I went to bed thinking about how nice it would be if my disabled husband and elderly mother no longer needed my help. I wished I could greet the morning with a cup of coffee, play my word games and listen to the birds chirping. Instead, as usual, I woke up with anxiety pinging my chest, as I crept into each bedroom to check whether my beloved family members were still breathing.
It’s an awful feeling to wake up wondering if today is the last one for those in your care.
And then my wish was granted. In the span of seven weeks, both my husband and my mother passed away.
The relief I expected didn’t come. I ached for those structured days. While running errands, I still checked the time. While swimming laps, I pictured my husband sitting in his wheelchair in front of the TV. Tears collected in the corners of my goggles.
Every time I entered the house, the quiet made it difficult to breathe.
I tossed out dozens of bottles of pills, bed pads, and urinals, my hands wavering above the garbage bags. With the help of friends, I moved the Hoyer lift, wheelchairs, and hospital beds into the garage.
I thought I would feel relief in doing so.
I didn’t.
Who knew emptiness could weigh so much?
Without having to administer pills, check urine and oxygen levels, I questioned my identity. Who was I now if not a caregiver, wife, and daughter?
As Steven Froehlich, Ph.D., MFT, explained, “The caregiver has not just lost their loved one, but they have lost the life they had been living for quite some time. This entire process of becoming reacquainted with oneself occurs while going through the grieving process over the loss of their loved one.”
That statement helped me recognize my emotions and solidified my decision to travel.
Leaving the memory of my husband and mother side by side on my bookshelf, where they continued to bicker as they awaited their “celebrations of life,” I left for a month-long trip to Thailand and Bali. On the morning of my departure, I cut my husband’s favorite rose and left it on our dresser, a tradition I’d been following for the past 40 years.
In Palau, I visited many temples, hoping the gods I didn’t believe in would believe in me. In Bangkok, I had massages, facials, and spa days. I was free and could do anything I wanted with no time restrictions. Other times, the treatments pulled my sadness to the surface. My insides would tighten, making it hard to breathe.
Behind closed eyes, I saw my hands cleaning my husband’s soiled sheets, a task I hated. And yet, I now longed to wipe his ailing body one more time. I counted the opened Splenda packets. Three meant it was time to switch his coffee to decaf. I heard the run-on sentences of a TV sports announcer, the soundtrack of my husband’s last years.
The days ticked off the calendar, widening the gap between who I was as a caregiver and who I was becoming.
Ultimately, I ended up back at home, a place that’s no longer the same. I’ve rearranged the furniture in my husband’s office, our bedroom, and the living room, but there’s still a great deal of rearranging left to be done in my way of thinking.
I’ve always had trouble saying no, but caregiving gave me a guilt-free reason to back out of events I didn’t want to attend. It was easy to use my responsibilities as a reason for not having dinner with a friend, going to a movie, or even having time to shave my legs. Without that wall to lean on, I have to make decisions based on my preferences.
But I’m slowly discovering what I want for the rest of my life.
After 77 years of being a daughter and 47 years of marriage, it’s strange to call myself a widow without a mother. I think of my husband and mother every day—the healthy, happy versions of them, not the ones who made me a specialist in urine samples or the consistency of bed pads.
I may never take off my wedding ring. But I have entertained the thought of dating, if the right person should cross my path, although the thought of exposing my hidden wrinkles to a man other than my husband could be grounds for insanity. On both our parts.
I’m careful what I wish for now. Rationally, I know I didn’t cause their deaths. But tell that to the negative thoughts that invade my mind in the middle of the night. I didn’t do enough. I should have watched the last Dodger game with him. Why did I forget the Splenda in that last cup of coffee?
I know better than to believe those thoughts. I also know they come back every night. I breathe until they soften. Some nights, that’s the best I can do.
30 Responses
You have always seemed to be a person with a vision. Your inner character was always apparent and set you apart. You are a gregarious lover of life. You are strong and your life will find rebirth. Wishing you fulfillment and adoring arms embracing you.
Janie-what gorgeous writing from the heart. Blessings on your journey.
Janie, you never cease to amaze me with your beautiful and descriptive words. I know the years you put into caregiving for your beautiful Mother and husband. You will always be a very special lady and I have so much admiration for you.
Thanks, Donna – Your thoughts mean a great deal to me. Thanks for reading.
I buried my husband on his 45 birthday he had cancer of Cerabelum it took 8 months for this horror to kill my husband who at the end could not see or walk or even talk the only thing he wanted was a cigarette but of course I couldn’t give it to him near the end he didn’t want to eat and end up 80 pounds from a healthy 160 pounds i had to go to work we being low income i had to we had 2 children at home one in college .The last day I was able to see him at the nursing home where the doctors put him i was trying to feed him he told me to go leave him alone i did crying the aide nurse a wonderful woman who was taking care of him better than I ever could told me let him be its fine go to look after your children go home I did he died the next morning to this day I feel guilty of not been there with him so I understand
Thank you, Janie – I cared for both my parents for several years and still kick myself for not doing more. I’m glad to know that it’s not just me that feels this way. I’m realizing that it wasn’t deliberate. The whole process was a lot.
Beautifully written. I’ve been spared the care giving role so far – but that means my parents died too soon. That said, your words made me feel your pain and rejoice at your ability to renew yourself. Well done.
Your article made me gasp. After caring for my husband for over 2 years, his rapid decline and death came just five days after he vocalized that he wanted to die. I didn’t realize that his death would also unleash such trauma for his adult sons that they would leave me with their wives and my only grandson. I should have anticipated this abandonment after experiencing their distancing during my husband’s decline, but I remain shocked. And tortured, in a way. I have changed the physical appearance of nearly every corner of our condo and am actively trying to restore my own health at 77. I have a great posse of friends and siblings and we are restoring connections on a daily basis. I listen to the Beatles every day and going to church every week (instead of watching it on Zoom). Next steps: getting a dog this week and training to walk the Camino de Santiago Compestela next fall. But the pain, sadness, and loneliness are palpable in my life. Thank you for your article, and for my friend for sending it to me.
I am so sorry things turned out that way for you. I, too, experienced heartbreak with a stepdaughter. Grief does strange and hurtful things to people. I’m glad you have friends and siblings and who doesn’t love the Beatles? I wish you all the best. xox
Janie, you captured the yin and yang of caregiving. We remember the persons but also our faults in taking care of them. We can rationalize them away however they sometimes come back. My sister and her daughter have passed, I was privileged to be there for them or stuck, depending on the time of day/night and my mood. I hope you find your peace.
Thank you for reading. Yes, it was up and down. And retrospect, more ups. I am finding my peace and moving forward a little every day.
I’m so sorry for your losses. The caregiver in me bows to the caregiver in you.
This breath in.
This breath out.
Thanks so much fo reading. As a caregiver, it’s nice to know other caregivers. Take care of yourself.
OMG! So descriptive! You are so good at putting your feelings into words on paper. So very touching and real. You gave comfort and caring to your Mom and Husband in their final years and now it’s time to enjoy your new life. You earned it and deserve it!
Thanks, Terry. Writing itself is cathartic.
Beautiful. Thank you for sharing your story,.
And thank you so much for reading and taking the time to comment.
I think you were brilliant to take yourself out of the house and away from that now-former self! To grant yourself some literal as well as metaphorical space!
I read myself in all your words, dear Janie. And i thank you for putting them on paper.
I am learning to grieve those former selves as well as the people they were lived for. And applying that to all of my life, including the roles I played as mother.
I hope you are finding comfort in the permission you’ve granted yourself to grieve.
blessings,
paula
Janie! You spoke my life in every single sentence! I lost my dad first, then my husband a year later. All the feelings came right back but, trust me, it gets way better. After two numb years I met the love of my life, have an amazing girl gang, learned to shoot archery, survived and mostly recovered from emergency spinal surgery etc. I’m 70 and hopefully have several more years to enjoy. You will too. I wish you peace, quiet mornings, and a great life that you deserve.
This resonated with me in a very personal way. I lost my Mom last November and am now taking care of my 89-year-old dad. He is much more difficult than my Mom was…since my mom’s passing he has become much more difficult. They were married over 70 years and you can tell that has made an impact on his mental health. I am struggling with little to no help and am doing the best that I can. I also have a 100% disabled Army Veteran son living with me. We help each other.
Janie, in few words you movingly capture years of the ups and downs of caregiving. I’m glad you took that trip and look forward to reading more about your next steps.
Congrats, Janie. This is so beautifully written!!
Oh my goodness, Janie. Who write with such soul. This one broke my heart. I watched your journey in Thailand and cheered you on.
I’m proud to call you my friend.
Anne. Bardsley
As I am, you! Hope all is well in your life. See you in 2028!
This is beautiful, Janie. Thank you for sharing your heartfelt journey.
Thanks, Melissa. I wish you a very happy New Year!
Such a raw, truthful piece. Very touching. No matter what we do, there will always be the “I should haves” and the “What if’s”. Hugs to you.
Thanks for reading and your kind words.
Thanks for reading and for your kind words.
I have to realize that! Thanks for reading.