Caregiver Anyway

Tag: dad

  • Caregiver Guilt

    The Guilt That Never Fully Leaves
    No matter how much you care, how much you do, how many nights you don’t sleep and how many
    things you get right — it’s never perfect. Not for me, and I don’t believe it’s perfect for any caregiver. I
    want to write about two moments that still sit with me, because I think a lot of caregivers are carrying
    something almost identical, and maybe hearing mine will make yours a little lighter to hold.

    My Dad, and the Nurse Who Was at Dinner
    I was 24 when I was my dad’s caregiver during his hospice care, and the medications were entirely on
    me. No one really explained dosing to me — it was written on the bottles, and that was it. I was terrified
    of morphine and Ativan. Terrified of giving too much. So I followed the label exactly, to the letter, every
    single time.
    On what turned out to be his last day, he was in real pain and clearly uncomfortable. I called the on-call
    hospice nurse and told her I’d already given him morphine an hour or two before and that he needed
    more. She told me she was out to dinner and that I should just follow the directions on the bottle.
    I listened to her. I always will carry guilt for that. Not because I did anything medically wrong — I later
    learned you can’t actually overdose a hospice patient by following proper guidance, and I was following
    exactly what I’d been told — but because my gut was telling me he needed more relief, and I let a
    stranger’s indifference on the other end of a phone call override what I already knew as the person in
    the room with him.
    If I could go back and tell 24-year-old me one thing, it would be this: when you are the one there,
    watching, caring, paying attention every single day — trust that. More than any on-call nurse who’s out
    to dinner and doesn’t know your father. More than a label. Your gut, earned through months of showing
    up, deserves more weight than it’s often given.
    My Mom, and the Week I Sent Her to Respite
    With my mom, the guilt looks different.
    At one point I sent her to respite care through hospice — a short stay meant to give caregivers a break.
    While she was away, I used that week to repaint the living room and dining room, shampoo the rugs,
    return all of her old medical equipment, and replace it with new: hospital bed, nebulizer, oxygen
    concentrator, commode, walker. I even added a bell to her bed so she could never get up again without
    me knowing.
    The respite facility didn’t take care of her the way they should have. They didn’t follow a single
    instruction I’d written down for her care. And I’ve wondered since whether she may have even refused
    to admit she felt worse there, knowing that saying so would only bring me running to check on her.

    She came home from that week and never got up on her own again. She was too weak.
    I carry guilt over sending her there in the first place, even though respite exists precisely because
    caregivers cannot run on empty forever, and even though I used every hour of it trying to make her
    homecoming safer and better. My own mother reminded me more than once to “get over it” — which, if
    you read my last post, you already know was never said at the right moment.

    What I Want You to Take From This
    If you’re a caregiver reading this and you have a moment like either of mine — a call you didn’t push
    hard enough on, a break you took that you now second-guess, a decision that looked right at the time
    and haunts you now — I want you to hear this clearly: doing your best while exhausted, scared, and
    under-informed is not the same as doing something wrong. Guilt convinces us otherwise. It lies. It
    takes the fact that you loved someone enough to notice every small change and twists it into evidence
    that you failed them.
    You didn’t fail them. You showed up in an impossible situation, with less information than you deserved
    and more responsibility than anyone should carry alone, and you did it anyway.
    That has to count for something. I believe it does.

  • Don’t Ask, Just Do: What Caregivers Actually Need

    My mom’s name was Mary Dorothy, but everyone
    knew her as Dottie. During her hospice care, we had
    more than just the hospice team around us — we had
    family friends, some who are still in my life today and
    some who aren’t anymore, and neighbors who
    showed up in ways I’ll never forget. We were lucky.
    Genuinely, deeply lucky to have good people around
    us at that time.
    But I learned something during those months that I
    think every caregiver eventually learns, and I want to
    say it plainly for anyone reading this who has
    someone in their life right now who’s caregiving: stop
    asking “how are you?” Stop asking “what do you
    need?” Stop asking “what can I do?”
    Just do.

    Why the Questions Don’t Work
    I know those questions come from a good place. I
    know people ask them because they genuinely want
    to help. But when you’re deep in caregiving, being

    asked what you need is its own kind of exhausting. It
    puts the work back on you — now you have to stop,
    think, figure out what you need, figure out how to ask
    for it, figure out if it’s even reasonable to ask for it.
    Most days, you don’t have the bandwidth left for that.
    The people who helped me most were the ones who
    never asked at all. They just showed up and did
    something. A neighbor who dropped off a meal
    without checking first. A friend who just started a load
    of laundry because she saw the basket. Someone
    who said “I’m taking the dogs for a walk, be back in
    twenty minutes” instead of “let me know if you ever
    need help with the dogs.”
    What Actually Helps
    If you know a caregiver and you want to genuinely
    help them, here’s what tends to land:
    A meal you don’t have to cook. Anything. Truly
    anything, as long as someone else made it.
    A coffee run, especially if the person you’re caring
    for wants something specific from somewhere
    random. Caregiving often comes with fast food
    runs and “can you get me a coffee from that one
    place” on repeat, and it adds up.
    Twenty minutes of freedom. Sit with the person
    being cared for so the caregiver can shower, do

    laundry, walk the dogs, or just breathe alone for a
    few minutes.
    A few minutes of company for the person you’re
    caring for, so the caregiver gets a small break
    without having to arrange it.
    None of this requires a grand gesture. It requires
    showing up and doing the small, unglamorous thing
    without making the caregiver ask for it first.
    To the People Reading This Who
    Want to Help Someone
    If someone in your life is caregiving right now,
    especially for a parent, especially under hard
    circumstances — don’t wait for them to tell you what
    they need. Most of us don’t know how to answer that
    question anyway, or we’re too worn down to figure it
    out. Just pick something small, and do it.
    You’ll never know how much a stranger’s twenty free
    minutes can mean until you’ve lived without them for
    months at a time.

  • “Get Over It” and “Go For the Gold”

    My mom had two famous lines. I still don’t fully know why she loved them so much, but she said them constantly: “get over it” and “go for the gold.”

    “Get over it” in particular had the worst timing of any phrase I’ve ever heard a human being use. You fall down and hurt yourself — get over it. Someone breaks up with you — get over it. It was never the right moment, not once, not ever. She thought she was hilarious. And to be fair, she could be funny. But there was a cruel, evil edge underneath the humor that never fully went away, no matter how many times she laughed it off.

    # Two Different Women

    Before hospice, before she got sick, plenty of people in my life told me to move out, to get away from her. That was mostly during the years she was drinking, smoking, and being her normal vicious self. What’s strange, looking back, is how she could show one version of herself to the world and a completely different one behind closed doors. Only a small handful of my friends ever saw that other side. A very small handful.

    Most people just saw funny, loud Dottie. The one who made a room laugh. They didn’t see what came after the door closed.

    # The Social Worker Saw It

    During hospice, our social worker saw it too. I’ll call her Pam here.

    Pam asked my mom, in a pretty routine, gentle way, if she had a good relationship with me. And honestly, most of the time, we did. I made a joke back — something like, “yeah, except when she wasn’t throwing cups of beer at my face.” I said it lightly, the way you learn to say things like that when you’ve lived with them long enough that they’ve turned into dark humor instead of open wounds.

    My mom laughed. She actually laughed and agreed — yes, she said, she was so mean, get over it.

    Pam looked at her and said, “Dottie, really?”

    And my mom just said, “Yeah, so what. It’s not a big deal.”

    That was her, completely unbothered, completely unfiltered, in front of a stranger whose job it was to check in on our relationship. Not defensive. Not ashamed. Just… so what.

    I think about that exchange a lot. Not because it was the worst thing she ever did — it wasn’t, not by a long shot — but because of how casually she owned it. No performance, no softening it for the person taking notes. That was real Dottie, unedited, and it’s part of why “get over it” still echoes for me the way it does.

    More stories from hospice, and more of her, soon.

  • The Hospice Team, the Christmas Party, and the Sound of a Loud Boom

    I want to write about the people who got us through my mom’s hospice care, and about her — the real, unfiltered, contradictory her — because I don’t think you can separate the two.

    We had Holy Name Hospice with us for my mom’s care, and the team they gave us was amazing. I won’t use their real names here, but I’ll introduce you to them properly in a future post: our pastor, our social worker, our nurse, and our home health aide. Each one of them showed up for us in a different way, and somewhere along the line they stopped feeling like “the hospice team” and started just feeling like people who were in our corner.

    Toward the end, we also had volunteers who came just to sit with my mom — no medical task, no checklist, just company — so that I could do laundry, walk my dogs, take a shower in peace. Honestly, sometimes just to go to the bathroom alone, with the door closed, like a regular human being. That’s a small thing until you don’t have it anymore.

    ## “Give Me 10 Minutes”

    For a while, that still worked. I’d ask her if she needed anything, she’d say no, and I’d tell her, “I have to poop, give me 10 minutes.” She’d say okay, in her own sarcastic way — because of course she would.

    One day I was in there maybe two minutes when I heard a loud boom.

    She’d gotten up. On legs that were weak and unsteady in a way that should have stopped her, she decided she was going to get the mail — something she hadn’t done in months. I kept the front door open most of the time so she could see outside, get some sun, feel like the world was still out there. I always figured if anyone stopped by, an open door meant come on in. My mom loved having visitors, loved company beyond just me, and I never blamed her for that. There were plenty of days I was quietly praying for someone — anyone — to stop by too, so I could sneak out for takeout or run some errand she wanted done.

    That’s hospice, though. The moment you turn your back for two minutes is exactly the moment they decide to test the legs that don’t work anymore.

    ## We Celebrated Everything

    Birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Christmas — we didn’t skip a single one. I threw a hospice Christmas party, and looking back, I think everyone on the team was probably celebrating something different in their own lives, but we kept it Christmas for my mom’s sake. I cooked, I decorated the big tree, the whole living room, the bathroom, the kitchen — anywhere she could see from her spot, it was decorated. Two nativity scenes. I wanted her to be surrounded by it, not just aware it was happening somewhere else in the house.

    ## Her Magazines, Her Mouth

    My sister got my mom a subscription to *In Touch* magazine, and it became a real part of her last few years. She read it every single day, cover to cover.

    Here’s the thing about my mom that I don’t think I’ll ever stop finding both funny and completely on-brand: she could be sitting there reading God’s word one minute, and in the very next breath, before I’d even said a word to her, ask me “what the hell is your problem today?” Or launch into language that would make a truck driver blush.

    That was her. Contradictions and all. And somehow, impossibly, I loved taking care of that woman — sarcasm, cursing, stubborn trips to the mailbox and all.

    More on the hospice team, and more of these stories, soon.

  • Meet the Pack

    If you’re here for the caregiving posts, don’t worry — those are coming. But I promised you dog content, and today I’m delivering. Let me introduce the four little personalities who run my house, my heart, and most of my Instagram camera roll.

    ## The Lineup

    **Kaylee** — Cairn Terrier rescue mix, 6 years old. The wise older sister of the group. She’s great… until you try to get her to eat on camera. Ask her one too many times and she will flat out snub you. And if she catches me trying to sneak a camera past her while she’s eating in private, she abandons her bowl entirely and jumps straight into Patrick’s lap like she’s fleeing a crime scene — save me from Mommy the Camera Monster.

    **Johnny Cash** — purebred Shih Tzu, 5 years old, born without a tail. Overly sensitive, and for reasons I genuinely cannot explain, if I ask him to do literally anything, he looks me dead in the eye and runs. No idea how he got that way. It’s a personality trait at this point, not a phase.

    **Frankie** — Shih Tzu, Cash’s half-brother, also 5. Probably the best listener of the bunch… unless a squeaky toy or ball goes off anywhere in the vicinity, at which point he is mentally, emotionally, and spiritually checked out. Toy vacation. Do not disturb.

    **Dublin** — the baby of the group, but also the biggest at 20 pounds. A Pekingese who acts like he speaks no English whatsoever the second you ask something of him. I’m convinced it’s a Pekingese thing. Selective hearing, elevated to an art form.

    Put them together and you get four dogs with one shared skill: the blank stare. The second I start “doing something” — camera, leash, car keys, doesn’t matter — they all lock eyes on me like *”here she goes again, what does she want now, aren’t we due for a walk or a car ride, I do not want to deal with this right now.”* They’re too smart to fall for sneaky. Every time.

    ## The Family Business

    We’re working on their UGC (user-generated content) careers, and honestly — they’re naturals. They’ve worked with brands like Snuggle Puppy, Gruffies, and Charlee Bear, doing unboxings and taste tests. Of course, being free-fed and living the absolute life of Riley, they also have their moments where not even lickety liver can convince them to perform on command. Can’t blame them, really — they know they’re the talent.

    ## The Life I Want For Them

    Dogs’ lives are so short, and that fact sits with me constantly. My goal has always been to give mine the biggest, fullest life I possibly can — travel, the beach, the Pennsylvania mountains, Barkfest, Barktoberfest, Bark in the Park, Puppapalooza, Pupfest, Woofstock, Pupstock, you name it, we’re probably there. We also do a family picture every single month at JB Pet Supply in Oakland or Hawthorne — a little tradition that’s become one of my favorite things.

    I want them to meet new people, see new places, and have real experiences, not just exist in a backyard. That’s the whole goal. The best life possible.

    ## My Soundboard

    A confession: I give all four of them different voices, and I talk to them all day and night. My husband Patrick still laughs at it sometimes. I’ve been doing it so long that I genuinely believe what I’m saying out loud *is* what they’re thinking. If you talk to your dogs like this too, I promise you’re not alone.

    They’ve been my rock on the hard days. I’ve dealt with stress and anxiety attacks since I was a freshman in high school — undiagnosed until I was 26, medicated ever since — and my dogs have always been the ones who could sit with me through it without needing an explanation. Unconditional love, no questions asked.

    And it’s not the first time dogs have carried me through something. Two dogs I had before this pack — before Kaylee, Cash, Frankie, and Dublin — quite literally saved my life once. That’s a story for another post.

    For now, just know: this blog isn’t only about grief and caregiving. It’s also about four ridiculous, beloved little dogs who taught me what unconditional love actually looks like, day in and day out.

    More soon — from both the heavy side of this blog and the happy side.

  • Hello & Welcome to Caregiver Anyway

    Caregiver “Anyway”

    This Is Where My Story Begins: Caring for My Mom and Dad ❤️

    I’m 51 years young, born and raised in New Jersey—and I love my home state. It’s given me a lifetime of memories, both good and hard, and it’s where this whole story starts.

    I’m the youngest of four kids. I’m married to my husband, Patrick, my rock since 2018. We don’t have kids of our own, but we have four dogs who fill our space in ways I never expected. Fair warning: there will be dog content here too.

    But the reason I’m starting this blog isn’t the dogs. It’s the other part of my life—the part that shaped everything else.

    The Caregiver I Became

    I was the primary caregiver for both my parents, back to back, years apart.

    My dad passed away from cancer. My mom passed away from emphysema and COPD after I cared for her through 17 months of hospice, in our home. Years before that, I cared for my dad through 18 months of hospice, also at home.

    That’s a lot of caregiving for one lifetime.

    But it’s not the whole story.

    My relationship with my mom was complicated. She struggled with alcoholism, and there were years of abuse—mental, emotional, and at times physical. I’ll be honest about that here because I think honesty is the only way this blog is worth anything to anyone.

    I was essentially on my own from the time I was seven years old, cooking for myself and taking care of myself while she was in the grips of things she could not control.

    My dad was my best friend, but he worked brutal hours to keep us afloat, so even that relationship had its own kind of distance built in.

    And yet, when the time came, I showed up. For both of them.

    I took care of my mother the way she should have taken care of me.

    Why “Anyway”?

    That word is the whole point of this blog’s name.

    I cared for her anyway. I showed up anyway.

    Despite everything that happened between us, despite every reason I could have pointed to and walked away, I didn’t.

    I’m not writing this to say that makes me a saint. Caregiving for a parent who hurt you is complicated, and I don’t think there’s one right way to feel about it.

    I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only person who has lived this particular kind of hard, and I never found much out there written by someone who actually understands it from the inside.

    If you’re caring for a parent who was not always kind to you—or who wasn’t kind at all—I see you. This blog is for you as much as it is for me.

    What’s Ahead

    This is just the introduction. In the posts to come, I’ll be writing about:

    • What it actually looks like to be a caregiver for someone who hurt you
    • The hospice years, for both of my parents, in detail
    • How grief gets tangled up with old wounds, and how I’ve made peace—or am still making peace—with that
    • Rebuilding my own life afterward: relationships, grief, learning how to live without mom and dad
    • Some big life changes I’m working toward
    • And yes, plenty of stories about my four dogs, because they have been part of my healing, too

    I don’t know exactly how many people will read this. But even if one person finds something here that makes their own “anyway” a little easier to carry — I did it anyway, and so can you.

    More soon. ❤️