This is more for caregivers than anyone else. For 95% of our life, most kinds of caregivers are rose-colored glasses- cup- is- half- full kind of people. We are the very definition of optimists. We recognize there is no point or purpose in wallowing in self-pity, but sometimes it just feels necessary. But at this point in the winter, my resentment about our SCI situation stretches to when I just need to stop moving for a little while, to refuel, rest, and take a break from the reality of caregiving.
I take strength from my family, friends, and other people’s stories. I learn from every blog I read on the Christopher & Dana Reeve Foundation. I read about Kristin Beale being pregnant (yay). I wished she lived in NH so I could introduce her to Brenna Bean Warnick, another super SCI friend who just had a baby last year. Watching her and her husband navigate the challenges of babyhood takes me right back. I want to say, “Kristin meet Brenna,” and, “oh hey, your husbands should probably meet too because they understand more about your situation than your next-door neighbors, despite their kindness and willingness to help/ listen when times are rough, will ever truly get.
But always, I’m surprised when a good cry hits me. Recently, it happened when a dear friend of mine was lamenting how after a recent snowstorm, she had to be the one to deal with the driveway because her husband was traveling. I listened and provided the sympathy she needed at that moment, but on the inside was yelling, “Welcome to my life every damn day in the winter.” My friends will read this article and then wonder, “Oh, was it me? Am I the one who said that to Heather?” and that will make me feel bad because I don’t want my friends to filter their feelings about their lives in comparison to my own. We all have our challenges and struggles, no matter our physical abilities. So if you are wondering if it was you, don’t wonder for too long-- it doesn’t change anything. You are still my friend, and I am able to vent to you at other times, which is important, so we don’t hold our resentment inside for too long.
Then, we turn to those moments which make us smile. Take this photo of my daughter, who is not yet five feet tall, but whose help I needed one day during a snowstorm when trying to put my car in the garage. I had not tried putting the car in the garage with our ski rack on top and wasn’t sure it would fit. We’ve all seen videos of people breaking their garage doors, and that scared me. So I had her stand on a chair to make sure she could see the top. We took one inch at a time, with me trusting that she had enough perspective of height to get me into the garage without ripping off the Thule rack or the door.