A Personal and Professional Struggle

I thought my life was hard years ago. 

I was in my late thirties, had a little boy and was working full time teaching and trying to publish.  I was experiencing the old familiar juggle for professional women who are also mothers. The pull between wanting to be with my little one and needing to teach and write, not just for financial reasons, but because that’s a large part of who I am. I’m a mom and wife, but also a teacher and writer.  Those things are an essential part of my being and they connect me with many people.  And I’m certain those things will be part of my legacy in the future. 

In time, I figured, my wonderful little boy would grow up and the fight for my time and soul would lessen.  I loved every minute with him—taking him to see “The Muppets Take Manhattan” or “The Jungle Book” (even though I hated cartoons). I also loved taking him rollerskating, reading books together, and just being silly.  I treasured it all, knowing that he would be more independent, and eventually wouldn’t really want to spend so much time with me.  We’d still be loving, but I’d have more time for writing books and articles. I would be able to do it all.  When my parents got old, I had some of the same tensions, the same pull on my time, but they lived a thousand miles away and I wasn’t always called to care for them. When I went back to Connecticut to deal with a difficult, demented father while helping my exhausted mother, I knew in the back of my mind that in a few days I could just leave and return to my peaceful home. Never did I really think about the distant future. I didn’t think I’d have to relive these difficulties later in my life. 

But here I am.  I’m busier than ever professionally, asked to give talks and write papers. I feel that I’m teaching better than ever, understanding how to connect the past and its literary texts with the present, especially with our current challenges. But I have a husband who is riddled with what is called Parkinsons “plus,” making him ever more demanding of care and attention at this stage of his life. I knew my son would grow up and that my situation of feeling divided would be temporary.  But with my aging husband, now 80 years-old, the moment is temporary, but he’s not going to grow up…. He’s going to die. Though who knows when since his body is strong, despite the diseases, much like my mother who lingered with Alzheimers until she was 95.

Sometimes the days seem interminable. My challenge is not just to sleep or find time to do everything, but how to be loving, give him care, still be myself and not dragged under.  I’m often filled with sadness, anger, frustration and fear. So many mixed emotions, turbulent, even as I try to keep calm.  Immersing myself in work or writing keeps these things at bay. When I walk into the classroom and see the beautiful faces of my students eager to learn, I’m filled with joy and intellectually alive.  When I sit down to write, the ideas and words continue to come, thank God, and I can still focus. 

They say “self-care” is important—it’s not a word I particularly like, just as I’m not keen on the word “caregiver.”  I mean, isn’t that what we should always be doing? Caring about and for other people, other human beings, not just our family and loved ones? Of course, we must not sacrifice ourselves in the process. They say that helping others benefits you. It makes you feel better. But this care-giving now that I’m struggling with is something entirely different. It is, really, “taking care” of someone. To me, the phrase captures that it’s not just a gift but that it takes something from you as well.  There’s always the problem of balancing one’s own needs and health against another’s.  You can become a martyr, which some people may baskl in, but that’s not for me. 

I went to a support group last year where a woman taking care of her mother with Alzheimers said, “there is a purity in our relationship now, and I’m happy.”  “Well, I don’t feel that way,” I said.  The young rabbi said, “Well you will finally get there.” I thought to myself, but didn’t say, “what a pollyana-ish way of glossing over the tragic loss and denying reality.” Maybe if you’ve survived a difficult childhood, as I did growing up with a father who thought he was god, you’ve developed an instinct for getting by. 

Am I enriched by the experience or caring for my increasingly dependent husband? Or drained? It’s a combination I guess and I confess I don’t feel enriched at the moment.  Just torn between all the things I need (and want) to do. I’ve always got to make choices. Do I spend the next few hours at a hospital bed (he’s been hospitalized again for the third time in a month) with my agitated, miserable, but sweet husband, or do I spend them with my 3 year-old granddaughter who’s come for two days to visit?  One gives energy and joy to me, while the other takes it from me. Do I go to my new Parkinson’s support group, where we gain strength from sharing our miseries, or sneak off for a nice lunch to enjoy salad with buccatini cacio e pepe and a big glass of super-Tuscan wine, giving guilty thanks to God for being able to still relish life at times?

This is my daily struggle.