Caregiving boredom & repetition

Nine PM is Boyd’s bedtime. I have imposed that bedtime, actually I would make it 8:30 if it wasn’t for his resistance. He can no longer follow a tv show, he can no longer carry on a conversation unless I introduce the subject and move it along, he cannot read, he cannot walk alone, he cannot do a simple task. He sits in his chair, watching me and the dog. I think in his mind he thinks he is supporting me by being present. I suppose we never shed all the images of ourselves we hold from our youth.

I want him to go to bed at 8:30.  There is no way he will. I’ve tried passing it off as bedtime but invariably he’ll ask and I cannot lie. So much of our connection is gone. I don’t want him to discover me lying.  Ultimately it doesn’t matter.

But there are still the final nighttime chores I have left to do: locking doors, making the coffee, clearing up the clutter, making the home health list for tomorrow. My life is repetition, repetition, repetition. It is Groundhog Day caregiving.

The phone rings. My granddaughter is sobbing. She was over earlier to help me out with some chores. (she needed gas money). I was so happy for her to take care of some things. She has been close to us because she lived with us part of her teens. Papa has always been her anchor. Loving her, disciplining her, teaching her, always her cheerleader,  Papa is fading and the fading will continue, and the grief and loss will continue, little by little, we will lose him.

She talks about his fading and his illness. She says, guiltily that maybe it would be better if he died quickly and then wishes it back because at least he is still here. There are so many emotions, so much pain and grief. I sympathize, reassure her, and validate her feelings. I tell her how much I love her. We are together in our grief.

Who do I talk to? Who sees my pain, exhaustion, grief? I’m Mom. I’m Grandma. I’m Daughter. I’m a Woman of Faith.  I want to crumble, Sarah crumble? Unheard of.