When the caregiver needs care

I don’t get sick days, so the test results were posted to my chart while I was sitting in my office. I opened them before I ever saw the doctor.

I knew what I was looking at, but I checked it again. After researching what I already suspected, I sat there for a moment. The first thought came and went, then the one that remained: What about Gracie?

For 40 years, I have been my wife’s caregiver. After a catastrophic car wreck at age 17, doctors didn’t expect her to survive the night. No one imagined she would marry, have children, and live to see grandchildren.

Trusting Him does not remove the burden, but it defines how I can carry it.

But she did. What didn’t change was the crises.

When the surgery count approaches 100, a crisis is no longer an interruption. It becomes the environment. For 40 years, it has never plateaued.

The pressure doesn’t arrive once a month in tidy episodes. Sometimes it arrives daily. You live on alert, always vigilant, always calculating what could go wrong next. Choking. Seizures. Code blue. Falls. Wound care. Non-responsive. I’ve seen it all. This is the terrain we live in.

Our life runs on a system most people never see and few could imagine. Meals, medications, transfers, safety, transportation, finances, advocacy. I carry all of it. I speak when she can’t. I’m there when she needs something as simple as a glass of water.

It’s a highly specialized operation with no backup, no redundancy, and no margin for error. And like millions of caregivers across this country, I am the one running it.

Two days after I received my test results, sitting in the exam room, the doctor asked if I had any questions. I had the usual, plus two more: How much care will I need afterward? And how much care will I still be able to provide?

That’s how close this is.

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So when cancer enters the picture, the question isn’t so much about survival as collapse. If I go down, what happens to her?

That’s not fear; it’s just math.

We spend a great deal of time arguing about who is fit to lead this country. But across this country, there are millions of people quietly carrying responsibilities that would break most of the people we argue about.

Those responsibilities don’t come with cameras or talking, and they have no margin for error. There is just the weight of responsibility.

And when something like cancer enters that equation, the question isn’t political, but structural. What actually holds up when the person holding everything together can’t?

This diagnosis was caught early. That gives me time to deal with it.

Caregivers are told to take care of themselves. I have said that for years, and I meant it. But this case is no longer maintenance. It requires intervention, recovery, and being pulled away from the work. And that interrupts and affects everything: Health. Emotions. Lifestyle. Profession. Money. Endurance. Nothing is left untouched.

Spell that out, and it says what so many caregivers struggle to say: Sometimes we need help.

I need the system to hold while I step away long enough to deal with this current issue, and that means accepting care that won’t be done the way I would do it. It means training others and paying for help. It means absorbing the reality that things will go wrong, as they inevitably do.

But this is where conviction steps in. My wife has a Savior, and I am not that Savior.

But still, breakfast has to be made and the laundry has to be done. Trusting Him does not remove the burden, but it defines how I can carry it.

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The question I have asked for years now returns to me: Christian, what do you believe?

If I believe what I say I do, then what is required of me in this moment? We sing hymns about trusting God, and times like this are when that trust is tested.

Years ago, a reporter asked me, “What would Jesus do as a caregiver?”

I don’t know what He would do. I know what He did do. From the cross, He looked at His mother and entrusted her to John.

Over the years, I have trusted surgeons I barely knew to take my wife into a room and do what I could not. I have signed the papers, handed her over, and waited. Not because I understood everything they were doing, but because I trusted that they did.

I trust surgeons I barely know. How much more can I trust the Savior whom I do?

In His hands, what looks severe is not careless. It is precise and purposeful.

I don’t get to step out of this, but I am not standing in it alone. So I take the next step.