They don’t tell you this when you first step into the role of a caregiver, but you eventually develop a specific kind of gravity. I call it the Caregiver Magnet.
Once the world sees that you can navigate a medical crisis without collapsing—once they see you can manage aphasia, lift a grown man, and handle the “Relentless Tide”—you become the designated 911 for everyone in your orbit.
This week, the Magnet pulled in a new patient: my daughter’s cat.
One fractured femur surgery later, my house is a cross between an ICU and a petting zoo. My daughter is off on a much-needed family vacation with her fiancé’s family because I told her to go. I told her I had this.
Because that’s what we do. We stretch. We pivot. We absorb the crisis so others can breathe.
But as I sit here surrounded by three cats, a dog, a recovering husband, and a feline patient on a strict medication schedule and restricted movement while recovering for surgery for a fractured femur I’m reminded of the “Objective Facts” I wrote about in my last newsletter.
The facts today: 1. Meds administered (human and animal). 2. Floors (mostly) clean. 3. Everyone is breathing.
I’m exhausted, I’m overwhelmed, and I’m covered in pet hair and medical tape. I don’t feel “joyful” about this detour, but I am committed to the labor.
If you’re currently the “Magnet” for your own family’s chaos, know that I see you. We are a small, tired army, but we are still standing.
Back to the triage.
