No Saints around Here: A Caregiver’s Days

Time on the Tundra

69 TIME ON THE TUNDRA April 7 Iam trudging across an endless, frozen tundra. Everything is blurred into the same numbing color—ice, snow, sky. Pushing a heavy sled ahead of me, its strapped bundles teetering, I cannot see a horizon. I have no idea where I’m going. Time has vanished. I just keep moving. That was exactly how I felt two days ago, when a brief snowstorm pushed an unbearably long winter even further into April. I did not see myself as an explorer, however, headed toward a new discovery. I was not brave, not adventurous, just stupefied. I was trapped on a journey without map or compass. A caregiver’s routine can sometimes bring on a mental snowstorm . That morning I heard myself give James exactly the same instructions as every other morning. “Okay, grab the white bar, grab the other bar, sit down.” At the dining table: “Straight ahead, to the chair, that’s right, uncross your legs, pull into the table.” I have many such formulaic phrases. “No, not that way, up the stairs. Up the stairs. To your closet. Your closet.” I live in an echo chamber. I do exactly the same things every morning. Get up promptly at seven—my night aide’s duty ends at seven, and I need to give James his pill—and start moving fast. Out of my bed to check on time on the tundra 70 James. Move him from his bed to commode, back to bed. Dress myself quickly. Downstairs, open front door, take in newspaper. Fix myself a speedy breakfast, all the while watching my video monitor to make sure James has gone back to sleep. Let the cats out of their room—impossible to permit their jumping up and down on our beds during the night—and feed them. Grab the fat cat, and set her down in a small bathroom so she can’t eat the othercats’ food. These are not the most wonderful cats I have ever owned, but no one else would want them. So they remain. Now it is time to set out the morning pills, his and mine. Cut his big ones in half. Place the Kleenex, sheets of paper towel, and wastebasket by his chair. Pour juice and water. Start his coffee. Put away last night’s dishes if I had been too tired to do that. Oops, fresh water for the cats. We’re almost out of orange juice. Make a note. Oops again, I need to move James’s bottle of laxative where I’ll see it, or I might forget the morning dose. Uh oh, James is now moving again, antsy, wanting to start his day. Upstairs. “Okay, get your balance. Careful, careful. Now head to the stairs. One foot at a time. Excellent, excellent. Another foot. Yes, excellent. Now straight ahead to the chair.” Some mornings I want to scream. Other mornings I drift through this routine with a measure of tranquility, moving without thinking too much, my mind looking ahead to the hour when Martha will arrive. Or I’ll try to practice a little Zen, concentrating on just what I am doing, hoping to live precisely in the present. I’m still not very good at this. Many years ago, when James and I vacationed on the northern California coast, I became friendly with the young woman who ran our bed-and-breakfast. Mimi described her sometimes difficult clients, the witless damage, the constant cleaning, the breakfasts that had to be prepared right on time, the multitude of chores. A devoted Zen disciple, Mimi told me, “My biggest test is time on the tundra 71 when I’m cleaning a toilet. I turn the task into a meditation. I pay attention to my work, every gesture, every moment.” I wish for a touch of Mimi in the morning. Rather than savor the moment, I often feel as if time has alarmingly telescoped. I have just finished clearing up after breakfast, and now I need to get James into his pajamas. Where did the day go? How did I disappear ? Why am I on this frozen tundra? ...