Feral Truth #1: I Didn’t Choose The Caregiving Life — The Caregiving Life Chose Me

I didn’t wake up one day and decide “You know what sounds fun? Caregiving.”

There was no plan. No soft launch. No gentle “ease into this new chapter.”

It was just—

One moment where life went sideways…

…and then it never straightened back out.

It started in January 2023.

My dad.

Head and neck cancer.

And just like that, I was in it.

Appointments.

Medications.

Doctors saying words I had to Google in the parking lot while trying not to cry.

By June, they said “cured.”

And we exhaled like we’d been underwater for months.

We thought we made it through.

We really did.

We didn’t.

Because in July—

My mom.

Lung cancer.

Already in her brain.

Not curable.

“Treatable.”

(Which is a word that sounds hopeful until you actually understand what it means.)

And then because life apparently had a sense of humor—

September.

My husband.

Hodgkin’s lymphoma.

So just to recap—

Dad had cancer.

Mom had cancer.

My husband had cancer.

All at the same time.

People love to say:

“I don’t know how you do it.”

And I always want to say:

I don’t.

There’s no system.

There’s no strength.

There’s no magical resilience fairy sprinkling coping skills on me at night.

You just…

don’t have a choice.

So you keep going.

I became the system.

I tracked everything.

Scheduled everything.

Held every detail in my head like if I dropped one thing, the whole house would collapse.

I sat in waiting rooms so often they started to feel like a second home.

I learned how to hear what doctors weren’t saying.

Which, turns out, is just as important as what they are saying.

I Googled things at 2am that absolutely wrecked me.

I nodded through conversations I barely understood because my brain was already full.

And somehow—

we kept going.

April 2024—

My husband was declared cured.

And for a second…

it felt like maybe we were getting our life back.

We weren’t.

Because “cured” doesn’t mean normal.

It means a different kind of hard.

Post-chemo complications.

Neurological issues.

More doctors.

More fear.

And eventually—

brain surgery.

At that point, “normal life” felt like something I saw in a movie once.

Then November 2025—

The cancer came back.

Because of course it did.

During the biopsy, they damaged the nerve that controls his breathing.

So now his diaphragm is paralyzed.

Which is exactly as terrifying as it sounds.

So now we’re not just fighting cancer again.

We’re fighting for breath.

For energy.

For the ability to do basic things without his body betraying him.

There was a plan.

More chemo.

Then a stem cell transplant.

The big fix.

The thing that was supposed to move us forward.

Except now?

That’s on hold.

Indefinitely.

Because his lungs can’t handle it.

And just when you think maybe life has hit capacity on chaos—

January 2026.

My dad.

Again.

This time, esophageal cancer.

His body never really recovered from the first time.

And this time…

it just couldn’t keep up.

We lost him in March.

And here’s the part no one prepares you for—

Everything doesn’t stop.

Grief doesn’t pause your responsibilities.

No one comes in and says,

“Hey, take a few weeks. We’ve got this.”

There are still medications.

Still appointments.

Still decisions.

Still people who need you.

So you keep going.

Grieving… while functioning.

Breaking… while organizing.

Exhausted… while advocating.

And somewhere in the middle of all of this—

I realized something.

I wasn’t failing.

This whole thing?

It’s not designed to work.

Caregivers are expected to manage literal life-and-death logistics…

With no training.

No roadmap.

And a whole lot of vague advice like:

“Stay organized.”(With what??)

“Advocate.”(For what exactly??)

“Ask questions.”(Which ones?? When?? HOW??)

So yeah.

I got a little…

feral.

Not unhinged.

Not reckless.

Just—

done waiting for someone to explain how to survive something that no one actually explains.

This version of me?

She’s tired.

She’s overwhelmed.

She’s holding it together with caffeine, lists, and pure stubbornness.

But she’s also—

Focused.

Protective.

Relentless as hell.

That’s what this space is.

Not polished.

Not perfect.

Just real.

Because if you’re here—

You’re probably in it too.

And if you are?

You already know.

This life doesn’t ask if you’re ready.

It just hands it to you…

and expects you to figure it out.

So this is me.

Figuring it out.

Loudly.

Messily.

Honestly.

And if you’re somewhere in the middle of your own version of this—

You’re not crazy.

You’re not failing.

You’re just doing something that no one prepares you for.

Welcome to the feral side of caregiving.