I Need Everyone to Stop Asking Me to Make Decisions

There are decisions I can make without hesitation.

Call the doctor.

Go to the ER.

Bring the wheelchair.

Pack the oxygen.

Follow up on the referral.

Push back.

Ask another question.

I can sit in a room with medical professionals discussing something genuinely important and somehow my brain will show up for work.

But at 6:17 p.m.,

I Have Already Made 847 Decisions Today

This is something I didn't understand about caregiving until I was living it.

It's not just the things you do.

It's the endless decisions attached to every damn thing.

Does this symptom matter?

Is it different?

Should I call?

Do we wait?

Which doctor?

Does he need the wheelchair?

How much oxygen?

Is everything charged?

Did he take that medication?

Do I need to refill it?

Can I leave him alone?

Should I move my appointment?

Can this wait until tomorrow?

What do I need to follow up on?

What did that doctor say?

Who was supposed to call me?

Do I need to call them because they didn't call me?

And that's just Paul.

There's my mom's care.

My own medical shit.

The business.

The house.

The dogs.

The website.

Groceries.

Bills.

Appointments.

Emails.

The normal administrative bullshit required to remain a functioning adult.

My brain has been chairing meetings since approximately 7:03 a.m.

Then somebody asks:

“Do you want Italian or Mexican?”

I WANT SILENCE.

Is that on DoorDash?

The Problem Is Not Dinner

This is important.

Dinner didn't do anything wrong.

I love dinner.

Big fan.

The problem is that dinner has arrived at the end of a day containing approximately eleven thousand tiny decisions.

And now I'm expected to have an opinion about tacos versus pasta.

Sir.

I have no opinions remaining.

The opinion department closed at 4:36.

We will reopen tomorrow pending staffing.

This is also why seemingly ridiculous decisions can become my breaking point.

I can spend the morning dealing with doctors, medications, work and something medically complicated without losing my shit.

Then someone asks which paper towels I want.

And suddenly I'm staring at two packages in Publix thinking:

I CANNOT LIVE LIKE THIS.

They're paper towels.

I know.

But my brain doesn't know.

My brain has already used all available processing power on things with actual consequences.

It does not have sufficient RAM for select-a-size versus full sheet.

Buy whichever one absorbs liquid.

Godspeed.

Please Just Pick Something

This is what I want people to understand about helping someone who's overloaded.

Sometimes I don't want help making the decision.

I want you to make the harmless decision.

Pick the restaurant.

Choose the movie.

Order the pizza.

Decide which laundry detergent.

Buy the dog treats.

Choose a time.

I promise I will survive.

If I have a strong opinion, you'll know.

I am not historically known for concealing those.

But if I say:

“I don't care.”

There is a very good chance I genuinely mean:

Please remove this decision from my brain before I start chewing drywall.

This is not the moment to lovingly offer me seventeen additional options.

"Okay, but what sounds good?"

Nothing.

"Do you want me to name some places?"

No.

"What about—"

PICK. A. RESTAURANT.

I believe in you.

This is your moment.

There Are Too Many Questions With Consequences

That's what makes the little ones so exhausting.

Caregiving comes with decisions where I desperately wish somebody could tell me the right answer.

Do we proceed?

Do we wait?

Is this worth the risk?

Is this symptom something?

Is he improving?

Is this the right specialist?

What happens if this doesn't work?

There isn't always a clean answer.

Sometimes you gather the information, ask the questions, weigh the options and make the best decision you can with what you know at that moment.

That's a lot of responsibility.

So when we get home from the appointment where my brain has been doing advanced medical calculus and somebody wants to know whether I prefer thin crust or hand-tossed?

THIS ONE DOES NOT REQUIRE MY LEADERSHIP.

I hereby delegate pizza.

I Don't Need Every Decision to Be a Group Project

Somewhere along the way, we've decided asking someone what they want is considerate.

Usually it is.

But when someone is overloaded, it can accidentally become another assignment.

"What can I do to help?"

Decision.

"What do you want me to pick up?"

Decision.

"When should I come?"

Decision.

"What should I make?"

Decision.

"Where do you want me to put it?"

Decision.

At some point I want to hand out a memo:

USE YOUR BEST JUDGMENT.

You have been selected for this mission because I believe in your abilities.

Do not contact headquarters unless the building is actively on fire.

This May Also Explain Why I Have Systems for Everything

Lists.

Notes.

Calendars.

Hospital bags.

Medication lists.

Chargers that live in specific places.

Things packed ahead of time.

Things reordered before they're completely gone.

All the ridiculous little systems I've created over the last few years aren't because organization brings me inner peace.

Have you met me?

They're there because every system eliminates a future decision.

If the hospital bag is already packed, I don't have to decide what goes in it.

If the medication list is updated, I don't have to reconstruct it.

If something has a designated place, I don't have to figure out where the hell I put it.

Every system is basically Present Kari leaving Future Kari a tiny note:

I handled this one for you.

And Future Kari appreciates the hell out of her.

I Think This Is Why Tiny Things Sometimes Break Caregivers

People see the tiny thing.

They don't see the 846 decisions that came before it.

So when a caregiver loses her mind because somebody asks what she wants for dinner, it looks ridiculous.

Dinner isn't the crisis.

Dinner is Decision 847.

That's all.

The brain has left the building.

There will be no further questions.

Please leave your message after the beep.

I can make the big decisions when I need to.

I will.

That's part of loving people and being responsible for things and unfortunately being a grown-ass adult.

But I would like to formally announce that I do not need executive authority over every single decision made within a 50-foot radius of my body.

Somebody else can choose dinner.

Somebody else can pick the movie.

Somebody else can decide whether we need more paper towels.

And for the love of everything holy:

If I tell you I don't care where we eat?

DO NOT ASK ME TO PICK BETWEEN FOUR RESTAURANTS.

Just feed me.

I will be so grateful.

The Feral Truth: I can make complicated medical decisions, manage a business, keep track of appointments and somehow keep several living creatures alive. But by dinnertime, my decision-making department is closed. If the consequences are tacos or pizza, please use your best judgment and leave me out of it.