The Feral Truth: My Camera Roll Requires Context

I need to establish a rule.

If I hand you my phone to show you a picture...

DO NOT SWIPE.

I cannot stress this enough.

Look at the photo I handed you.

Admire it.

Comment appropriately.

Then return the device to its owner with both hands.

Because my camera roll is no longer a safe place for unsupervised browsing.

There was a time when my photos were fairly predictable.

Dogs.

Vacations.

Food.

Selfies.

Sunsets.

More dogs.

An unreasonable number of cruise pictures.

Normal stuff.

Now?

My camera roll looks like the phone was shared by a travel blogger, a dog mom, and the entire medical staff of a regional hospital.

You'll be scrolling along...

Sophie being adorable.

Brooklyn sleeping in a ridiculous position.

Beautiful sunset.

Cute picture of Paul.

Vacation.

Dinner.

INCISION.

Oh.

Okay.

Keep going.

Dog.

Margarita.

Beach.

MYSTERY SWELLING FROM THREE DIFFERENT ANGLES.

Cruise ship.

Cute shoes.

PHOTO OF A PRESCRIPTION BOTTLE.

Raccoon meme.

SCREENSHOT OF LAB RESULTS.

Iced coffee.

MEDICAL THING I NEEDED TO DOCUMENT AND WILL NOT BE DESCRIBING FURTHER.

And we're back to the dogs.

It's a journey.

Caregiving has completely changed what qualifies as photo-worthy.

Normal people take pictures because they want to remember something.

Caregivers take pictures because we may need to prove something existed.

"It looked worse yesterday."

Excellent.

I have photographic evidence.

"Do you know which medication he was taking?"

Why yes.

Please enjoy this beautifully composed portrait of a Walgreens prescription bottle from April.

"Has the swelling changed?"

GIVE ME ONE SECOND.

I have comparison photos.

Apparently at some point I became the Annie Leibovitz of medically concerning shit.

And then there are screenshots.

Dear God, the screenshots.

Lab results.

Appointment confirmations.

Medication information.

MyChart messages.

Names of doctors.

Phone numbers.

Addresses.

Things I need to research later.

Things I researched and need to remember.

Things someone sent me that I knew would disappear into the abyss if I didn't immediately take a screenshot.

My camera roll isn't even a camera roll anymore.

It's an evidence locker.

The worst part is that all of this lives directly beside completely normal life.

And honestly?

That may be the most accurate representation of caregiving I've ever seen.

Because that's exactly what life looks like.

Medical crisis.

Dog picture.

Appointment.

Dinner with friends.

Scan.

Vacation.

Bloodwork.

Funny meme.

Hospital.

Iced coffee.

Life doesn't organize itself into neat little albums labeled:

THE TERRIFYING PART

and

THE NORMAL PART.

It all happens at once.

So apparently it all lives in the same camera roll too.

Every once in a while, my phone will lovingly remind me of this.

You have a new memory!

Oh, how nice.

Let's see what magical moment you've selected for me today.

Maybe Key West?

A cruise?

The dogs?

Nope.

Apparently three years ago today I photographed a medical device, a hospital wristband and something I was concerned might be infected.

Thank you, Apple.

Beautiful memories.

Really captured the season.

And yet...

I don't delete most of it.

Some of it I eventually do.

But a surprising amount stays.

Because those pictures tell the story too.

Not just the pretty parts.

The weird parts.

The scary parts.

The "I need to show the doctor this later" parts.

The completely ordinary moments happening right beside the extraordinary ones.

And when I scroll back far enough, I can actually see our life continuing through all of it.

There are still vacations.

There are still dinners.

There are still ridiculous pictures of the dogs.

There are still moments where we're laughing.

There are still sunsets.

There is still us.

Just occasionally interrupted by an incision.

So if I hand you my phone to show you a photo, please remember the rules.

Look at the picture.

Say something nice.

Do not swipe.

Because I cannot guarantee what you're going to encounter next.

And neither one of us needs that kind of surprise on a Tuesday.

The Feral Truth: My camera roll may look like evidence from a very confusing medical investigation, but buried between the lab results, prescription bottles and things nobody should swipe into without consent... there's a whole lot of life still happening too.