The Feral Truth: There Is No Dignity in Caregiving

Nobody tells you that one of the first casualties of long-term caregiving is dignity.

Not love.

Not commitment.

Dignity.

That bitch leaves early.

There comes a point in a relationship where you realize you've crossed a line from:

"I'd like to remain mysterious and attractive to this person."

to:

"Can you come look at this and tell me if you think it's infected?"

And there's really no coming back from that.

I have been married long enough that I thought we'd already eliminated most of the mystery.

I was wrong.

Cancer said, Hold my beer.

Caregiving introduces conversations into your relationship that absolutely did not appear in the wedding vows.

Nobody stood at the altar and said:

"Do you promise to love, honor, cherish, and occasionally discuss the color, consistency, frequency, and general personality of each other's bowel movements?"

Because apparently that's part of the package.

There are questions I have asked my husband that I never imagined asking another adult human.

"When did you poop last?"

"How much?"

"Was it normal?"

"What do you mean you don't remember?"

Sir.

I need data.

This is not the time to become mysterious.

And bodily functions are just the beginning.

Eventually you're discussing urine.

Rashes.

Incisions.

Swelling.

Drainage.

Mucus.

Things growing where things should absolutely not be growing.

Things leaking from places that were not designed to leak.

And approximately seventeen varieties of vomit.

At some point you realize you're standing in a bathroom at 2 a.m. holding a flashlight while examining something that would have caused First-Date You to fake your own death.

Now?

Tuesday.

Medical professionals don't help preserve the mystery either.

They'll ask deeply personal questions in a room full of people with the casual energy of someone asking whether you'd like fries with that.

"Any diarrhea?"

"Sexually active?"

"Any problems urinating?"

And you're sitting six inches away from your spouse thinking:

Well.

I guess we're all family now.

Then there are the procedures.

Sweet Jesus, the procedures.

Once you've watched enough people poke, scan, drain, inject, swab, scope, shave, tape, catheterize, examine and otherwise investigate the person you love...

Modesty becomes more of a nostalgic concept.

Like Blockbuster.

We remember it fondly.

But it's gone.

And somehow, despite all of this...

There's something strangely beautiful about it.

Because real love isn't always flowers and anniversary dinners.

Sometimes love is sitting beside someone when they're scared.

Sometimes it's cleaning something neither of you ever wants to discuss again.

Sometimes it's helping them get dressed.

Sometimes it's knowing exactly how they like their pillows arranged after surgery.

Sometimes it's saying:

"Nope. That doesn't look right. I'm calling the doctor."

Sometimes it's handing someone a puke bucket without making a big deal about it.

Romance evolves.

I used to think intimacy meant knowing someone's hopes and dreams.

And it does.

But twenty-plus years of marriage and a whole lot of medical bullshit have expanded the definition considerably.

Intimacy is also knowing when they're pretending they feel better than they do.

It's recognizing the face they make when they're in pain.

It's knowing they're scared before they say it.

It's understanding that sometimes they need help...

and helping without making them feel helpless.

That's a different kind of closeness.

One nobody puts on Valentine's Day cards.

Probably because:

"I love you so much I keep track of your bowel movements"

doesn't sell particularly well at Hallmark.

But maybe it should.

Caregiving strips away a lot.

Privacy.

Modesty.

Personal space.

Occasionally your will to live while discussing constipation for the fourth consecutive day.

But underneath all that awkwardness, there's something incredibly human.

You see each other differently.

Not polished.

Not performing.

Not pretending.

Just two people trying to get through something hard together.

And yes...

sometimes one of those people is holding a flashlight.

The Feral Truth: There may be absolutely no dignity left in caregiving, but there is an extraordinary kind of love in being completely known, occasionally gross, wildly vulnerable... and still choosing each other anyway.