The Feral Truth: We Celebrate Some Really Weird Shit Now

Before I became a caregiver, I had fairly normal reasons to celebrate.

Birthdays.

Anniversaries.

Vacations.

Business wins.

Finding a really good airfare.

You know.

Normal human milestones.

Then I started caring for people with cancer and apparently lost all perspective on what constitutes exciting news.

Because now?

I celebrate some really weird shit.

"His labs look good!"

🎉🎉🎉

Which labs?

Doesn't matter.

THE NUMBERS PLEASE ME.

Hemoglobin went up?

I'm practically popping champagne.

White count recovered?

Look at those beautiful little overachieving bastards.

Platelets behaving themselves?

I have never been prouder of a group of microscopic cells that aren't even mine.

There was a time when I had absolutely no emotional attachment to another person's platelets.

I miss her.

She was so innocent.

Then there are the bodily-function celebrations.

This is where you know you've truly crossed over into Caregiverland.

He pooped?

FANTASTIC NEWS.

Ate an entire sandwich?

LOOK AT HIM GO.

Drank enough water without me asking seventeen times?

WHO IS THIS MAN?

Walked a little farther today?

I'm mentally updating everyone like he's just qualified for the Olympics.

Slept through the night?

Nobody move.

Nobody speak.

Nobody even think loudly.

I will personally fight anyone who wakes that man up.

Caregiving changes your definition of a good day.

That's one of the strangest things about it.

Before all of this, I probably wouldn't have noticed half the things I celebrate now.

Someone I love breathing a little easier.

Having an appetite.

Getting some energy back.

Feeling well enough to leave the house.

And my personal favorite:

A boring appointment.

Oh, how I love a boring appointment.

There are few things sexier to a caregiver than a doctor walking into an exam room and saying:

"Everything looks stable. We'll see him in three months."

YES, YOU WILL.

GOODBYE.

WE LOVE YOU.

PLEASE DON'T CALL US.

And can we discuss the word stable?

Normal people hear "stable" and think:

Meh.

Nothing changed.

Caregivers hear "stable" and immediately start texting people:

STABLE!!!

With an irresponsible number of exclamation points.

Because once you've spent enough time sitting beside someone you love waiting for scan results, you understand that good news doesn't always arrive as:

"The cancer is gone."

Sometimes good news is:

It didn't grow.

The treatment is working.

The fever is gone.

The pain is better.

The oxygen number stayed where it was supposed to.

The doctor isn't worried.

We get another three months before we have to hold our breath again.

And that counts.

God, does it count.

I think that's one of the unexpected ways caregiving has changed me.

I notice victories I never would've noticed before.

Not because they're happening to me.

Because when you love someone who's sick, their wins somehow become yours to celebrate too.

I don't need fireworks anymore.

Give me an uneventful Tuesday.

Give me Paul asking what we're having for dinner because he's actually hungry.

Give me a night when I don't wake up wondering if he's breathing okay.

Give me a lab result with absolutely nothing new highlighted in red.

Give me a doctor's appointment where nobody says:

"There's something we need to discuss."

I'll throw my own damn parade.

I would not recommend the method by which I acquired this perspective.

Zero stars.

Terrible program.

Extremely expensive.

Would not enroll again.

But I will admit that it has taught me not to blow past the good moments just because they're small.

Because when you've watched someone you love struggle to do things that used to require absolutely no thought...

You understand how enormous "small" can actually be.

So yes.

I celebrate poop.

I celebrate sandwiches.

I celebrate boring scans.

I celebrate numbers on lab reports that would've meant absolutely nothing to me a few years ago.

And if today's update is that he ate, he slept, his numbers behaved themselves, and nobody needed to contact a medical professional?

I don't need anything more exciting.

That is an excellent fucking day.

The Feral Truth: Caregiving has taught me that sometimes loving someone looks suspiciously like becoming wildly emotionally invested in their appetite, their lab results... and whether or not they've pooped today.