Since early July, Donna and I have continued to live our lives together while I have maintained regular contributions to DL here. I intend to draw this down, but nowhere near to a close. Why? Because my heart is making me do it.
When the summer days are rolling by, Donna has more options for things we can do together, life itself becomes a more precious, joyful commodity. But while getting Donna camping, traveling and enjoying many of the life affirming things that make all the work helping her stay at home possible is wonderful, having a feeling of “obligated gawking allowance” or something less tongue twisty, is awful.
Often on journeys out of the home I found over the last month I break down and simply refuse to even bring along a camera. Donna and I have a special place in this universe, and as much as I want to share the lessons about caregiving in general– and life having value beyond individual agency– even with the effort having been self-directed, I’ve found myself resenting the process of writing up, photographing and sharing so much of our lives.
This is not the end of sharing, but rather that it is time to make certain I’m not sharing “to make deadlines,” etc.
Going forward, I must listen to my heart and protect our space while opening a visor in, not of obligation but wonderful virtual guests. We will invite you all along soon, but we have been back and forth to the lake at least a half dozen times in recent weeks. Mom had some of her greatest times, and I’ve been learning more about what works– and how to ‘teach’ things to mom, while she keeps teaching me relentlessly.
And that’s the key word. Our lives like this, with the struggles, are relentless in concept. Relentless in new problems, and relentless in need for space and understanding. I cannot be feeling a relentless pull of this project, at least on a schedule, while relentlessly caregiving. Home, Mom’s happiness and my stability come first. The project is not ending, but changing. It is now a secondary concern. And that– that it will stay.
Love you, Mom.