Caregiving for a living isn’t. Living, I mean. It’s tiring and draining and frustrating and horrible. There are few satisfactions, few days when one feels as if something’s been accomplished with a feeling of happiness at the end of the day after falling into bed. Generally, it’s falling into bed exhausted. The unseen organizing and re-scheduling and challenges take their toll. Every day. Never mind the personal care and the planning and the shopping and the cooking and cleaning and dodging bullets and trying keep everyone happy. There’s little thanks to be had in this sort of job; certainly no paycheque or benefits. Sick days are an impossibility. Vacations–even days off–are rare.
It’s not a job we actually apply for. It just happens, insidiously, as one chore is added to another, piled on top of a great mountain called Need which becomes greater and greater. And there’s no end in sight.
Caregiving is, as one friend puts it, “relentless, energy depleting, joyful, compassionate work … even more so when it’s Mums or Dads, because boundaries aren’t always respected.” Amen to that.
Tired, tired, tired, tired.
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