I don’t want to be my daughter’s caregiver anymore.
And with those words, my body flushes with hot shame.
How can I write that? My daughter still needs me and probably always will. She needs me to be her strength and protection. Her interpreter. Her best friend. She needs me to fight the three-headed dragon called health care in America with endless determination, never giving up and never backing down.
So I will.
But I don’t want to anymore.
I don’t want to spend another day locked in her Disney princess bedroom watching other people’s children grow up, go to college, make mistakes, fall in love, get jobs, get married, have their own children and eventually stand on their own two feet as fully grown humans. I don’t think she wants that either. Watching her stare out the window, I see how much she wants to be free too. She’s an adult now.
As she grows, she needs me more, not less.
As I grow, I resent that need more, not less.
Shame returns, catching in my throat. I’m supposed to be silent about the rage I feel when the walls of this house are too thick. I’m not supposed to tell anyone that I dream of running away every time I get in my car. Maybe I won’t go to work… maybe I’ll just keep going until I run out of gas money and then I’ll change my name and never look back.
I will always look back. I will never leave her.
Today while making my daughter a tuna fish sandwich I suddenly sat on the floor and wept for every single lost dream she and I have. The weight of fear, rage and grief pressed me so hard my knees ached against the linoleum floor. Then I heard her calling me. “Mom!”
I stood up, because she was hungry and needed that sandwich to fuel her damaged mitochondria. I pressed the tears back down where I keep them tightly hidden between my heart and diaphragm. My body still shook as I finished her meal but once I brought it to her the tears were gone.
Not the feelings, though.
I don’t want to be her caregiver anymore. I want to be her mom.
Shame keeps every caregiver silent. But I’m tired of carrying that silence as well as the chronic grief.
Today, I am writing this for every caregiver who loves their child, parent, partner or friend deeply, but is worn out from ignoring their own dreams. I’m ashamed, but I know I’m not alone.
Neither are you.