The Hard Plastic Chair

Looks so warm and inviting, doesn't it?

It's always there, if you look for it. It comes in a lot of different shapes and sizes and colors, and it occasionally isn't even plastic. At times, there might be more than one, but it's usually a lone fixture.

It's always uncomfortable.

It's the chair that's meant for the caregiver. Next to the comfortable recliner or bed intended for the patient it sits, waiting for another weary soul to come into its cold, hard embrace.

Throughout this whole experience, I've been told how brave, how strong, how resilient I've been. Some have commented on how well I've gone through this. How hard it must be for me. 

That all may or may not be true. I haven't had the opportunity to observe many others go through cancer treatments. There is, however, one thing I know for certain.

My wife has had it far worse and handled it far better.

When someone's sick, especially when it's long-term, it's always (ALWAYS) more difficult for the caregiver. In addition to their normal load, they've been handed an anvil they must carry around on their shoulders. It's a heavy load made up of love, concern, guilt, anger, frustration. And it's a burden that they rarely feel they can put down, even for a moment.

With the patient (me), it's all about doing what I can while staying as comfortable as possible. I deal with the ugliness of the disease because I have to, not out of any altruistic nobility. 

Not so with my wife.

In addition to all of the extra load she's had to pick up in terms of care, she's adding to that burden all of the things I used to do when I had the strength and health to do so. The difficulty increases as the time of the treatment is prolonged. Any momentary uptick in my energy and helpfulness can often be more discouraging than the day-to-day routine of fatigue and pain. It's like she gets to see a glimmer of my old self, but only enough to make the pain of not having that old self around consistently more acute. 

And this is just a guess on my part, but there has to be guilt. No one's perfect, and as loving and patient as a caregiver can be, there have to be times when they're just fed up with it. Done. Overwhelmed, overburdened, overextended. To then face that loved one, with those feelings lurking under the surface (and after having them occasionally bubble to the top), must feel like agony.

So often, when I'm in pain, there's nothing my wife can do. Seeing someone we love suffer without the slightest clue of how to make it better is some kind of cruel hell on earth. All she can do is sit with me in my personal Gethsemane, giving me comfort, support, and understanding.

She does that really well.

All of these are my thoughts, based off what I've observed in her and in others I know going through something like this. Very few talk to the caregiver, or bring them gifts, or sit to listen to their stories. Few acknowledge their sacrifice. All the attention goes to the one obviously hurting, not the one struggling to keep everything from falling apart.

So they sit in their hard plastic chairs, smiling when people ask them how they're doing, replying with a short answer meant to turn away more probing. They suffer in silence, counting the moments until the end of the disease, but dreading the possibility of the end of the life.

Look for the chairs. Look for the occupants. And when you see them, do what you can to give them some of your love. 

They're giving all they have to keep their loved ones alive.

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