I think one of the hardest parts of being my age and being the primary caregiver for my terminally ill father is that most of my friends don’t really know how to be my friends through it.
On the one hand, I would just like to say that I do have amazing people in my life. I have a large network of extremely talented and compassionate people around me, and I even have a handful of them who are close enough to me that I consider them long-haul friends (i.e. I plan to keep being friends with them for a long time, no matter where life takes us.). A large proportion of my ‘network’ of friends have offered their support in the general way–you know, the, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do!”–and left it at that. You may be surprised, but I actually appreciate those potentially empty gestures. I probably won’t call on them, and they probably know that, but the point is in the offer. It’s a brief acknowledgement of my difficult time, a reasonable understanding that if I were in a desperate situation I may need their help, and then a hands-off approach that gives me the space to deal with it on my own.
But then there are the people for whom, for better or for worse, I have greater expectations. These are the long-haul friends. These are the ones who supported me through college stress and life decisions and tearful break-ups. These are the ones who write letters to me and call me when I’m away. These are the ones who ‘get’ me. Right?
Well, unfortunately, this situation puts the most strain on these long-haul friends because for the first time, all the old methods of supporting me don’t quite fit. When I talk to my friends about medical terms and helping my father off the floor, I do so with the full understanding that they don’t ‘get’ it at all. So when they do those little things that used to be okay–offering advice, telling me it will all be okay in time, or relating an experience of theirs that has very little to do with mine–it grates on me much more than it should. I sit there and nod and try to keep my composure while I am bursting with angry thoughts. The traditional, “Don’t say you understand because you have no idea what this is like,” rages right alongside things like, “Stop telling me it’s going to be okay because right now it isn’t,” and “Don’t you think I’ve tried doing that,” and “The point in my telling you this isn’t to get answers; it’s so someone has some idea what it’s like, and I don’t feel so alone in this.”
And yet, I don’t say those things because I know that my long-haul friends mean well. In fact, they more than mean well. They love me, and they are trying to do the best they can in a situation they’ve never been in before. Much like what I’m doing with my dad, in fact. So I don’t blame them. I love them for trying.
But, that doesn’t erase the fact that each time we talk about my dad and my new life as a caregiver, I feel more and more distance spreading between us. I learn not to bring it up, not to talk about it, not to expect them to understand, and I try to let them just be the distractions from that part of my life. They are good at that role, and they seem much more comfortable being there.
What bothers me most is that such a huge part of my life has become foreign to 95% of the people I know. I guess that’s what support groups are for, but I don’t know how I’m going to get over the fact that my closest friends won’t be witness to this massive event in my life. If I can’t talk to them about this life-defining transition, I don’t know how they’ll really even know who I am anymore. It seems kind of melodramatic, but I guess I’m afraid of us growing apart. And I’m also afraid that I’ll be the only one who notices or cares.
Ladybird Fly 