Mom was sitting in her chair sobbing and begging for the pain to stop. A trigeminal neuralgia attack had come on without warning, and the shocks were so severe that all she could do was hold her face, cry, and plead for relief. Through her tears, she asked me to call her brother so he could come pray with her. Even in that much pain, she wanted prayer.
My main support system was out of town, and I could feel the weight of having to handle this settling over me. I called 911 and did my best to keep my voice calm for her, even though my mind was racing. I didn’t cry in front of her. I just kept moving through whatever needed to happen next.
By God’s mercy, the hospital knew what to do, and Mom finally got some relief. We got home around three in the morning. But on that quiet drive home, after the worst was over, my hands began to shake.
If you’re a caregiver, you may know exactly what I’m talking about. You get through the emergency. You answer the questions, make the decisions, and try to help the person you love feel safe. Then things settle down, and everything you’ve been holding back starts catching up with you. Sometimes it happens in the car. Sometimes it’s behind a closed bathroom door or in the kitchen after everyone else has gone to bed. You finally have a minute to fall apart.
I’ve cried myself to sleep more than once because I was simply worn out. I’ve loved my parents with everything in me and still felt frustrated by how much was being asked of me. Then I’ve felt guilty for being frustrated. There have been days when I didn’t have the words to pray. All I could do was cry and trust that God understood.
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about how nice it would be to take a trip—to pack a suitcase and leave for a few days without having to work around medication times or figure out who would be there if something happened. Before I can even enjoy the thought, the guilt shows up. How can you think about leaving when they need you? I can turn a perfectly reasonable need for rest into something to feel ashamed of in about two seconds.
One day, I told my son, “I am all alone in this. I don’t have anyone here helping me.” Even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t entirely fair. Dad was there, and my sisters were helping in real ways that required sacrifices of their own. Their help mattered. But I was trying to explain how the responsibility felt inside me, and in that moment, “alone” was the only word I could find.
I’m slowly learning that feeling alone and being alone aren’t always the same thing. You can have people who love you and help you and still feel overwhelmed by the responsibility you carry every day. I’m grateful for the help I have. I’m also tired. Both are true.
When I stop long enough to sort through those feelings, I know I don’t want a different family or a different life. I want a little room to breathe in the life I have. I love my parents. I want to care for them. I also need rest, and I’m learning that admitting that doesn’t make me selfish or mean I love them any less. I can bring all of it to God, even the feelings I wish I didn’t have.
And there is still so much joy here.
Once a week, Mom, Dad, and I sit down to play Progressive Rummy. Mom and I tease each other, and Dad watches us with that quiet smile of his. One night, I lost every single game—all four of them. Dad beat me twice by just five points, and he leaned back with that grin because he knew exactly how close those games had been. Mom laughed so hard, and honestly, I didn’t care that I’d lost. I loved sitting there with them, having a good time.
Then there are moments that catch me completely off guard. One night around two in the morning, Mom called for me. She’d been up and down and was worn out. I helped her get settled, and then she started asking about my foot, which I’d injured the week before. Had helping her made it hurt worse? Was I going to be too tired the next day? Was I taking care of myself?
There she was, exhausted and needing help, and she was still being my mom. Still worried about me. I walked back down the hallway with my heart so full it hurt a little.
Almost every night around eleven, Mom takes her last pill. I help her get settled, smooth the blanket over her shoulders, and tell her, “Goodnight. I love you.” Then I step into the hallway and turn off the last light.
As I head toward the stairs, I often wonder how many more nights we’ll have just like that. It’s a hard thought, and I don’t have an answer. But in those quiet moments, I’m reminded that God is here with us. He was here during the emergency, He was here at the card table, and He’s here when the house is finally quiet and I’m too tired to do anything else.
“Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” —Isaiah 41:10, ESV
I didn’t set out to become a caregiver. But somewhere along the way, I felt God pressing something onto my heart: Love them the way you love Me. Care for them as if you were caring for Me.
That has stayed with me. Caring for my parents is part of my ministry, even on the days when I’m tired, impatient, or unsure of myself. My book and CaregiverHQ have grown out of this part of my life, and my prayer is that God will use them to encourage someone else who is trying to find their way through it.
If that’s where you are today, I want you to know that your love and effort matter. Getting up for another glass of water, answering the same question again, helping someone get comfortable when you’d give almost anything to be asleep yourself—God sees those things. He sees you, too.
“For God is not unjust so as to overlook your work and the love that you have shown for his name in serving the saints, as you still do.” —Hebrews 6:10, ESV
You can love someone deeply and still need a break. You can be grateful for another day with them and still cry because that day was hard. You don’t have to hide that from God. He knows what you’re carrying, and you can ask Him to help you carry it.
If this sounds familiar, it’s why I wrote God in the Hallway. I’m still living this, too. I wrote it a few minutes at a time, in the middle of caregiving, with the hope that another caregiver might find some comfort and feel a little less alone.
A Prayer for the Caregiver Who Feels Alone
Lord, You know what this day has held. You saw the moments when I stayed calm and the moments when I fell apart. You know how much I love my family, and You know how tired I am. Help me bring those feelings to You honestly, without beating myself up for needing rest. Remind me that I can receive care, too. Thank You for the laughter around our table, for the ways we still care for one another, and for the time we have together. When I turn off the last light tonight, quiet my mind and help me rest in Your care. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
With understanding and hope,
Deb
