The Road Less Traveled: How Caregiving Found Me
I’m not your typical caregiver. I’m a twenty-five-year-old male. My background is in psychology, a discipline situated opposite science and medicine. I enjoy backpacking and playing sports, even watching MMA and boxing from time to time. My long-term goals include building and living in a cabin in the woods. And it happens that many of my closest friends are the age of my grandparents.
Throughout high school and college I knew I looked older than my peers — early facial hair and premature balding tend to have that effect. In some areas it helped, like buying booze. But it was also a hindrance — I often felt removed from my milieu. Disregarding physical appearances, my attitude has also been less frivolous than my friends. Hesitant to use the word given our current political climate, I’d label many of my personality traits as conservative — an innate need to carry myself responsibly and truthfully. That little voice inside never let me off the hook. I strove to please the adults in my life. Whether it be my parents, grandparents, or teachers, I clung to their advice like scripture. At the time I felt stifled, but the shortened distance between myself and what would become the adult version of me now feels like a blessing.
In high school math was my academic strength. Observing my father perform mental gymnastics and quick, accurate estimations instilled my magnetism towards the subject. Conscious of the repercussions, I labored to do well in all classes, but I thirsted for arithmetic and repetitive worksheets of equations. I continued to thrive in trigonometry and calculus, savoring the anguish during each proof, and bathing in satisfaction when the method eventually clicked and the answer revealed itself.
For all the enjoyment, my curiosity in mathematics failed to carry into legitimate career interest. Overcoming general anxieties and perceived shortcomings, I cultivated a passion for human interaction. Two semesters of college accounting led me to realize long hours of crunching numbers at a desk wasn’t in the cards. I needed to converse with and learn about people. Switching majors to psychology was a treacherous leap of faith. Without an inkling where it’d take me, I trusted that I’d find knowledge of human thought and behavior applicable in any discipline. Tiptoeing into a full schedule of classes with a 9:1 ratio of women to men failed to ease my uncertainty. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this trust in following the unknown path would become a principle of mine. Nerves and anticipation are our body’s hardwiring kicking in, preparing for the necessary abandonment of our comfort zone.
A research paper I wrote on autobiographical memory was the seed of my caregiving profession I didn’t know I’d planted. The physiology of memory is compartmentalized like the bulk section of an environmentally-conscious supermarket. I grew fascinated by the role of the hippocampus and formation of episodic memories — it’s these episodic and personally relevant memories that we piece together to form our sense of self and linear life story. Losing the coherence and organization of our memories to dementia must feel like Billy Pilgrim becoming ‘unstuck in time’. A year after accepting my current caregiving position, I learned I wouldn’t have been hired had it not been for that paper, in which I describe my young, naive understanding of my grandfather’s Alzheimer’s. Everyone gets old and forgets, right? I hadn’t yet understood that general cognitive decline with age is vastly different from losing one’s life story.
Palouse Dementia Care graciously took me in, and I quickly established the role of DAWN Dementia Care Specialist, one of the first employees to do so. I was roughly half the age of the other caregivers, and the only male out of ten or twelve employees. I shouldn’t have been surprised — about 75% of all caregivers are women. Yet another instance of feeling out of place. I’d scoff had someone told me two years ago that I’d become part of that remaining minority of male caregivers. I’m now accepting that caregiving isn’t just an occupation, but a way of life. The number of informal and unpaid caregivers is shocking and I’m fortunate to have landed with such a compassionate organization.
Every time I share that I perform dementia caregiving, people give a solemn look and say something along the lines of “Ohhh, that must be very difficult” to which I tell them, “Parts of it can be tough, but 90% of the time it’s very enjoyable.” I didn’t always feel this way, however. My first handful of shifts were trying. I felt like I was there to somehow fix them myself. I hadn’t internalized that this was palliative care, and a certain change in mindset and pragmatic acceptance was required. Why long for the rationality that once was, when there’s still intuitive faculties and humor to appreciate? Nostalgia isn’t always our friend. After that change in mindset, most shifts contained a cheerful, carefree sentiment.
Labeling the individuals I work with as “clients” feels so sterile, but the Health Insurance Portability & Accountability Act (HIPAA) has certain demands. I understand the liability involved, but the air of secrecy around my work can be frustrating. We all revel in sharing the details about a great day at work, or venting about a particularly trying experience, yet my stories can’t include specifics. Like a therapist — I’m allowed to talk about what happened with clients, but I must remove the personal details. Without the listener knowing who I’m talking about, it feels like describing an iceberg, but only the sliver above water.
I love the work I do with the dementia population. The sense of fulfillment I’ve found is something I’d come to think of as an illusion — some fiction the system came up with to get us to spend our able-bodied years toiling away. Can daily, repetitive work really feel important and valuable day after day? Even after finishing shifts and hearing my clients and their spouses express their appreciation, it felt too good to be true.
Early on with each client there is a natural period of acclimatization, and learning what someone enjoys, dislikes, and expects from me on a regular basis. Before long a sense of comfort washes over each interaction, akin to the normalcy between immediate family members. I’ve had few connections as intimate. The drama and baggage that come with younger people is refreshingly absent. Decades of trial and error instill the things that matter, and push out jealousy, resentment, and the myth that your self is somehow uniquely important. Gratitude fills in the gaps.
Now I have community members coming to me with questions about their parents’ dementia, revealing their insecurities and fears about losing loved ones. Am I really qualified to speak on such topics? I’m twenty-five years old. Sometimes I laugh at the surreal nature of the situation, other times the harsh reality stops me cold. Through my work I’m constantly steeped in the matter of life and death. Is it possible to learn in a couple years what takes decades for many? I believe the answer is hiding on the outskirts of cities and towns, in the buildings built to house our elders. Libraries of fruit about to spoil, yearning for innocent generations to take a bite.
Without falling victim to the trite statement of calling myself an “old soul”, I’m coming to accept my anachronistic nature. I love to read and play chess. I prefer dinner parties and card games to nights on the town. Music from decades long gone feels truer than much of the electronically produced noise today. Creedence Clearwater Revival CDs were on my Christmas list at age fourteen, and the last album added to my Spotify is Carole King’s Tapestry. I haven’t been so enamored by a work of music since exploring the depths of Pink Floyd. When I’m hankering for music without lyrics I tune into NPR and let the emotional tides of classical music wash over me. I attempt the daily crossword when I get the chance, and I’ll probably be a senior citizen myself before I ever fully complete one. I like to think of it as a right of passage. There is an affirmation and confidence that comes from not only accepting who I’ve become, but also the feeling that I’ve chosen the correct path from the limitless possibilities. For no man is an island, I must thank all those who came before.
