caregiving challenges – Live Laugh Love Do http://livelaughlovedo.com A Super Fun Site Sat, 25 Oct 2025 01:23:00 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9 ‘My Long-Distance Bestie Is Hard To Talk to Because of His Chronic Illness’ http://livelaughlovedo.com/my-long-distance-bestie-is-hard-to-talk-to-because-of-his-chronic-illness/ http://livelaughlovedo.com/my-long-distance-bestie-is-hard-to-talk-to-because-of-his-chronic-illness/#respond Tue, 21 Oct 2025 13:52:07 +0000 http://livelaughlovedo.com/2025/10/21/my-long-distance-bestie-is-hard-to-talk-to-because-of-his-chronic-illness/ [ad_1]

Q:

I know how I’m about to sound, but I don’t know what to do. My bff–from high school, and we’re in our late 20s now–moved across the country. He has a few chronic illnesses that cause him a lot of pain every day. I want to be there for him, which usually takes the form of phone calls, but more and more when we talk on the phone we inevitably wind up spending a lot of time–sometimes more than an hour–rehashing his symptoms and his anxiety about it. I just don’t know what to say sometimes–I know solutions aren’t really helpful, and it’s not like I have any medical advice to give anyway, so I am just left repeating, “damn, that sucks.” I want to be a good friend and try and keep our friendship strong after he moved away, but the phone calls feel like they’re not fun for either of us and leave me feeling resentful. Is it ever appropriate to try and bring this up with someone who is actively sick? Do I just suck it up and find something to do with my hands while he vents? I feel like such a jerk.

A:

This is a tough situation to find yourself in. Often, when it comes to relationship issues — whether with romantic partners, family members, or friends — the common (and well-intentioned) advice is to just communicate on the issue. Usually this is good advice, but we sometimes find ourselves in situations where communicating our frustration or resentment to someone hurts them deeply and damages the relationship. Some things can’t be unsaid, and it’s important to keep actively trying to have empathy for people who are struggling with intense and ongoing challenges like depression, abuse, or chronic illness. Your friend isn’t in control of his illnesses and shouldn’t have to hold back his anxieties to make other people feel better. That being said, you’re not a jerk for feeling helpless and resentful.

Caregiver burnout and compassion fatigue

It’s very likely that you’re experiencing a kind of caregiver burnout or compassion fatigue. These are characterised by being in a caregiving situation and feeling exhausted (mentally, emotionally, or physically). The difference between the two is that caregiver burnout is the result of caregiving stress (think a licensed carer, health advocate, etc), while compassion fatigue is usually in response to another person’s traumatic stress. You might also be feeling a kind of compassion fatigue from constant exposure to your friend’s chronic illnesses. What’s interesting about compassion fatigue is that it also results in a diminished capacity for empathy. In that state of mind, empathizing becomes tiring and frustrating. You’re a bad person for feeling this way. It’s actually a warning sign for your well-being.

Your letter sounds like you’re under pressure to help your friend. You want to offer good advice and solutions but (as you pointed out) there’s really not much you can do from where you are. I think it’s important to ask yourself where this pressure is coming from. Does your friend expect consistent support from you for his illnesses? Is the expectation internal to you because you have a strong desire to be a good friend? Solutions-oriented people like me suffer when someone in our orbit needs help and we can’t ‘fix’ it for them. Could this be your feeling? If the pressure is coming from your friend, then yeah, you may need to (kindly and empathetically) communicate boundaries about what you can and can’t do to help. If the pressure is internal, you’ll have to recalibrate your expectations.

Without getting into the woods of long-term caregiver fatigue, I’ve got some starting points:

Your feelings are valid

Whatever your feelings are, it’s better to acknowledge them and pick through the ensuing responses to learn more about yourself. Fatigue, resentment, and frustration aren’t signs you’re a ‘bad’ person. In this situation, they’re a bodily signal telling you to make a change before things get out of hand. It’s okay to experience those feelings fully.

Know your reach

Everyone has limitations and restrictions. There’s little you can do to directly address your friend’s chronic illnesses. If you’ve reached the point of frustration and resentment, you’ve probably doing everything within your power already. Knowing that we have limits isn’t an admission of weakness — it’s a protective factor that stops us from overcommitting to the impossible.

Turn the lens inward

After seeing your feelings as valid and finding your limits, you’ll have the resources needed to practice self-care. Self-care isn’t always relaxation for its own sake. It goes much further if you have an idea of why you’re doing it and where it’s aimed.

More ideas from the peanut gallery

With the why of your situation covered, let’s look at more practical solutions. Based on your query, I’m guessing that he’s had chronic illnesses for a long time and your difficulties started after he moved cross-country. In that case, the issue isn’t the illnesses alone but that there’s suddenly more distance between you. This understandably makes it harder to maintain the friendship, especially if your expectations were set by a time when you could meet face-to-face. On top of that, phone calls place sole focus on conversation and the expectation to update each other. For your friend, the developments of his illnesses and anxieties fall under that umbrella. They take up a lot of his mental space, so it’s natural that he wants to talk about it.

With all that in mind, is it possible to digitally recreate how you used to spend time together? Shaping your catch-ups with a shared activity or interest takes the focus away from life updates. It might just give you breathing room when the conversation is naturally broken by an activity. Something to take the edge off between heavy topics? For example, I’m a gamer. I can stay in touch while playing games with friends (not even the same game) and chat via Discord. If not gaming, do you have other shared interests that can be linked? Art sessions, taking a walk, cooking together, or watching a show?

You can even parallel play or body-double for each other. That’s when you do separate things (playing for parallel play, work/chores for body doubling) in a shared space. It can be done digitally. You could hang out on a call while washing dishes or making dinner. Or while one of you builds tiny model ships inside glass bottles or something. Body-doubling can even make chores more bearable by adding a friendly social dimension. You may have to find common ground, but a good starting point is to tell him that you want to recreate how you used to hang out. Or do something new and hang out together, rather than take another call.

Maintaining close friendships is hard. The difficulty is doubled when someone’s going through a difficult time or there’s distance. You’ve got both on your plate. Whatever happens, try to stay emotionally open to your friend’s struggles while also letting go of the need to aid them. Remember: You’re only human. You’re not a jerk. Friendship isn’t just about providing lending aid or staying up-to-date on each other’s lives. Friendship is about having fun and spending quality time together. You both deserve that.

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‘My Long-Distance Bestie Is Hard To Talk to Because of His Chronic Illness’

]]> http://livelaughlovedo.com/my-long-distance-bestie-is-hard-to-talk-to-because-of-his-chronic-illness/feed/ 0 The Enormous Cost of Being the One Who Holds Everything Together http://livelaughlovedo.com/the-enormous-cost-of-being-the-one-who-holds-everything-together/ http://livelaughlovedo.com/the-enormous-cost-of-being-the-one-who-holds-everything-together/#respond Tue, 14 Oct 2025 16:20:11 +0000 http://livelaughlovedo.com/2025/10/14/the-enormous-cost-of-being-the-one-who-holds-everything-together/ [ad_1]

These days, I see it more clearly. I can name it now. I don’t only live inside it, but I still return to it—especially as a parent, especially when things stretch thin. The difference is now, I pause. I reflect. I ask myself if I have to hold it all. Sometimes I still do. But not by default. Not blindly. Well, usually anyway.

I’m writing to make the invisible visible. To name what I rarely heard said out loud, not just to others, but to myself. When I’m holding the center while everything pulls at the edges, absorbing what others don’t even realize needs carrying, I see myself. I’m not overreacting. I’m not asking for too much. I’m doing the work that holds lives together.

I am often the one who remembers the dentist appointment, Mufti Day, the allergy meds, the forecast, the birthday, the swimming bag. Or the one who keeps the emotional boat steady—calming the toddler (or the adult acting like one), soothing tension between co-parents, biting my tongue so dinner doesn’t derail, all while managing the storm inside my own heart, or gut, or head.

This work has many names to me: mental load, emotional labor, logistical labor and, especially, narrative labor (the effort of constantly explaining myself, justifying choices, making life make sense for everyone else). It’s the work that says, “I’ll just do it; it’s quicker.” Or, “It’s fine, I’ll figure it out” Or, “No one else will remember, so I’ll make a list.”

But here’s what’s changed: I recognize it now. I’m no longer trying to prove I can handle everything. I’ve learned that sometimes, the quiet question inside—“Why is it always me?”—is actually wisdom, not weakness. It’s a sign to pause. To reset. To shift the pattern.

While I see this most obviously in motherhood, I know it exists everywhere. In caring for aging parents. In supporting partners with chronic illness or disability. In blended families and complex co-parenting. In friendships and workplaces, where someone quietly holds the emotional glue.

I’ve watched how, without this work, so many people and systems quietly fall apart. And I’ve also learned the cost of doing it all, all the time. That cost lives in the body.

These days, my body can often feel like that old board game Operation—except the buzzer is jammed on and the batteries are dying. A constant low-level fog on my brain, with a weariness that sinks deep into my bones. It’s not always visible, but it’s there in my clenched jaw, racing thoughts at 3 a.m., or that strange, sudden overwhelm that never quite becomes tears.

I used to downplay my own needs because there was no room for them. I kept things light even while crumbling, especially when my kids were young. I was the strong one everyone leaned on, even when I longed for someone else to take the weight.

Now, I try to notice that impulse. To catch it in the moment. To remind myself I am not a machine. That asking for help doesn’t make me weak; it makes me wise.

If this sounds like you too, you are not alone.

This is for those of us managing households and trauma responses. For those parenting kids who live in two homes, two worlds. For those doing the extra work to help a child thrive in a system that wasn’t built for them. For those stuck in meetings, trying to help others see what should already be obvious. For those holding finances, feelings, and fallout.

And then there’s judgment. The kind that seeps through tone, silence, side comments. The kind you can feel in the air. Suddenly, you’re not being witnessed; you’re being evaluated.

It often lands hardest on those making unconventional caregiving choices. The stay-at-home parent “not contributing.” The adult child who cuts back work to care for parents. The partner quietly managing chronic illness. The blended-family parent navigating chaos.

I once read, “Judgment assumes superiority. It lacks curiosity. It flattens your life into a one-dimensional story and acts like it knows the ending.” That’s exactly what it feels like.

I’ve carried that weight many times—judgment from those who don’t live my reality. For a long time, my nervous system told me it wasn’t safe not to care what others thought. Even when I knew the wisdom of that old saying “Don’t take criticism from someone you wouldn’t go to for advice.”

It’s always ironic; the ones who carry the least are often quickest to critique how you carry the most.

And so here’s my truth: I won’t apologize for being there for my kids while they still need me. I won’t apologize for showing up for the people I love.

There’s another saying, “Don’t judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes.” But most don’t want the shoes; they just want the right to judge from the sidelines. Or, as Brené Brown puts it, “If you’re not in the arena getting your ass kicked, I’m not interested in your feedback.”

Because here’s what’s often missed: most people don’t realize how much they rely on invisible labor… until it stops.

They don’t have to think about whether the PE gear is clean. Who will follow up with the lawyer or the school. How tension gets diffused or meltdowns averted. Why the fridge is never empty or the calendar runs smoothly.

But when I’ve stepped away? Things fall through the cracks. Conversations go sideways. The house might be quiet, but not peaceful.

This isn’t about guilt. It’s about value. This work enables others to succeed, to rest, to function—precisely because someone else is holding the complexity.

Invisible labor holds everything together, until it can’t. I know this. The migraines, the kidney stones, the menstrual issues—they brought me to my knees. My body was trying to protect itself. Fair call. This work isn’t bottomless. It’s not free. And it’s not a given.

So many of us do this work quietly, without even naming it in ourselves. Because when something is always expected, it starts to feel like it doesn’t count.

But it does count. It is work. It deserves to be seen, not just when it collapses, but while it’s still holding the thread.

We are not invisible. We are not unreasonable. We are not weak for needing rest or recognition.

We are doing work that keeps lives afloat. That work matters. We matter. But boundaries matter too. No one is coming to save us. And we can’t keep rescuing others from their own responsibilities.

Yes, there will be excuses. But unless there’s a clear diagnosis, the sixteen-year-old who won’t get out of bed for school? That’s theirs to navigate, not mine to carry. Let there be real-world consequences. How else will they grow? How else will they take responsibility? How else will they learn to stand on their own two feet?

So today, I pause. I see what I’m carrying. I value what someone else is. I ask where the load can be shared. I wonder what would change if we truly recognised the weight behind what seems effortless.

Because the most important work isn’t always the loudest, but it’s often the most essential.

And maybe the first step isn’t changing everything. It’s noticing it. Naming it. Starting there.

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]]> http://livelaughlovedo.com/the-enormous-cost-of-being-the-one-who-holds-everything-together/feed/ 0 A Stupid Mistake And A Much Needed Break http://livelaughlovedo.com/a-stupid-mistake-and-a-much-needed-break/ http://livelaughlovedo.com/a-stupid-mistake-and-a-much-needed-break/#respond Sat, 26 Jul 2025 11:22:57 +0000 http://livelaughlovedo.com/2025/07/26/a-stupid-mistake-and-a-much-needed-break/ [ad_1]

Y’all, I’ve decided to take a break from the blog for the next week-and-a-half. I’m not going away completely. You’ll still see me on my Facebook page, and I’ll probably show up on Instagram as well. But I need a break. I can’t remember the last time I felt this exhausted, but I’m completely drained. Physically, mentally, emotionally drained.

I made this decision last night. By Monday afternoon, I had most parts of my closet chandelier finished and ready to go. Over the weekend, I cut all of the “stems” to the correct lengths. I also had to cut the bottom metal piece on the actual chandelier shorter so that the two pieces would fit together properly. And then I got the actual chandelier, the stems attachment, and all of the smaller pieces (chain, ceiling rings, etc.) primed and painted. So those were ready to go.

I had all of the pieces in place to make this light installation quick and easy.

I had also pre-fit the two pieces together, testing out exactly how and where the arms of the chandelier needed to go inside the stems attachment so that the stems and flowers wouldn’t interfere with the lights on the chandelier. I got those marked so that putting it together once the chandelier was hung would be pretty simple.

And by yesterday afternoon, my flowers were dry. I had already drilled the holes for the stems (because the holes shrunk as the flowers dried, so they needed to be re-drilled), and some of them had been primed. I had planned to spend a couple of hours with some friends in the afternoon and then come home and get everything finished. I just needed to get the chandelier hung, do a little bit of sanding on about half of the flowers, finish priming the flowers, give them a couple of coats of spray paint, and I figured that by 8:00 last night, I’d be putting the flowers on and be done with the chandelier.

After my time with my friends, I was back home and sanding the flowers, prepping them for primer and paint, and that’s when it hit me. I had a sneaking suspicion that I hadn’t made enough flowers.

I had three rows of 16 stems on my chandelier, and I had made 38 flowers plus one extra in case one broke. Yes, that’s right. My stupid math-challenged brain sabotaged me once again. I tried to do math in my head, and I forgot to carry the one. I didn’t need 38 flowers. I needed FORTY-EIGHT flowers. I was ten flowers short.

Honestly, I would have cried, but I didn’t even have enough energy for that. These last two-and-a-half weeks have absolutely drained me. I feel like I can’t get anything done. I can’t concentrate on anything. I have no focus. And I’m being pulled in every direction. Let me explain.

I’ve already told y’all that on July 4th, I had to take Cooper to the emergency vet clinic because he was regurgitating his food. I arrived at 5:00pm and didn’t leave the clinic until 11:00pm. He left there in such a sad state after being anesthetized so that they could get scans, which showed that he has a tumor in his chest that has caused megaesophagus. The megaesophagus is what is causing him to regurgitate his food. So that led to me spending hours online trying to figure out how to feed and care for a dog with megaesophagus.

By that next Monday, July 7th, he was doing much better. I was still trying to figure out the food/feeding issue, and he was still regurgitating some (but not all) of his food. But he was experiencing regurgitation mostly during the night, so I was getting very poor sleep. I only get 5.5 to 6 hours of sleep each night as it is, so having that sleep interrupted with worry and caring for a dog and making sure that he doesn’t aspirate on whatever it is that he’s regurgitating was causing me to be exhausted and drained during the day, leading to some very unproductive days.

But we were making it. And as the week progressed, he seemed to be doing much better. Until Thursday. That’s when I was trying to get my closet island finished, and he was hanging out in the bedroom with me as I was trying to get the island drawers and doors installed after I had resanded and repainted them. That morning, he had been his normal self — energetic, playful, and following me around like my shadow. But as the day went on, he seemed to become more lethargic. And as I was in the bedroom working with the drawers, he turned his back to me and that’s when I noticed that he had a huge knot on the back of his back right leg. It hadn’t been there that morning, so this was something that developed over the course of a day.

And when I say “knot”, I mean that the thing was the size of a large sweet potato. It was so big that it was displacing his tail, pushing it way over to the side. It was already after normal office hours, and I just didn’t have it in me to go back to the emergency clinic and be there for hours on end, so I decided that I’d take him the next day. I got up the next morning, took pictures of my finished island so that I could write my blog post, and the whole time, Cooper was following me like he usually does. But by that time, the thing on the back of his leg had started bleeding. So he was leaving a trail of blood drops everywhere he went. If you look back at the pictures of that post about the finished island, you can see his blood drops all over the floor.

So at 7:30am, as soon as the vet office opened, I called and made an emergency appointment and they got me in that afternoon. Thank goodness the regular vet allows for emergency visits because their normal schedule didn’t have an opening for three weeks. So early afternoon, I loaded him back up and we went to the vet. She assured me that this didn’t have anything to do with the thing in his chest, and after shaving the area and taking a close look at it, she said he had three large puncture wounds in the back of his leg.

Puncture wounds? What the heck would have caused puncture wounds? Still, to this day, I have no idea what could have caused puncture wounds, and certainly not THREE large puncture wounds. I’ve searched his yard, the house, everywhere he goes. I can’t find anything. Anyway, they got it cleaned up as best they could and prescribed him antibiotics and a topical wash that I’m supposed to use daily. So I brought him back home, and he continued to drop blood trails all over the house for the next two days.

By Monday, he was feeling much better again, almost back to his normal self. I was still trying to figure out the megaesophagus food and feeding schedule, but at that point, I was also afraid to let him out into his yard during the day unsupervised. So at that point, I having to go from feeding him one big meal a day (unsupervised, with no time constraints on me), to feeding him four times a day, which has to be supervised because he has to be upright for 20 minutes after each meal (which is very challenging for an energetic dog), but I was also now having to take him out, supervised and on a leash) about five times a day.

And all of this on top of the fact that Matt can’t feed himself. He hasn’t been able to feed himself ever since he was released from his last hospital stay in February 2024. Plus, there’s all of the other things I have to do for Matt throughout the day.

I honestly don’t mean this to sound like I’m complaining. I’m not complaining. I’m just explaining. I’m exhausted. I feel like my days are spent caring for Matt, which has never really been a problem because Matt and I have a system. A schedule. We’ve kind of worked together like a well-oiled machine. That was doable for me. But now a wrench has been thrown into the gears of that machine because I now have to spend all of this time caring for Cooper and figuring out this new schedule with the multiple supervised feedings throughout the day, and supervised outside time several times a day, and sleepless nights with me being awakened by every little sound that Cooper makes because I’m worried that he’ll regurgitate and aspirate and get pneumonia (the leading cause of death of dogs with megaesophagus). And that’s leaving little to no time left for me to get things done that need to be done. And even when I try, I’m trying to push through feeling exhausted and with a mind that is so tired that I can’t even do a simple math problem. I feel like I have barely been able to keep my head above water for the last two-and-a-half weeks.

So I need a break. I need time to figure this out, and to figure out a schedule that we can all live with. And I need sleep and rest. So I’m going to take a few days away from the blog and focus on those things for a while. My plan is to take a week-and-a-half and be back on August 4th. That will at least take some of the pressure off of me to get projects done every day while I figure this out. I do plan to keep working as time allows, and I’m really hoping that I can came back on August 4th with a completely finished chandelier, a framed doorway, and a completely finished closet. But right now, all I can think about is that I need a nap.

 

 

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