Still on the Clock

It’s been a bit of a strange week again. I keep feeling this internal pull to slow down even though everything around me is telling me to speed up. The weather’s been nice here, and there’s this unwritten Portland rule that if the sun’s out, you’re supposed to be out in it. Doing something. Enjoying it. Making the most of it. Because you never know when the clouds (and the rain) will return.

I’ve felt that pull and in some ways it reminds me of trying to take my dog Walter for a walk. When he doesn’t want to move he digs his paws in and gives me the “fat chance” look. And so I feel that same kind of energy. My mind, the world, trying to pull me forward while my body and intuition seem to be digging their heels in.

It kind of feels like a return to a state I was feeling earlier this year. This pulling back from the “more, more, more” of it all. Of everything. Or maybe that’s not even true. Maybe it’s just a story I tell myself to make being tired feel meaningful. Either way, I know I’m in the minority here but I find myself looking forward to the days getting shorter, the weather being a bit cooler, and the world slowing and quieting down a bit. When less seems to be expected of everyone, including me.

NOTE

Caregiving doesn’t come up as often as it probably should in conversations about death. It’s one of those roles that most of us will end up in at some point, and yet nobody really prepares you for it.

I’ve been there. And one of the things I remember most is how isolating it can be, not because people don’t care, but because it’s hard to talk about. You’re not the one who’s sick. You’re not the one who is worried about your own mortality. So where do you even put what you’re feeling?

At some point I reached out to someone I barely knew, a loose acquaintance who had been through something similar, just to have a conversation with someone who might get it. And there was a lot of amazing practical advice but the one thing I remember most is feeling a little less alone. Which turned out to be enough.

If you’re in it right now, I hope you have someone like that.

WATCH

There’s this subtle pressure with this new weekly format that makes me want to have interesting things to share beyond just the new episode. So I finally sat down last night and watched André is an Idiot, which I had been putting off for a while.

It’s a documentary about André Rieu, a man who gets a Stage 4 colon cancer diagnosis and somehow manages to be the funniest person in the room about it. The film is warm, strange, and full of life. But it isn’t until near the end that it really connected to this week’s call. He says something to his wife about how in a lot of ways it’s easier to be the patient than the caretaker, and it’s not the first time I’ve heard something like that.

There’s also a moment where he talks about his fear of death, not of dying, but of the people he’s leaving behind. I don’t want to contradict him because he’s lived it in a way I haven’t. But it’s a good reminder that “fear of death” isn’t one thing. It’s more like three kids stacked on each other’s shoulders under a trench coat trying to sneak into a bar. Jade Adgate over at The Farewell Librarian actually breaks this down really well this week, separating out the different fears we collapse into that one phrase (link).

Oh, and there’s a whole bit about an ad campaign to get people to get colonoscopies. It’s genuinely hilarious and honestly could have been this week’s “SMILE” (link).

[Note to self: find a colonoscopy buddy by the time I’m 45]

READING

I finished Never Can Say Goodbye this week. If you have any interest in this topic at all, read this book. There are stories about all the different situations Darnell has navigated as a death doula, but what makes it powerful is the way he talks about how looking directly at death changes how you move through life. That's what this project is trying to do too.

Just finished: Never Can Say Goodbye by Darnell Lamont Walker

Currently: The Traveler by Joseph Eckert, The Odyssey by Homer

On deck: Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse, The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (I have a goal to finish one long book every quarter and I’m planning on this one for Q3. We’ll see what other books I get through in the next two weeks)

(And if you are really curious you can always check out what I’ve read recently here)

THIS WEEK’S CALL

Anonymous #38 — What Happens to Your Own Life While You’re Busy Caregiving Someone Else’s? (Listen Here)

Episode Type: Living with Loss. For more info about what this means check out the Episode Guide (link)

BOOK

I do want to make it clear that I haven't read this book yet but it's been on my list for a while. A Matter of Death and Life by Irvin and Marilyn Yalom is a book they wrote together after Marilyn was diagnosed with cancer. She wrote about learning to die. He wrote about learning to live without her. Alternating chapters, same story, two completely different experiences of the same thing. I can't say for certain but it seems like this will be a really good look at what caregiving can look like. It's been sitting on my list long enough and it looks like it's time to read it.

(If you've read it or start it soon let me know what you think!)

QUESTION

Caregiving has a way of becoming your whole life. Not because you chose it exactly, but because someone needs you and you show up. And then you keep showing up. And at some point the line between who you are and what you do for other people gets harder and harder to find.

When does a caregiver get to just be a person again? Or does the role eventually just become who you are?

SMILE

On one of my walks this week I came across something I’ve probably walked past a hundred times without actually seeing. All around Portland there are these old metal rings attached to the curb, horse tie-up loops from back when that was just how you got around (or so I’ve been told).

This one had a little toy horse tied to it. Someone had taken the time to do that and I love that person for it. I walked past, smiled, kept going, and then turned around to take a photo. A small, silly, perfect thing.

Have a good life.

— Z

ARCHIVE

2006 // 2005