There is no place to plant a flag in the ground, nowhere to lay flowers, no band or parade for you. There are no banners, no special month or day for those who care for others. So today, I build you a monument of gratitude. I honor you, the one who gently holds the hand of a loved one, their memory and mind fading. Who navigates appointments, sorts paperwork, guides choices. You, who visit ghosts, endlessly insisting on attention, demanding basic dignities, while slowly, painfully letting go, saying goodbye. I honor you, the one who pleads with partners or parents or children or friends to seek care, help, treatment. Who forgives lies, finds hidden evidence, rips yourself open to change the things you can and accept what you cannot, who prays to understand, for safety, for relief, for recovery. I honor you, the one who watches and monitors, with grief and horror, as a loved one spirals, cycles, descends, disappears. Who tracks patterns, attempts conversations, stages interventions. Who spends sleepless nights researching options, investigating, making calls, managing lives and bills and meds, never giving up hope for stasis, for breakthroughs. I honor you, the one who patiently cares for those who cannot cope, overwhelmed, overloaded, who need accommodation, calm and empathy in an impatient and unforgiving world. Who tries, unceasingly, through anxiety, depression, defiance, and discomfort to bring comfort and solutions, day after day, not knowing the answers, but loving nonetheless. I honor you, the one who lives with loved ones in pain, inoperable or uncurable, who cannot or will not heal, those who need space and time to process the unknown, to make peace with what is known and frightening, who are on an uncertain journey. You, who must draw on a well of infinite patience for those who resist help, who lash out. You, who must accept your own limitations, what you cannot fix and who you cannot save. I honor you, those who check in on loved ones and neighbors, just a call or a visit to be sure there are groceries, heat or air conditioning, that medication has been taken, proof of life. You who help with mail and bills, an errand here or there, with shoveling and mowing, with rides to the doctor or the store, a simple greeting. You may give care out of love. You may serve others out of duty or obligation. You may hope for acknowledgement or approval where there is none. There may be resentment, anger, cruelty, blank stares. Some days you may ask yourself why you persist. Some days you are exhausted, frustrated, feeling alone, used, misunderstood. But other days you are filled with gratitude, honored to be of service, to help, to hold that hand for just one moment. You give because you know that your labor, compassion or even the smallest action or glance can make a difference, large or small, that your consideration has evoked a smile, a fleeting respite from pain, some comfort, a moment of happiness. If not for others, your love has radiated inward, healing your own heart with the balm of kindness, giving you hope for the future, mercy for yourself. This is my homage to you: A page of words, nothing permanent or etched in stone, no shining medal to place on your wall, a Memorial Day, the smallest monument of thanks.
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Yet another window you have opened in our world to me that I have, until now, ignored or neglected. Thank you.
One of the most beautiful pieces I have ever read. Your sensitivity and insight are overwhelming.
Nicky Schissel