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.
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