Caregiving Village

 There are people you want in your caregiving village, and those you don't want because they don't want to be there.  The people you want are those who can hear you, who can sit with you when you tell them of your grief.

The people you don't want are those who can't sit with your pain.  Those who want to dismiss it, to say things that help them not be involved, that help them not deal with their own mortality, their own chance of getting "it."  People who say things like, "Well, at least . . ." any fucking thing.  At least he's not . . .  Those are things the caregiver can say, but not a friend or supporter.  Not anyone on the outside of the journey. 

People on the outside of the journey don't know shit about the journey.  Their job is to support you, sit with you, or be outside the village.  Don't invest time in people outside the village, on people who can't walk with you part of the way on your pilgrimage to widowhood.

Ah, is it a village or a journey?  My metaphors as mixed up as I am.

It has been said by people misquoting John Gardner that there are only two plots: A person goes on a journey and a stranger comes to town.  I've been experiencing the interior version of both of those plots.  I've been on a journey of the heart as a stranger has entered my home: my relationship with my spouse.

Photo by Christian Stamati on Unsplash

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