Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul

Published:

Publisher: Chicken Soup

A dose of inspiration for caregiving professionals and the millions of souls who help care for family and friends

Over 54 million people in America help care for ailing or recovering family members and friends and millions more give of themselves to others through day care, eldercare, emergency and community service.

While rewarding, care giving requires tremendous emotional, physical and spiritual stamina. Chicken Soup for the Caregiver’s Soul offers a respite to those who give care through inspiring and uplifting stories about the work they do and its power to transform lives.

Through awe-inspiring glimpses of real-life experiences of others, readers will find the motivation to overcome a challenging day, welcome recognition for their selfless contributions, and the encouragement to continue making a positive difference in others’ lives.

(from An Act of Desperation)

Within the space of four hours, I had been told that my daughter would die within two days, and I had received notice that a dear friend had been killed that morning.

It was too much. I literally collapsed.

When Phyllis, my daughter’s nurse, arrived a short time later, she found me sitting on the floor next to Rachel’s bed, unable to move. After making sure Rachel was comfortable, she sat down on the floor with me and persuaded me to talk. She listened as my tears poured out, along with the news.

Phyllis, who has been Rachel’s caregiver for the past four years, has a special bond with my child. Even though Rachel cannot speak, she and Phyllis have developed their own way of communicating – even fighting. Her devotion to Rachel goes above and beyond, and Phyllis has become part of our family. As a single mother, I’m very dependent on Phyllis’s help with Rachel, and I knew losing her was going to hit Phyllis hard as well.

As my tears dried, we talked about what to do next, and decided that the most important thing was to make Rachel as comfortable as possible. We gave her something for pain, hooked her up to her oxygen tank, then turned her on her side, even though it was not her favorite position. Rachel could no longer cough, so we just wanted to make sure that any fluids from her nose and throat wouldn’t choke her.

Phyllis stood over the bed for a few moments, stroking her, then started looking around the room.

“What do you need?” I asked.

She stood still for a moment, then said, “Food.”

Phyllis is strong woman, who works part time on a tobacco farm. She’s led a tough life, and it has made her both loving and practical. I was surprised, but she pushed me toward the door. “I have an idea,” she said, “and you need to get out of the house. Take a break, go get some fast food for us. The next few days aren’t going to be easy. Go.”

I was still not functioning on all burners, so I went, letting the sun wash over me as I drove the three blocks to a restaurant. I ordered the take out and went home, my mind still very much on my friend, her family, and what I was about to face with Rachel. Then I walked in my front door, to find that my living room had been transformed.

Phyllis had rolled up her sleeves, a sure sign that a lot of action was about to take place. She’d pushed the furniture out of the center of the room and had turned one of my straight-backed chairs upside down in the middle. Padding it with a comforter and cushions left over from the last adjustments to Rachel’s wheelchair, she’d created a steep A-frame support, with the back legs of the chair forming the peak.

Rachel was lying face down across the frame, her hips braced between the legs of the chair and her head pointed toward the floor at a sharp angle. She looked up at me and grunted.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Phyllis was in the process of starting our cool-air mister. “She can’t cough. So I thought that maybe gravity could give us a little help making her comfortable. It’s probably not medically advisable, but what exactly do we have to lose?”

I walked over and looked down at my daughter. Her face and chest were on a towel, which was already showing signs of dampness. “How long can she stay like this?”

Phyllis plugged in the mister, then started dragging Rachel’s aerosol machine over toward the chair. “We probably shouldn’t leave her for more than 30 minutes at a time. I thought we’d do her albuterol treatment here, then chest percussion. If we can suction some of that crap out of her, it might help her sleep.”

I unwrapped the food as I watched Phyllis go to work on Rachel, not just with the professionalism of a nurse but the love of a caregiver – and a friend.

The next three days became a blur….