Offering Thanks for Caregivers

In this article, the author shows gratitude for the receptionists, nurses, and nurse practitioners who help cancer patients survive the unendurable.

Written by: Susan Gubar 
Article re-posted from: nytimes.com 


“I want to write a hymn to caretakers,” I inform my dear husband.

“They can be resented,” he responds. “They’re seen as takers — they take away your privacy, your independence, your responsibilities, not just infringing on your body, but also on your space. To add insult to injury, they’re healthy!”

Astounded by the volubility of this quiet and gentle man, I have to ask: “Is this a gendered issue? A fear of loss of control — just a tad?” I pick up my knitting.

“Think of your mother,” he instantly replies. “She thought the nurses were stealing the stuff in her room. And how did Mary-Alice feel seeing a stranger in her own house, telling her where to sit, when and what to eat, putting everything away in the wrong places?” He is mourning the losses incurred by his first wife during her untimely dying.

In the pause that ensues while I honor his grief, I untangle the wool around the circular needle, start pushing the stitches toward the tips, and Sally comes to my mind.

“You are a hard stick,” Sally said when she managed to push the needle into a vein that she called “tiny and a roller.” The only name large enough to read on her tag was Sally. Though I have miserably small veins, Sally never “blew” one. With extraordinary patience, she warmed my left arm, strapped on a tourniquet, and tapped her fingertips over the narrow blue channels. I was so relieved that there wouldn’t have to be a second or a third stick and many black-and-blue bruises. People like her make cancer patients as comfortable as we could possibly be under frightful circumstances.

For me, it started with a nurse named Eunju, at least I think that is her name. I was coming out of a major abdominal operation and not quite “with it.” Eunju did not merely give me ice chips in a plastic foam cup. She also sat with me through many hours of that long night, sharing her concerns about her family. I could feel myself becoming not just a wounded thing, but also a human spirit with curiosity and compassion for someone else, a stranger who was so kind and caring.

How indebted I am to the tact and dexterity of countless other caretakers. Their names will mean nothing to you. They became lifelines for me.

What would I have done without Annetta, who phoned back when the surgeon was too busy so she could explain where to park beforehand and afterward how to circumvent the answering service in case of an emergency. How would I have survived without Yvonne, faxing instructions to a hospital on the upkeep of a PICC line (a catheter on my arm)? At our first meeting, she sighed, “Oh, my dear, you have really been through it!” Where would I have been without Alesha, giving me a hug with a schedule of the anti-nausea pills that had to be taken in decreasing amounts after the chemotherapy? Alesha is the only person in the world who I do not correct when she calls me “Sue.”

These receptionists, nurses and nurse practitioners are actually caregivers, not caretakers, I silently rebuke my husband (though I know he would agree with me). They come into our lives without second names, but their dedication helps innumerable cancer patients endure the unendurable. I salute Sally Jordan, Enju Campbell, Annetta Jenkins, Yvonne Kiefer and Alesha Arnold, wanting to say, quite simply, thank you. And though you are legion, I will keep on trying to learn your full names.

Amid this unspoken rumination, I drop a stitch. Then it dawns on me as I fish for it. My husband was thinking about people entering into one’s private space. Even if they do an excellent job, such aides are a constant reminder to the sick of their own incapacity, their inability to care for themselves. But I had brought up the subject out of illimitable appreciation for him!

Though my husband has flushed every drain implanted in my body, though he has injected me with countless medicines, though he has filled multiple prescriptions, though he has driven me to and from each operation, infusion and test, he does not think of himself as a caretaker or a caregiver. Because of him, I don’t need to learn the name of a stranger taking care of me in my house. And speaking of the house: while I am too fatigued to do more than recline on a blue couch, he takes care of the busted water pipes, the electrical outages, the broken washing machine and all the other home ills.

My heart clinches at my own stupidity, clenches with adoration of him. I’ve recovered the dropped stitch. He doesn’t imagine being thanked. I tighten the yarn around my fingers and cherish his name.

Reblog: Caretakers of Wounded Soldiers

We found this short article on Time on how a foundation that sought to honor injured service members also took time to honor the caregivers that supported the war veterans:

When soldiers are injured in combat, the healing doesn’t stop in the hospital. After they return home, the reality sets in. Whether they suffer physical injuries or the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), their caretakers and loved ones share their struggle.

Bob Woodruff’s wife Lee knows understands this all too well. Less than a month after he was named anchor of ABC World News in January 2006, her husband was critically wounded by a roadside bomb in Iraq. During the recovery process, the Woodruffs formed the Bob Woodruff Foundation, which has hosted the Stand Up for Heroes benefit in New York for the past five years to honor injured service members.

The annual event features performances by musicians and comedians, but this year’s run offered something extra for the attending veterans’ caretakers. On November 8 and 9, fashion consultant and commentator Mary Alice Stephenson teamed up with the foundation to provide full makeovers and styling for 50 women, who were also outfitted in clothing donated by Sears.

Stephenson has attended the benefit every year, but decided to amp up the celebration after last year’s benefit, when she spent time extended time with some veterans and their families.

“This is about having fun and taking that worry off of them that there’s a red carpet,” Stephenson said. “It’s a world-renowned event—Bruce Springsteen’s singing, Jon Stewart’s performing—and now they don’t have to worry about how they look.”

Woodruff’s wife Lee added, “We weren’t sure how it was going to work or if they were going to respond to it, because these are women stepping out that don’t always feel so beautiful. No one is taking care of them.”

The organization sent out 50 invitations to vets who had been selected to participate in the makeover event. Unsurprisingly, all responded “yes.”

Stephenson and her assembled team of 25 stylists, makeup artists, assistants and design team members from Sears to give the servicewomen their special treatment. Each woman—48 caretakers and two servicewomen—met with a personal stylist, picked an outfit and accouterments on the first day and received a full makeover courtesy of L’Oreal and Dior on the second day.

Nikki Stephens, one of the primped-and-pampered women, grinned as she exited the conference room-cum-fashion studio in the Sheraton New York Hotel and Towers, clutching a long, black garment bag.

Stephens’ husband John was in Fallujah in 2004 when a chunk of mortar fell behind him. The Marine Corps immediately diagnosed him with PTSD, but his traumatic brain injury (TBI) and subsequent vision impairment went unnoticed for five years. Nikki cares for her husband and tries to lead a normal life while raising the couple’s three young children, who do not always understand the side effects of PTSD.

“It’s very hard to be around someone who can’t remember things, or has mood swings, or can become extremely depressed or angry,” she said. “I have to explain some of these behaviors to the kids when they witness it.”

Stephens’ emotional support is common among caretakers.

Carla Marie Martin, who received a makeover alongside her military vet sister Bernadette, lives 1,000 miles away from her sister but feels the weight of Bernadette’s injuries.

“She’s my sister and it’s just what you do, you take care of family,” Martin said. “So I’ll laugh with her and say, ‘Well, you don’t need to remember anything, sissy, because I’ll remember for you.’”

It’s these caretakers—who mostly shun the term—who often go unnoticed or unappreciated, Woodruff said. So it might come as no surprise that some of the women greeted the prospect of a makeover with apprehension.

“A few have said they’re nervous or ‘Oh God, this is overwhelming!’ But a good pair of high heels and a statement necklace changes everything,” Stephenson said.

The women who streamed in and out of the room—which was brightened with fluorescent lights and jam-packed with racks full of clothing—didn’t notice or care about their difficult job as caretaker. It’s an understood responsibility.

Stephens underscored the sentiment that the makeover event only added to the overall positive feeling of the benefit.

“I’m looking forward to laughing,” she said. “But also being with other veterans and their spouses, who understand what we go through.”

Article source: http://nation.time.com/2011/11/11/community-service-lending-a-beautifying-hand-to-caretakers-of-wounded-soldiers