Being Strong When You Do Not Feel Strong

Remaining myself while caring for someone I love

Estimated read time: 6 minutes

During Scott’s first exploratory surgery, I sat alone at the hospital with books and other things I had brought to keep myself occupied. The room was full of people who were worried about someone they loved, but almost nobody was talking. I did not know anyone who had been through what we were going through, and I did not know who to call.

The waiting seemed to drag on forever. When the doctor finally spoke with me, I learned that things were worse than I had expected and that Scott and I would need to make some major decisions quickly.

I handled that day better than I expected. Scott and I had already decided we were going to face cancer as a team, take things as they came, and not spend all of our energy worrying about something that had not happened yet. That decision helped. It did not make me less afraid. It gave me something to hold onto while I was afraid.

By the time Scott had his major surgery, I was no longer alone. Our friend Cindy came, along with Scott’s mother and her husband. We rented an Airbnb near the hospital because Scott did not want everyone sitting in a waiting room for hours. He asked me to promise that we would leave the hospital and wait at the house until the doctor called.

That day taught me that having people around you does not automatically mean the caregiver feels supported. I was trying to honor what Scott wanted, manage meals and logistics, keep everyone calm, and deal with my own fear at the same time. Sometimes the caregiver needs support from the support team.

Then I saw Scott after surgery.

I knew there would be tubes and medical equipment. Knowing that was not the same as seeing the person I loved look sick, weak, and helpless. I remember telling myself, ‘This is not about you. Make sure he sees you being happy. You can deal with the rest of it later.’

So I smiled for Scott. Later, back at the Airbnb, I cried.

That became part of caregiving for me: doing what needed to be done while carrying feelings I did not always have time to feel. I arranged things, watched, listened, remembered, and tried to protect some quiet around him. When we came home, we had recovery set up downstairs because he could not manage the stairs. We even had a bell he could ring when he needed me.

The bell was a small thing, but caregiving was full of small things. None of them looked dramatic by themselves. Together, they could take over a day—and, if I was not paying attention, they could take over me.

I have always thought of myself as Scott’s spouse first and his caregiver second. I did not want cancer to turn our marriage into a parent-and-child relationship. Scott did not want me making every decision for him, and I did not believe I should. It was his body and his choice. My role was to support him, tell him what I saw when it mattered, and work through the consequences together.

That sounds clear when I say it now. Living it was not always clear.

When cancer returned, we were running and renovating a motel near the beach. We were mostly a two-person operation. Scott would try to make a queen-size bed and then need to sit down for half an hour or longer. He felt guilty that he could not do what he had done before and kept apologizing. I kept telling him he did not need to apologize. I knew he wanted to help. I also knew there was still work that had to be done.

The practical load grew, but the harder part was how easily I could lose myself inside it. I could become the person tracking what Scott needed, what the motel needed, what the family needed, and what needed to happen next. I was capable of doing many of those things. Sometimes that made it harder to let anyone else help.

People would say, ‘Let me know if you need anything.’ I believe they meant it. But at the time, that broad offer often gave me one more decision to make. What did they mean? What could I reasonably ask for? Was my need important enough? Most of the time, I did not call.

What would have helped was something specific: Can I bring dinner on Thursday? Can I do the laundry? Can I sit with Scott while you leave the house for a while? A concrete offer was easier to understand and easier to accept.

I also had to learn to be specific with myself.

For a long time, I put my extra energy into another project. I painted, decorated, organized, and kept moving. Eventually I realized that staying busy was not the same as remaining connected to myself. Somewhere along the way, I needed to make sure there was still a Patty.

That is where ‘Patty time’ came from.

Sometimes Patty time is a drive by myself with my phone turned off. Sometimes it is quiet time to think. Often it is a few hours wandering through thrift stores. I may not buy anything. That is not the point. For those few hours, I am not managing the motel, thinking about cancer, or waiting for someone to need something from me. I am simply doing something that belongs to me.

I do not see that time as leaving Scott behind or caring less. I see it as protecting enough of myself to keep being his wife—not only the person who handles what cancer asks of us.

Caregivers can be very good at giving. We can also be very good at second-guessing ourselves. There are days we are tired, frustrated, frightened, or simply not at our best. Being told we are strong does not always help. Sometimes we need someone to say that it is okay to be tired and not know all the answers.

I am stronger than I once gave myself credit for. Cancer did not create that strength, but it revealed parts of me I had not fully recognized. I know I will figure things out. I know I will care for the people I love.

I also know now that caring for someone I love does not require me to disappear.

I am Scott’s spouse first and his caregiver second. Both parts are real. Both deserve room. And through everything cancer has asked of us, there still has to be a Patty.

Continue the Conversation

Read: The Conversation We Couldn’t Find → A reflection on the questions and silences that can leave caregivers feeling alone.

Explore: Caregivers → Practical ideas, reflections, and support for the person doing the caring.

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