As your world shifts into caring for your loved one, people who care about you want to do the right thing. In many cases, caring for you, the caregiver is at the top of the list of practical ways they can help.
Since February of this year, I have been a primary caregiver to my beloved husband, who has lung cancer. While my husband received the best health care, who cared for me? Me, the person who became chauffeur, nurse, housekeeper, and vice-president in charge of everything. The answer is a bevy of family, friends and community members. So if you are looking to be a friend to a caregiver, following are a 10 special moments of friendship and care that stood out for me.
1.You need to leave the building. A neighbour asked me to go for a walk. I start with this because it seems so ordinary. As a caregiver, you don’t always get out of the house. My pal Joyce sensed a walk may be good. On another walk, a neighbour told me that her husband had cancer six years earlier. I could see I wasn’t alone.	2. Love, laughter and a box of tissue. How does a caregiver keep going? One day at a time—just like life. Living in the moment becomes even more important, and sometimes one lives minute to minute. So many friends let me ramble, then I might cry, then laugh, then ramble some more. No one had an answer to my situation, however, the fact that they listened told me they loved me, and holding out a tissue to my dripping nose meant the world to me.
3. An army marches on its stomach. “Come for tea,” my neighbour Maija said. This meant someone else was feeding me, a gentle stroke of love since the caregiver often becomes the chief cook and bottle washer. If you know someone who is going through a serious event and they have kids, the opportunities to be a friend increase enormously. The primary caregiver ramps up the giving and, at times, receives very little. I appreciated every cookie, bottle of wine, chocolate cake, cheese and fruit basket, so much. One caution, be careful about giving things that need returning. It is too much to remember what was given, who it belongs to, and how to package it and mail it back.
4. Earth to caregiver, do you hear me? The cards (especially the funny ones), the letters (with news of what else is going on in the world), the phone calls (to hear another voice), e-mails—all of these kept me connected to people. My friend Diane once said she felt like she was talking about nothing, relative to the severity of my husband’s illness. Some amount of normalcy needs to be maintained and hearing about other people’s daily lives helped me stay connected to the greater world. Once a caregiver becomes restricted in his or her ability to get out, these connections become even more vital. As an illness continues, staying in contact with a caregiver is even more important as the sense of isolation can increase. At times, I had trouble picking up the phone, yet I was enormously grateful to receive all calls.
5. We’re all in the same boat. As unique as I initially thought my circumstance was, it wasn’t. The more people heard about our situation, the more people shared the situations they had been through or were going through. We are all in this together. Now I can’t go to the grocery store without thinking everyone in the store is dealing with some situation just like I am. All of the personal stories people shared helped me enormously. It gave me hope that I could survive, too.
6. It comes in any colour as long as you want black. Flexibility is important. As a caregiver, you learn to love flexibility. I once described this as every plan I make comes equipped with an escape hatch. Our friends Chris and Susan worked with whatever we threw at them. They stuck by us and made accommodations ensuring the social part of our lives continued. I realized that our friends were thrust into a new role, a role no one was prepared for.	7. Come on over. Visit. In our case, we have a hospital bed in our country kitchen, and it has been there for months. Michael lies there and the rest of us sit at the dining room table, drink tea and talk. At one point, Michael’s son came from Toronto along with my brother and his family from California. Just as we were about to have lunch, my husband tired. He closed his eyes, we got our food, lowered our voices and continued the visit. He awoke about an hour later and we started talking in regular voices again.
8. Strange as it may seem. I have often made bizarre requests, especially since I was occasionally in a different place than my husband. We live on several acres of woods, with two dogs, about three hours drive from Toronto, where most of Michael’s treatments take place. I recall phoning Sheryl. “Hi. Can you take Michael some grapes, please?” I asked. Not one hesitation or a single question, she did it. What a gift. As you can tell, a thousand little gifts and friendships is what helps a caregiver.
9. All, and more so. A friend sent me a tube of hand cream. Earlier, I had told Bonita I was doing all of the gardening; she thought this gift would take care of me. As a caregiver, your responsibility may now include work formerly done by the now patient. You may be responsible for washing the laundry, shopping, chopping wood, mowing the lawn, cooking, or whatever else you may have shared. Friends who recognize this listen to what you say and look for a way to help, just as the hand cream did.	10. The show must go on. Peter cut our wood. Paul repaired our closet railing that fell out of the wall. Ron caulked our roof. Chris trimmed our trees. Julia raked our leaves. Barbara picked up our pups at the kennel. Rita baked cookies. Alexandra loaned us her comfortable car. Marlene sent us books. My mother loaned us money. Michael’s daughter Heather cooked us dinner. Daughter Caley brought granddaughter Teya for laughs, and Brendan drove his dad home from a week of radiation. Many people said “Call if you need anything.” While I appreciated the offer, it didn’t help much; I needed a more proactive offer. It was better if someone came over and saw what needed doing, or baked something and brought it over. I didn’t know I needed oatmeal cookies or hand lotion or lunch out until it was presented.
	Editor’s note: After a courageous battle with lung cancer, Michael passed away in March of this year. Victoria M. Ryce is a writer based in Picton, Ontario.