Being a caregiver requires constant, sometimes impossible, calculations

I’ve recently discovered that being a caregiver has much in common with mathematics. I’m not referring to the difficulties and complexities of that subject, but rather the silent and constant nature of it. I now view my caregiving self as a silent and constant mathematician.

I once wrote about the admin work and repetitive routines involved in caregiving, both of which remind me of math. However, caregiving involves making calculations that are sometimes brutal and don’t have any correct answers. After making those decisions, one is left with a heart that is hardened, wounded, and raw.

My mum has myeloma, and as her caregiver, I’m always making one calculation or another. I’m sure other caregivers can relate to this. For example, you might find yourself always calculating risk versus dignity. Should I assist my mum to the bathroom while trying to preserve her dignity? Or should I call for a nurse to make sure she doesn’t fall?

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A currency of spirit

I also find myself making calculations of hope versus truth. Should I express my fears about what scan results might confirm? Or should I highlight only a sliver of data?

In time, I find that I am an actuary of multiple feelings. I make calculations about the costs of my frustrations and other challenges as a caregiver to someone with a rare cancer versus the benefit of my mum’s momentary peace of mind. I weigh my strong wish to scream into a pillow in anger versus her need for me to display calmness in the storm.

The mathematics involved in this job can leave me worn out and exhausted. Nothing is certain, because the variables continue changing. It’s one of the reasons we don’t plan for the distant future.

The calculations I make about resources are among the most painful ones. They don’t stop at money; they also involve the currency of spirit. For instance, how much of my own hope am I willing to spend today without going into bankruptcy tomorrow? How do I split my attention between what my mum needs immediately and my own sanity that is crumbling because I’ve forgotten that self-care is important?

There is no equation to solve for X, where X is a wonderful outcome. There is only the everyday calculus of love, in which I am continuously subtracting tiny pieces of myself to add to her well-being.

As caregivers, we learn how to live with shortfalls. We learn that the most important addition is not a sum of how many times we have been victorious, but the simple, unwavering formula of our presence.

I am still here. My mum is also still here. And we are going to solve this together.

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