Sometimes, in caregiving, acts of love can feel like unkindness

As a caregiver, I can recall some moments when the kindest thing I could have done felt brutal. Sometimes, when I reflect on the challenges and tough decisions involved, caregiving feels like a tyranny of love.

A few months ago, my mum’s myeloma treatment schedule called for a new injection. The potential side effects were explicitly stated in a cold, clinical leaflet: nausea, fatigue, and an increased risk of infection.

I saw my mum gazing from the leaflet to the needle, worry written all over her face. In that moment of silence, the most tangible thing in the room was her fear.

“I cannot do it,” my mum finally whimpered as she shook her head. “I’m not taking that treatment today.”

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Every tissue in my body wanted to agree with her, to offer her comfort. I was on the verge of saying, “It’s all right. We’ll skip it.” Doing so would have been an easy form of kindness.

However, I had seen the charts. And unlike some days when there’s conflicting medical advice, this time, the doctors were certain and on the same page: The new treatment was the only option she had left.

That was when I took a deep breath and became someone I didn’t like very much. Even though I was trembling inside, my voice was firm as I spoke to my mum. “We cannot avoid this treatment. You have to take it today,” I said.

I held her hand and, gazing at her, projected an assurance I didn’t really have. As the needle pierced her skin and I saw her flinch in pain, it was as if a verdict had been passed against me.

When kindness feels unkind

That incident reminded me that sometimes, affection must be tough. Sometimes, kindness means choosing the difficult path toward health rather than the easy one that leads to only brief peace.

In such situations, I transform into the enforcer of a program I never created. I’m the enemy in a tale I wish I weren’t living in.

Afterward, the room became dense with shared sorrow. Mum’s eyes no longer harbored anger, and the guilt in my heart had settled into a familiar, dull pain. I fetched her some water to drink. I adjusted her blanket and made sure her head was comfortable on the pillows. Without thinking, I had returned to being her son. But I didn’t see what I was doing as part of my repetitive routines. Rather, I hoped these tiny acts of tenderness would wipe away my recent acts of harshness from her memory.

Unfortunately, they never do.

I believe this is simply the cruel arithmetic of caregiving. On some days, I’m forced to subtract a little trust from my mum so that I can add a little time. To ensure she doesn’t collapse, I have to become the strong wall she pushes against. I confess that this reality means I wield a great deal of power, but it is a lonely and terrible kind of power.

In such moments, I no longer feel like a good caregiver, but a watchman. I don’t feel that I’m providing any comfort to my mum. The only thing that keeps me from disintegrating is hope. I always hope that someday, when my mum looks back on these moments, she will do so appreciatively. I hope she understands that my hand, which is now holding hers gently, is the same one that was forced to treat her so unkindly.

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