When time splits in two: The before and after of ordinary objects
In these small shifts, I see echoes of the invisible labor we perform as caregivers
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I stand in the pharmacy aisle holding a packet of painkillers and feel time split in two.
In one version, this is just a simple errand, something I used to do without thinking. In the other version, I am carefully checking the dosage instructions because my mum’s bone pain has returned and I need to be sure I’m not adding to her risk. The same small packet now carries two completely different meanings.
This splitting of time happens with so many ordinary objects now.
The old wooden chair in our living room used to be where my mum sat to watch evening news and chat with visitors. Now it’s the place where she rests after short walks, the cushion carefully positioned to support her back and reduce pressure on fragile bones. The shopping bag I carry home from the market holds two realities: fresh vegetables for her meals and the quiet calculation of what she can comfortably chew and digest.
Even my phone has become a bridge between two times.
I scroll through old photos and see the woman who once moved easily through our home, full of energy. Then I look at recent ones and notice the careful way she holds the railing when climbing the short step to the veranda. The same device holds memories of before and the careful documentation of after: symptom notes, medication reminders, and quiet observations I share in my column “The Unspoken Weight.”
These splits can feel heavy when I am walking back from the pharmacy or arranging items in the kitchen.
Yet they also hold a strange kind of tenderness. The objects themselves seem to understand the change. They have adapted quietly, just as we have. The chair now knows to be patient. The shopping bag learns to carry lighter loads. The phone holds both the old joy and the new vigilance with the same steady screen. In these small shifts, I see echoes of the invisible labor we perform daily as caregivers, the constant calculations that run through every decision, the geography of the sickroom, and the small rituals that keep us anchored.
I am learning to live between these two versions of time.
Everyday objects become quiet teachers reminding me that life with myeloma is not only about loss. It’s also about noticing how love reshapes the familiar until the ordinary becomes sacred in its own new way. Each time I stand in the pharmacy aisle or adjust a pillow, I am gently holding both the before and the after, trying to make space for both with the same careful hands.
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