Behind the Brave Face: It's Okay to Break

I made it through every day. I took everything in. I listened to every syllable from every doctor. I delegated responsibilities within the family. I called insurance companies and caregiving facilities. I set up follow up appointments. I kept my brave face on, especially in front of Daddy. Then, at night when no one else was watching, I'd crumble. By the end of my nightly bath, the tub would hold an equal mixture of tears and tepid tap water.

Fall used to be my favorite season...

That’s how November went that year. November. The month that now shares Daddy’s birthday and the anniversary of his brain hemorrhage.

Fall was always my favorite season. I’m still fond of it, but now it conjures memories not only of hoodies, hot chocolate, and bonfires, but also of fear, stark ICU waiting rooms, and a beeping heart monitor.

That fall I felt more "adult" than I had in any of my previous thirty-something years. I feel like most of us walk through life feeling like a little kid in an adult body if we’re really honest. As long as our parents are around, a lot of us default to them for life’s big and small issues. I’d call on Daddy if my air conditioner was on the blink or Mama if I couldn’t remember how she made her cornbread. Life as I knew it was about to change. I wasn’t ready.

Becoming an Alzheimer's caregiver

I knew moving back home meant helping to take care of Daddy. That was part of it. In those early years, taking care of him meant counting his medicine and waking him for breakfast before I left for work.

Caregiving also meant grocery shopping, fixing supper, and making sure he had checked his blood sugar level. It also meant coming home to him rattling on about what he had seen on COPS or reliving phone conversations he had with his sisters. He played all of the parts, mimicking their voices. It still meant him cracking the same old jokes, telling the same old stories, and him picking his own clothes from his stock of Father’s Day t-shirts and sweatpants.

Everything changed in the blink of an eye

That all changed in a blink. The relationship. The dynamic. The daily routine. All of it was crushed in a second.

There’d be no more long rambling stories. None that we could decipher anyway. He wouldn’t fill me in on his daily television binge or account of how his sister, Francis, had made him mad. There’d be no leaving him to his own devices.

Daddy’s brain hemorrhage left him with physical weakness, cognitive impairments, and dementia. I had to jump into shoes that I felt were far too big for my feet and step up fast even if I tripped on the laces.

Stepping up and breaking down

So, I did. I stepped up. I marched on. I went into work mode and did everything I could along with my siblings to try to figure out how to go on. I kept my chin up and my upper lip stiff as long as there was work to be done, papers to be signed, and phone calls to be made.

It didn’t mean I didn’t stumble. It didn’t mean I didn’t break. It didn’t mean I didn’t cry. I did a lot of it the second I was on my own time. It’s perfectly ok to scream. It’s ok to run in circles or punch pillows or do whatever you need to do to get through it. It’s ok to grieve someone who hasn’t died yet, but who isn’t quite here either.

We weren’t designed to be strong all of the time. For me, the dark tended to creep in at night in the form of a teary bath time ritual. The good thing about night, though, is that we’ve never had one that wasn’t met by light in the morning. You can break, but you can also be strong again. You’re entitled to both.

Can you relate to Amy? Have you ever felt that you had to be "strong" all of the time? Do you ever let yourself just cry? Let's normalize that it's okay to break. Share your story.