I’ve read the advice, on both writing and caregiving. Advice on the two is often contradicting, impossible, guilt producing. The truth is it lulls me slowing into a funk.


I don’t want to say depression, though, mainly because that has become another word that makes me feel guilty, lost, wrong and (shhh, whisper, you didn’t hear it from me) depressed. As I read this advice, I mentally go through the day-to-day tasks for my elderly parent. I try to juggle this while I cling to my writing, manage a home, attempt to be a decent grandma, wife to a retired railroader( yes, believe it or not that is a bit different than 9-5 workers because old habit die hard and he’d never had a work schedule). It’s had to find time to write, research, rewrite, fill the well, overcome an overscheduled mind with many schedules to take into account (my mother’s doctor visits, drug/insurance schedule, yard care, house cleaning, as well as my own, plus husband’s). It nearly impossible to find time for myself for things such as, exercise, diet, down time to do the other things I love enough to be mentally good at all the aforementioned stuff, such as gardening, antiques, photography…Well, and etcetera.

It is impossible. I can’t do it. I’m not stupid. I’m a realist, but I am also—a dreamer.

I’ve been managing as a railroad widow for 30 something years. What that meant: I never knew when my husband was going to work; he/I/the family had an hour and a half for him to get ready for work that would take him away from home for at least thirty-six hours. It didn’t matter if we were in the middle of a plumbing crisis, dinner, concert, soccer game. We couldn’t afford for him to miss work. That would likely be fourth of his paycheck if he did. So, everything stopped when he got the call, a meal made, plus a lunch, while he showered and packed. Whatever came up while he was gone I had to be handle on my own.

Don’t get me wrong. There were all kinds of advantages to the life and I learned to be organized and ready for just about everything, which serves me well now. I’ve had lots of time to write and yet, not. I’ve often been what we call a railroader widow—a single mom taking care of home and family. I was the one helping with the Pinewood Derby, the shop projects, broken windows of the neighbors.

With all that, this caregiving challenge has been the most devastating to my writing.

As my parent has aged, it has been an ever-increasing addition of jobs to take over, take care of and still I’m letting so much…too much slid. There have been health issues for both her and me. Not so surprising for me to have them, caregivers often do. The stress of caregiving adds to a caregiver’s well-being.

I’ve been extremely lucky; my parent has remained mobile, alert, with an almost too-good memory until recently. The changes in my life: my parent’s declining health, memory and my husband’s retirement has further hampered my writing and as I’m pragmatic( really: heart in the clouds, head on the ground, do the chores, before you have the fun) when it comes to responsibility, I know finding time to write is impossible. I can’t do it. I will never move my writing ahead. I am, after all, a senior myself.

Depression often dogs me because of the impossible situation in which I find myself. Yet, I know what I’m determined to do. Take care of my parent, as best I can, and the rest of my wonderful, worth-it family and stay healthy, happy as possible and WRITE. STILL.

I write to save myself. I write to be myself and find myself. It was what I was meant to do with my life. I know this…I have always known this. And that I am not as successful as I hoped breaks my heart and yet…I write…every day. That only is such an accomplishment.

All these stumbling blocks…they are my life and none of it is going anywhere soon. I have to deal with it, such as it is.

So…, I write. I still write. I fight, and scratch, and steal the time, but I still write. I cry, and rant, and cuss, and mourn. I still write. I forget, disappoint, fail, mess up. I still write.

Sometimes…never, is it as long or as much as I want to, but I write. Every day…something. Sometimes, I let someone down, everyone but I try as hard as possible to make sure it isn’t my mom. She is the neediest. She is the ephemeral. I try never to forget that.

But I write. I work on my novels during the week when I have time and they take too long, the rewrites take too long, everything takes too long. I work on poetry every chance I get, especially on vacation. I write the poems, rewrite, rewrite, rewrite, sometimes a hundred drafts before I’m satisfied, and they take too long.

But…I still write.