It was 7:40 on a Saturday evening, and I was filling the pill organizer again. Sunday through Saturday. Morning and evening. Fourteen little compartments with the same colorful lids I’ve snapped shut a hundred times.
The day before, I’d been on the phone with the caregiving company. We were having the same conversation we’d had before, in which I asked them again to send someone who’d talk with my mother. The last aide sat in the chair by the door, scrolling on her phone. My mother watched her do it.
Nobody saw me do it. Nobody ever will. Theres no audience for this work, and there won’t be applause at its end.
You’ve been carrying this in front of a God who never once looked away. Share on XIf you’ve ever gone looking for a prayer for caregivers who feel invisible, you already know the particular loneliness I mean.
The work wears on your soul. What wears deeper is the quiet realization that some of the holiest things you’ll ever do may happen in rooms where no one else is watching.
