A Caregiver Walks Into the Fire

The phoenix hope,
Can wing her way through the desert skies,
And still defying fortune's spite,
Revive from ashes and rise.

-- Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra

Promise me you'll always remember:
you're braver than you believe,
and stronger than you seem,
and smarter thank you think.

-- Christopher Robin to Pooh,
A. A. Milne

"You're very courageous."

"What you're doing takes courage."

"You're showing so much courage."

These are things that people have told me since I've been a caregiver. However, I have never felt courageous. I've never thought of myself as being courageous.

I am a caregiver, and caregivers do what they have to do, never thinking about bravery. We simply do what needs to be done. We certainly don't look for any rewards. Our reward is taking care of our loved one. If we're not caught up in the stress and difficulty of caregiving, if we can focus on our loved one, if we can take care of our loved one from the platform of love, our reward is being able to give even more love. And in the act of giving through love, we receive love. We are fed more love. And then we give more love. It's a beautiful cycle that makes the caregiving experience a deeply spiritual one.

What I have learned by going through Romeo's things, by packing up his possessions and storing them in a safe part of my home, is that I am indeed courageous. This packing up process -- physically picking up each one of Romeo's possessions, touching each one, reminiscing about some of them, placing them in a box, sealing up the box and taking it downstairs to the storage room -- is a courageous act. Exposing myself to the emotions that come up, giving myself the space to feel each of those emotions, time after time, is like walking into a fire...willingly.

Each time I touch something of Romeo's that holds sentimental value (which is most everything), I consent to being burned. I give permission to the pain to take over, to take me into fits of hot grief and loss. And then I give myself permission to experience that pain in order to move on, to let my grief out, to let go of Romeo. Slowly, he's leaving me. For more than five years, Romeo has been in the process of leaving me. I must let him. And I must move on.

This packing up process would be enough to frighten many people away from feeling their feelings. And yet, I deliberately walk into the fire. I do it. I don't move away from it. I don't turn and run from the fire. I walk into it, without fear. I face it. I let its flames lick and flick up and down my body, throughout my body, burning me intensely, burning my skin, hair, organs, eyes. And it hurts. Do not think that it doesn't. It hurts tremendously. That deliberate act of entering the fire without fear, of saying, "Yes, let's get through this," is courage. I see that now.

When I begin a packing up session, I sense the courage as it enters my body. It's a gift, a support of great proportions that holds me as I begin, as I allow in whatever comes, as I experience my emotions, and as I am liberated from them.

This courage enters through the pores all over my body. It gathers in the chakras along my spine and circulates throughout my body. This courage takes over. It permeates me gently, escorting me through my current emotional landscape -- the mountains and plains and valleys of remembering Romeo and our life together -- and then to life without Romeo, to life that promises everything anew. Everything.

I will continue to deliberately walk into the fire, through it, and out the other end. And now I see that not only do I walk into the fire each time I begin packing up Romeo's things, but I am in the midst of the fire now, as I write this. My tears flow freely, as they do many times as I write for this blog. I walk into the fire many times a day without realizing it. Yes, I see that now.

And by now, you'd think I'd be burnt to a crisp, that I'd be ashes -- but that isn't so. There seems to be more to burn, more fires to walk into. So I simply continue to walk into the fire. Again and again and again. And one day, perhaps I'll rise from the ashes like a phoenix, renewed, remade, into another life.