Caregiving takes on a new meaning when we become the ones needing care
One year ago in May, I officially retired from a calling I’ve come to realize I loved. For 53 years, I served as a clinically trained pastor: 13 years in the Department of Mental Health at Lakeshore and 40 years at the University of Tennessee Medical Center. What began with clinical training at St. Elizabeth’s, a federal mental hospital, by happenstance turned into one of the largest pastoral training programs in the country.
I tell this part of the story, not as a way to boast, but as a prologue to what has happened this past year and the lessons learned. I’ve gone from being a caregiver to patients, families, and staff to being the one who needs care—and it’s been nothing short of insightful. Despite having faced appendicitis, heart disease, a new hip, a new knee, a pacemaker, wrist surgery, and heart stents, I never really fully grasped what it meant to be a patient.
Beyond all the clinical experience, classes, and seminars, I am learning that what matters most isn’t what you say or do as caregivers—it’s how you show up. It’s about what patients feel when we’re with them, but also what they feel when they’re alone.
Being a patient is not the same as being patient. Just ask Nancy, my wife of 61 years. Making appointments for bloodwork or pain in my heart, back, neck, or shoulder, doesn’t always bring out our most calm versions of ourselves. I have a hunch you may have experienced this, too. And while we’ve been needing health care since we were kids, regardless of the kind, it still never seems to feel any easier.
These days, I find myself sitting in waiting rooms for an appointment at least once a week. What I am learning and continue to learn is that treatment and care are not synonymous. When we go to the office we fill out paperwork almost every time. We see a technician or nurse who then talks with a doctor about what they have learned—this is done to save the doctor time I am told—but we often see the doctor for the least amount of time. Being on the other side of care, I am finally understanding how that runaround feels. What makes a difference though are the little things—the personal touches that remind me this is more than a rigid process to care. When a caregiver reaches out to shake my hand at a first meeting, pulls up a seat to face me when we speak in their office, puts their hand on my shoulder during a challenging moment, or discusses options alongside me, my heart feels at ease. When a caregiver stands at the door, rather, reads notes from an iPad, and dictates what they are going to do to treat me, I am less likely to feel seen and heard. I’m also less likely to return.
It is clear that medicine is a big business, one of the longest in our culture. Hospitals and clinics can be stressful places. We are at our most vulnerable when we arrive, even if it’s just for a well-care visit. After all, we’re entrusting our wellness to someone other than ourselves. But when that person listens to where we’re coming from— even when it’s not easy because we’re sick, frustrated, and not thinking clearly—it makes us feel at ease. In spite of the business and marketing of health care it is still a very personal experience and when treated as such, that’s what makes all the difference.
Words like “Love one another as I have loved you” are not easy. But they matter. Caregiving takes personal work, giving of ourselves even when it’s hard. When we find that in the wild of healthcare, it makes a difference. And when we can then come home to our families and spouses, who get the brunt of our emotions, who see our worst and yet still show up, we can rest easy. That’s love. That’s care. And that, too, is something I’m learning to honor
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