by Denise, of Not What It Seems

I grew up with all of my family, on both sides, living in the same town, some on the same street. It was a very small place, a hamlet. If your family wasn’t there to take care of you, someone who had changed your diapers at a firehouse picnic was sure to step in for them. People took care of one another.

Since then I have gravitated towards communities that replicate that behavior. And I have taken it to heart in my work and personal life.

For me it began when my first sibling was born. Three years apart, and as different as can be, my sister was so shy that people didn’t believe in her existence. I spoke for her, shared a bottle of tiny orange flavored Johnson’s Baby Aspirin and fed her jelly from a spoon.

I continued this when my other siblings were born, then graduated to babysitting and being a camp counselor. I weeded the grass of my widowed neighbor. Doing so, I cracked my head on the pavement trying to skateboard, taught 20 little girls to sing, “I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair” and was taken to the circus.

I don’t remember actively choosing to be a caretaker, but I found it came easily to me. I had three children, took time from work to help my sisters when they had babies and nursed my mother through melanoma until her death. For over 20 years, I taught adults and children with autism and for the last year have been the caretaker of my grandson. My oldest daughter is mentally ill and likely to need my help far longer than children usually do.

As common and natural as it was, it was also tiring. At times it made me resentful; some people took advantage. Many could not return the favor. My role had become caretaker, and asking for the same consideration was resented. When I was sick with depression, Lyme disease and divorce, I lost friends who could not envision me as a person who needed help and consequently they could not give it.

What if I had refused to help? Would I be a fabulously successful lawyer, writer, psychologist?
I’ll never know. My bed is made. And in it is the knowledge that I have few regrets and an abundance of gifts. I am close to my family. I mended any broken pieces of my relationship with my mother and learned what it costs to ask for and receive help. The children I’ve met have shown me the meaning of persistence. I have friends that I adore. My girls delight me, most of the time. I have a bond with my grandson that is priceless.

I may never live alone on a houseboat, or have hours to read and write and create. But I am connected. I have made a community for myself.