The Guilt Monster

It took many years, but I finally shed a good chunk of the mom guilt I carried during the child-bearing/child-rearing years. Mom guilt lands on most mothers like a tiny floating seed; it digs in and germinates offering that no-win internal scenario. Oftentimes guilt becomes so big and un-wielding that it is paralyzing.

I often felt guilty when I was with my kids instead of working or doing activities that I enjoyed. Of course when I was working or doing something without my kids, I felt guilty. My morning routine used mean alone time reading the newspaper before they woke up. After I did the school drop-off run, I took my dog to the park to run and socialize while I stood and socialized. The post-dog park coffee klatch was my favorite part of the day. I felt immensely guilty about how much I enjoyed my morning routine; the same morning routine that kept me sane.

It took years, and some good therapy (for other reasons), to shed most of the mom guilt. At some point I realized that if I wanted my kids to be happy and healthy that I needed to set a good example. Sacrificing my mental and physical health for them would only hand them guilt that they didn't need. It does still occasionally rear its ugly head, specifically when my son is having issues. He is my oldest child, and the one I feel I made most of my mistakes with. I have learned many good lessons about guilt, and its utter uselessness, over the years.

These last few weeks the guilt monster has managed to creep back into my life. At first I thought he was just good old fashioned motivation and love. I want to be with Joe. I want to oversee his care; I want to know his test results; I want to hold his hand as often as I can, and just hang out in the room when I am not touching him. I want to help care for him. When I am away from him, I feel antsy and want to get back. How can I feel good when Joe is stuck in a hospital bed? When he is so critically ill? Ah, that feeling is all too familiar; saldy it causes me to second guess my attempts to take care of myself.

I have settled into somewhat of a routine in the last few weeks. My alarm goes off around 6am. I try to exercise a bit on mornings when I have enough energy. Otherwise I just stumble into the shower, feed the cats and the bird, find some quick breakfast fixings (gf bagel, smoothie, scrambled eggs) and get to the hospital before rounds begin (which gets me there between 8:30 and 9:00). If someone wants to come visit, I usually have lunch outside the hospital. If not, I munch on a couple of energy bars, water, nuts and maybe some chocolate. I generally avoid the cafeteria. The food isn't bad, just not stuff I can eat (mostly bread based). I leave the hospital sometime between 6pm and midnight depending on how Joe is doing. I eat a late dinner, watch some TV and go to bed. Throughout the day I correspond with family and friends (many of whom take me to lunch or bring me dinner foods), do a little prep work for spring semester, participate in morning rounds and write up a Caring Bridge post, hold Joe's hand and talk to him, talk with the nursing staff, and talk with whatever family comes to visit.

Twice this week I have taken off during the day. On New Years Day, I spent hours eating soup with dear friends and napping on their couch. Yesterday I did some banking and running other errands.

So where is the guilt? I feel mostly okay when I am with Joe. It's outside of my time with him that the monster lurks. Guilt tries to creep into each pleasant interaction outside of the hospital room. In the fact that I enjoy having lunch with friends. In asking for more prepared food. In asking for someone to water my plants. In not asking for enough help when wonderful people offer; facing my own inability to process my situation to the point that I know consitently what to ask for and when. In missing my dogs who are being very well cared for by friends and my daughter. In letting my girls clean my house. In the luxury of watching a whole movie. In not getting enough sleep because I enjoyed a movie after coming home at 10pm. I also struggle with the immense support that comes from Joe's "brother" who is here nearly as much as I am, who speaks the medical lingo and communicates most effectively with the staff, who is teaching me a great deal so that I can better understand Joe's condition and care.

I feel relatively safe from the guilt monster when I am with Joe. Logically, I know that I need to take good care of myself in order to be able to go the distance with him. He is really going to need more attention from me once he is moved to the regular hospital, and he doesn't have just one nurse looking after him. As this plays out it, it is becoming very clear to me that when Joe needs me the most, I will have to be working again. We can't live without my income; I have the luxury right now of being on break between semesters, so I can spend my days with him. In a few weeks that won't be the case. Oh, and I feel guilty that I am not at home organizing and cleaning.

Unlike the early years of mom guilt, I don't feel paralyzed, which is a blessing. And mostly I can unbalance the guilt monster a bit and allow myself to feel the blessings: the family and friends who all give what they can, when they can, and together create a cushion of love and support. I'm quite sure that I could not survive this without them. I do wonder at times, if I could be as good a friend to any of these people as they are being to me. They give me so much strength and support; I don't think I could ever match that. Then I remember when our friends Mike and Celia bought their first house. Dozens of people came to help them move. By the end of moving day, not only was everything moved in, but thanks to Celia's organizational skills and mad box-labeling ability, they were almost completely unpacked and the empty boxes were broken down. The new homeowners were quite grateful, but to a person we all said, "but I didn't do much." We had all done what we could, and together we accomplished a lot.

Together our friends and family are keeping Joe and I afloat. I try very hard not to feel guilty about that.