Twenty-one years ago today, my brother was in a car accident.
He suffered a traumatic brain injury, and I went from having three healthy, thriving older brothers to being disability adjacent.
My brother was robbed of his independence, health, and general livelihood. His soul is bound to a body that no longer operates as it was originally intended. He has and will continue to suffer greatly because of this, and he will have to be supported by a caregiver every day for the rest of his life. Which brings me to the purpose of this piece:
To acknowledge the unexpected caregivers.
These are the people whose lives were unexpectedly derailed by tragedy, moving them into roles of caregiving that they never anticipated.
There are those who are in the caregiving profession, and to you, I want to say God bless you. Your embodiment of Christ is rarely acknowledged or celebrated, a “least of these” in the modern world. Thank you for who you are and what you do for us.
But this letter of love is to the unexpected caregivers.
The one whose parent was diagnosed with dementia.
The one whose child was in a car accident.
The one whose spouse received a diagnosis.
For these people, life was “normal” one day, and the next, it wasn’t. They were asked to reorient their lives around someone in need. I’ve read very little about them.
And so, this piece is for you.
You pictured your life differently, and when that image enters your mind, you grieve what will never be. This grief is complex and worthy of expression and support.
You reason that your new situation “could’ve been worse,” so instead of properly processing, you often belittle the reality that fills each of your days in different ways.
You never received a guidebook for navigating this devastation or how to rebuild your life, so you forged your own path and never really know if you’re doing it right.
In this moment, I’d like to offer this acknowledgement:
You are seen. What you’ve experienced is heartbreaking, and you had to keep going in spite of the pain.
It’s important that people understand how resilient you are, that every day when you wake up, you are caring for yourself and another without reprieve.
It’s important that people understand how you have continued to love the suffering and broken in your heart and in your home with a relentless, unconditional love.
It’s important that you know that you are just as worthy of support for the role that you play as the one who you support.
In the months that followed my brother’s accident, the world rallied. People sent meals and cards and showed up in droves.
But as the years have passed, my brother has been all but forgotten by the community that had once been present.
His classmates grew up, his teachers retired, his “friends” told me it was too hard to stay close and see him this way—one of the most surprising (and infuriating) results of his traumatic brain injury was the sheer number of people who walked away and never came back.
But for the last twenty-one years, my parents have been faithful caretakers.
They’ve had to come to peace with a child whose life didn’t turn out the way it was supposed to.
They’ve endured medical emergencies and constant reminders of what could’ve been.
They’ve engaged in daily conversations about what happened with him and what it means for him now.
I see and appreciate everything you’ve done and continue to do.
If there is someone in your life who plays this role for someone else, take a minute to acknowledge the importance of what they do each day.
There is power in bearing witness to the experiences of those we love in their joy and in their suffering.
So here’s to the unexpected caregivers.
The ones who have no end date on their job description but move with loving kindness anyway, the ones who never named this road they’ve had to travel but walk it faithfully anyway.
You know, in the most true and intimate sense of the word, what love is.