Have you ever run a marathon? I hope your answer is a forceful: NOPE! Or just a good ole fashioned thumbs-down would also be an appropriate response. (Need I remind runners everywhere that the first guy to ever run a marathon died immediately afterward?!) Marathons are famously 26.2 miles.
While I technically have never run a marathon (as my cousin Joel loves to point out), I have, on two occasions, run 29 miles—a full 2.8 miles more than your average namby-pamby marathon. I won’t get into the specifics here—the important thing to understand is that my brain was still not fully developed at that time. I also feel it’s worth noting that I loathe running. Deeply. In fact, I despise it so strongly, I deliberately chose not to train for these runs, choosing instead to suffer through one excruciating day of misery running rather than several months full of extra running in preparation for the actual event. Like I said, my brain wasn’t quite there yet. So, I simply rolled out of bed one day, taped down my nipples (FACT CHECK: my mammilla were actually unimpaired. I wouldn’t want to—eclipse the nips—as they say [fine, you’re right. Nobody says that…]), and pushed my body to its absolute limit.
Now, for those of you with less barbarous or sadistic tendencies, let me explain the physiology behind what long distance runners call, hitting the wall (no, this does not have to do with stuff hitting the fan and then splattering around and also hitting the walls…) Hitting the wall is a shockingly unpleasant experience that can occur during the latter stages of a marathon. It is a deep physical and mental fatigue that hits you quite abruptly, as if you have just run into a brick wall. Sudden exhaustion, muscle cramps, dizziness, disorientation. Every single step taken after hitting the wall is an enormous triumph of will and mind. Every 100 yards run feels like an additional 100 miles. In layman’s terms, it is your brain shouting at you, “YOU IDIOT. YOU ABSOLUTE LUMMOX. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! IF YOU DO NOT CUT OUT THIS BLITHERING ASININITY YOU WILL SURELY DIE.” For me, this happened at mile 21. Hitting the wall means your body has run out of energy to burn—carbohydrates being your body’s preferred fuel source (which is stored as glycogen in the muscles) (this is also why some runners carb load prior to a race). So, there you are, just trotting along on your nice marathon route, enjoying the views, burning glycogen for energy—all of a sudden, there is no more glycogen left in the tank, so your brain freaks out, then starts burning fats and proteins to keep up with the fuel demand. Let’s just say, at the age of 18, I had an impoverished DadBod. If my body had Googled: fat stores for emergencies, it would have elicited zero search results… So, it turned to the next available source, my protein. The unscientific way of describing it would be: when one’s body begins to consume itself. When that happens, be prepared to be unable to walk for several days. We’re talking, deep muscle tissue soreness. Truly unfathomable.
Let me connect it all for you to caregiving. As I reflect back on that long distance running experience of my youthful juvenescence, there are certainly aspects that feel a lot like caregiving (fatigue, gritting teeth, physical and emotional (and spiritual) disorientation)—but there are also a number of qualifying distinctions (namely: caregivers don’t need to worry as much about nipple chaffing…). Here are other key differences:
- People typically have a say in whether they run a marathon or not. With the exception of Pheidippides or this guy in Cincinnati who lost his fantasy football league, most people voluntarily choose to put themselves in a marathon-running situation. Caregivers, unfortunately, do not get that choice.
- Marathon runners can also change their pace as needed. They can decide exactly how they want to run (there is even a guy who holds the World Record for “Joggling” (juggling while jogging), completing a marathon in 2007 in Toronto!). They can stop when they need to, walk, sit on the curb, take a nap, keep going—or simply leave the course mid-race, head to their car, and beeline to the nearest Cicis Pizza. Caregivers lose much of their autonomy.
- Marathons have a finish line. You can put your mind and body through quite a lot for 26.2 miles. Then, phew, a couple of hours later, it’s all over. You can refuel your body, pop the ibuprofen, sit in an ice bath, sleep for days, stream every episode of The Great British Bake Off. Pat yourself on the back—you did an incredible thing. First of all, there is no definite “distance” to caregiving. It keeps going until one day it stops. Some caregive for hours or days—others for decades. And the brutal reality is—the only thing waiting at “the finish line” for caregivers is death (or, an unequivocal act of God, i.e. complete healing… And then comes death).
I used to think that caregiving felt like someone signed me up for a marathon. All of a sudden, I just had to start running. I had not trained for it. I was not prepared for it. I did not even have enough time to put on my running shoes. I hadn’t taken any classes or listened to any podcasts or read any books on the subject—I was just—running. Then I thought about the above reasons, and realized a marathon is too predictable. Too finite. Maybe a better metaphor would be: all of a sudden, I had to just start running. There is no finish line. There is no predictable or ascertainable distance. There’s not even really a way to measure where I even am or where I am going. But even that seemed to fall short…
Then I thought about swimming.
If there is anything worse than running, it has to be swimming.
Caregiving feels like being dropped in the middle of an expanse of water, and being told, “Swim.” You have no idea where to. You have no idea if you are going in circles. You have no idea if you will be eaten by a giant squid. Sure, you can change pace a little, change your stroke—you can try and float on your back, you can grab hold of a slice of driftwood. But there is no stopping. There are no breaks. Even if you are “resting”—you are still swimming. Treading water. Actively trying not to drown. Once you are in the middle of an expanse of water, you have no choice but to keep swimming. There is not a moment of blissful tranquility. There is always a part of your mind that is locked in. Engaged. Confined. Even your dreams—intangible hopes and aspirations, become restricted, bound by your current and very real limitations. Pressing in on every side. Like wearing clothes while swimming. Wearing shoes and treading water?? You might as well have your feet in cinder blocks.
Depending on how well you know me, I don’t know if you can tell in the photo above—but I am dog tired.
It’s the eyes.
AND YET—
Caregiving is a tremendous gift that is also a tremendous burden. It is a both-and. In many ways, it makes me think of John 15:13, “Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.” Now, I am not much of a theologian. Perhaps I am grossly miss-applying this verse to my situation (and I am certainly open to feedback if that is the case!) But in verse 12, Jesus says, “This is my commandment, that you love one another, as I have loved you.” I know we are loving Izzie as Jesus has loved us (albeit, imperfectly…). And I know that loving Izzie is costing me, my wife, and my other children a great deal. Though I am still functionally living, I have given up “my life” (future plans, hopes, dreams) for her sake. We all have, to various degrees. Our careers? Done-zo. Our income? You can mostly kiss that goodbye. Our ability to just leave the house as a family? Slim to none! The likelihood of ever having “a full night’s sleep” ever again? Sayonara, Mr. Sandman! Our student debt?—wait, no—actually, yeah—that one is very much still alive and well! And yet—I know that none of us would trade it or give it up.
The fact remains that Izzie is a gift to our family. Caring for her is a gift. It is in caring for her that we have seen God. I can look back on two years of caring for Izzie and see over and over again, that it would have been enough (Dayenu)—and yet, he continues to provide, continues to sustain, continues to restore, and continues to satisfy.
Whether you are a marathon runner, a swimmer, a caregiver, or something in between, I hope you will take a moment to pause and reflect on the deep, deep love of Jesus.
DAVID SCOT MUSSER 