Staying Fit
"I want you to put caregiving on your résumé” my Daddy muttered from the deathbed. He must have seen my perplexed reaction because he added, “Caroline, you get a better chance at a job if you told people you took care of me."
My father's liver cancer forced my 14-year-old self into the role of caregiver. It disrupted my part-time job search during high school. By the time the tumor was discovered, the cancer nibbled away at Daddy's hip bone before he could receive effective radiation treatment.
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Daddy went from walking straight to leaning on a cane to leaning on a walker that scraped against our tiled floor—before he became confined to the cot. I was determined to make him better. I dared to imagine that I could cure him by just making him comfortable.
Cooking was the most effective way to make him feel better. I baked dark chocolate pies, boiled pasta and heated up ravioli for him. I was proud when he ate my dark chocolate pies. In that way, I made his last days sweeter.
But there were matters that frustrated me. Once I came home from school, and he lay there stiff and numb and crying for help. He confessed that he swallowed too much painkillers. I scrambled to make him feel better, to bring him water, to talk to him and to keep him company. I did not voice my anger. Why didn't he follow the dosage instructions? I was mad at myself for feeling mad. He was suffering, and I could not make him better.
What I was not prepared for were the words: words of love, words of remorse, words of confusion. As I brought him the food he wanted, I would hear him say things like, “I love you. I was dreaming about when you were born.” Then there was, “If you trust me, you have to become a lawyer,” which flummoxed me.
How do I put on my résumé that I witnessed how deep the pain and shame wore and tore at his soul?
There was also, “I dreamed of demons laughing at me.” He feared he was going to hell. Sometimes he told me, “I wasn't a good father. I wasn't a good father. I'm sorry.” He was losing faith in his survival. That made me feel useless that my caregiving was never enough.
Yet, my father insisted I list “caregiving” on my résumé. “Caroline, you must put that. You have to tell people you took care of me.” He knew I was at the age where college applications and career prospects were urgent. He wanted my caregiving position to secure me in the future.
How do I put on my résumé that I witnessed how deep the pain and shame wore and tore at his soul? Insurance paid over $2 million for the medical bills. He apologized that I had to see him like that, apologized for being my burden.
He never wanted to be a victim of anything. He survived the communists of the Vietnam War, he survived the racists in his childhood when he moved to America. He believed in hard work, pushed me to become valedictorian (I never became one). He was miserable that he never matched up to the glorified image of the “fighter,” the one who could beat the disease.
