You Don't Have to Be Falling Apart to Take a Break

She sets the alarm for 5:30.

Not because she wants to. Because Mom needs her pills by 6, and it takes a while now. The crushing. The mixing. The coaxing.

"Come on, Mom. Take a sip. Swallow. There you go."

By 7, she's made breakfast twice. Eaten neither.

By 9, she's helped Mom to the bathroom, changed the sheets, started laundry, called the pharmacy, and left a voicemail for the doctor's office that she already knows won't be returned until Thursday.

Her coffee is cold. Barely a sip.

She sits at the kitchen table. Just for a second.

Her phone buzzes. Her daughter. "Hey Mom, don't forget Lily's recital is Friday at 6."

She'd forgotten.

She types back: "Wouldn't miss it ❤️"

She'll miss it. Grandma needs her.

Her name doesn't matter. You already know her.

Maybe she's you. Maybe she's your sister. Maybe she's the woman at church who always says she's "hanging in there" with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

She's the caregiver. The one holding everything together. 

She tells herself she's fine.

She's not.

Here's what nobody told her: there's something between "I can handle this" and "I can't do this anymore."

It's called respite care.

It's a few days. Sometimes a week. A place where Mom is safe, cared for, known — while the caregiver does the one thing she's forgotten how to do.

Rest.

She hears about it from a friend. Or maybe she reads something online at midnight, the way she reads everything now — one eye open, Mom's monitor glowing on the nightstand.

"Respite care."

She says it out loud. But the guilt hits immediately.

What if something happens and I'm not there?

She closes the laptop. Tells herself she'll figure it out later.

Later never comes easy for people like her.

But one morning, something shifts.

Mom asks her a question. Simple. "What day is it?" for the third time.

Sharply, "It's Wednesday, Mom. I already told you."

Silence after is the worst sound she's ever heard.

Mom looks at her. Confused. A little hurt.

She goes to the other room. Sits on the edge of the bed.

She makes the call.

Her voice is thin. A little embarrassed. "I don't even know if this is the right number. I just — I need a few days. Is that a thing? Can she stay with you for a few days?"

It's a thing.

The woman on the phone doesn't rush her. Doesn't sell her. Just listens. Asks about Mom. What she likes. What she needs. Whether she's a morning person. Whether she likes sweet tea or coffee.

She laughs. "Sweet tea. Always sweet tea."

"We'll have some ready."

She hangs up. And for the first time in months, she takes a full breath.

"Hi, Dorothy. Come on in. We saved you a spot by the window."

She looks at her daughter.

"Go," she says. "I'll be all right."

The first night alone is strange.

The house is quiet. Too quiet.

She stands in the kitchen. No pills to crush. No sheets to change. No one calling her name from the other room.

She makes dinner. Eats it warm. All of it.

She sits on the couch and catches up on the newest Netflix..

Then she cries. Not from sadness. From relief.

On Monday, she picks Mom up.

Mom's wearing a new clip in her hair. One of the caregivers put it there.

"I liked that place," Mom says in the car.

She reaches over and holds her mother's hand.

She’s a daughter again.

That's what respite care is.

It's not a last resort. It's not a sign of weakness. It's not the beginning of the end.

It's a few days that give you back the thing caregiving slowly takes: yourself.

You don't have to be falling apart to deserve a break.

You just have to be honest enough to admit you need one.

At The Joy, we keep a room ready. Not for emergencies. For the daughter who needs a weekend. The son who needs to go see his own kids. The spouse who just needs to sleep.

If that's you, call us. No paperwork. No pressure. Just a conversation.

(470) 684-3569

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