Nobody hands you a manual when you become a caregiver. You just wake up one day reading pill bottles like a detective and negotiating with insurance companies like a hostage situation. This is a porch to sit on when you need a minute — and maybe a laugh.
Why this porch exists
I didn't set out to become an expert in any of this. Caregiving has a way of making experts out of ordinary people whether they signed up for it or not. Somewhere between the third rescheduled appointment and the fourteenth version of "we'll just have to see," my wife Margaret pointed out that I'd started making everyone laugh about it instead of cry — and suggested I write some of it down. So here we are.
This isn't a site full of gentle platitudes about self-care (though self-care is good, do that too). It's a place for the stuff that's actually true: it's hard, it's often absurd, and if you've Googled "is this normal" at 2am, the answer is yes, unfortunately, it is.
What you'll find here
Stories from the trenches on the blog — the paperwork, the waiting rooms, the small victories nobody else understands are victories. And a growing list of practical resources, including a section on gear that actually helps when one hand is doing the job of two.
Pull up a rocking chair
Leave a note, or answer someone else's — no account needed to comment, just a name (or "anonymous" is fine too).