For When You Feel Like You Didn’t Do Enough…

March 2026 changed my family. It changed me.

Emotions can come to surface when a loved one gets some unsettling news. Questions run through your mind non stop. Medical terms become part of your vocabulary and sometimes guilt creeps in when you least expect it.

My dad has been through it. Since he received two diagnoses in March, he has rarely had a day off. A typical week looks like this:

Monday, Wednesday, and Friday: Dialysis. Dialysis can last anywhere from 3-4 hours. 3-4 hours in a chair, hooked up to machines, in a room full of other individuals who are receiving the same type of care. 3-4 hours where you can listen to some music, a podcast, or the others around you chat (not ideal). Oh, and dialysis begins at 6:15 a.m.

Tuesdays are infusion days. The times vary but usually a Tuesday starts out okay and can go to “so-so,” “crummy,” or “not good.” Infusion days start with some bloodwork and a break, then infusion. Every three weeks on Tuesdays, the day is longer with bloodwork, doctor visit, and infusion. Infusion comes in a variety of three. One chemo bag (IV), and two shots. Those shots are in the stomach.

That leaves Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday. Rest. Recharge. Recover. Errands. Whatever he can muster after four days of treatments.

Tuesday’s are my day with dad. We had an unspoken agreement, Tuesday’s were for me to accompany him to treatment. Tuesday’s are a lunch or snack day with dad. Tuesday’s are sometimes stressful and sometimes bring tears to my eyes. I try not to let that show. I try to keep it in, or wait until I can have a moment at home or in the car. Tuesday’s are tough.

I made a medical binder. l had to do something that allowed me to feel some control, or some order. This binder is a way for me to help. Ask the nurses or my siblings, even my husband, and they will all tell you that the binder is something of wonder. I have a med list with a description of what the meds do and are for–this helps me. I go over it on Tuesday’s when I am able with the nurses during infusion. The binder also has appointment reminders, handouts, patient education notes, and important numbers.

For a few weeks I watched during appointments and when asked if he was okay, my dad would nod, or say yes. This was during blood draws, IV’s getting started, shots, you name it, he was okay. He is strong. Since March I have heard him say two times–two times with treatments four days a week, two times with an upset stomach, extreme fatigue, and soreness, two times he has said he has not felt well.

Two times.

As a caregiver, you become aware of things with your loved one, a heightened sense if you will, that sometimes things are not okay. Dad had a couple of rough days. A cough, a scratchy voice (maybe a sore throat), and a really tough scratch/cut on his hand. He was tired. He was run down. It was Tuesday.

That particular Tuesday he told his oncologist, “I just don’t feel good.” And his oncologist (bless him) said, “let’s pause treatment. We can skip today.”

And then it happened, a lump in my throat, and tears. This is the emotional side. This is when I wondered if I had done enough advocating, if I had done enough talks on Tuesdays (or other days), or if I had listened.

Those words, “we can skip today,” were just what he needed. And it turns out that the next day (dialysis day) was paused too. After some assistance with his hand, and an antibiotic, there was some rest. And then the routine went back to the “new normal,” if we can even say that anymore.

Here’s what I know. Caregivers cannot be perfect 24/7. We carry around a lot of emotions, “what if’s,” “should I have’s,” and “did I ask the right questions” with us daily. Sometimes difficult situations give us more courage, more strength, and we may not even realize it. Respite is okay. Asking for help is okay. Having tough days is okay. Having someone to talk to is so important.

Having someone who needs your love and care, well, that’s an honor.

And when you feel like you didn’t do enough, just remember, you are enough. You do enough.

What you do as a caregiver matters.