After patience comes pay back. Or anger. Or the shaking of every muscle of the body. Which reaction I end up with depends on the nature of the situation that requires patience. And whether I was paying attention to the building stress.
I remember children throwing stones into the water. Somehow, an arm twisted, a child moved, and a stone hit a forehead. Mom of bleeding child and mom of stone thrower--I was the second--rush to the child, lay him down, apply pressure so that blood ceases to gush. With a quiet voice and slow words, I say to mom of bleeding child, "We need to see how bad the cut is, whether it just needs cleaning or stitches. I will lift the pressure so we can look, then quickly reapply. Are you ready?" "How can you be so calm?" she demands. "I'm faking," I answered.
I learned that quiet calm in first aid training. The injured person needs reassurance. The quiet voice tells them they will be okay despite how panicked they feel. The person helping has to make quick wise decisions, and that requires a measure of calm. And the one who inadvertently caused the accident needs to know that this is not the end of the world or their friendship.
Once the decision to go for stitches is made, the adrenaline fades. The body shakes. The story is told to others at a rapid staccato pace, with words pouring out over and over. Patience is gone.
A family member needs care. An accident or illness throws them off completely. All routines are gone as support to get them through the day takes over. A week goes by and then two. Patient attentiveness is required to address the surprises, the new daily needs, the weakness and the pain. Each day, each time the caregiver is called, they respond with quiet words and attentiveness. They reassure the person that they are not a burden, not a problem, and they will get better.
The patience lasts until it snaps like an elastic pulled too tight. One more request for water is too much. Muttering under the breath betrays frustration. The stomping walk reveals the end of patience. It is as if there was only so much patience in us, and we've burned the last stick of it. A pained look comes to the face of the one who needs help and doesn't want to be helpless. Guilt rises in the caregiver along with a flood of apologies, and a denial that there is any problem with continuing to help.
This is the moment when the caregiver realizes that they need to escape the stress if only for a moment. They need the self-talk that promises that this extra attentiveness and patience will not be required for ever. They need to recognize that their patience is, in part, fake, an act that reassures care-giver and receiver.
It is important to remember that frustration and maybe anger and fear may boil under the lid of patience. If we don't, the reaction can look like pay back. We have been nice and quiet and gentle for days, and then suddenly lash out in anger, demanding it's our turn to watch what we want to watch on TV. We leave the house and slam the door behind us to make sure the other person notices how good we've been for so long.
The thing I didn't learn in first aid training is that patience is stressful to maintain. We need to lift the lid and boil over. We need to let the elastic relax at least for a little while. If we are not careful, we will do this in the presence of the one we are caring for and bruise them and the relationship. If we are careful, taking ourselves out to dance to a funk band or run 10k or walk along the bank of a quiet pond, if we do something we love like read a book outside with a steaming cup of our favorite tea, we will give ourselves the strength to be patient again. It isn't selfish. It's care for the loved one when we care for ourselves.
Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay.
