How I transitioned from long-distance caregiver to griever...

Up until about six weeks ago, I was what Kate Washington, in her powerful book, Already Toast: Caregiving and Burnout in America, describes as a “long-distance caregiver” to my father. 

Washington writes: 

. . . Long-distance caregivers, live far from their ill or incapacitated charges and must manage their care remotely, a terribly challenging role. Caregiving from afar can often lead to guilt or may provoke caregivers to worry about whether the care is adequate or they really “count” as caregivers.

And while her description is entirely accurate, I can add that my dad and I had a decade-long period of estrangement prior to resumed communication, which resulted in my long-distance caregiving, which in turn concluded with his death on July 28, 2022. I was able to be with my dad when he died (more on that in a future Memento Mori). 

Thus, I have transitioned from a long-distance caregiver to a griever. 

My dad led a quiet, simple, and solitary life in his last years. I am his only surviving immediate family, and I own the property that he lived on. This is fortunate because, unlike my late husband, Bob, my father did zero preparation for his death. I was not listed as a beneficiary on his checking account. Thankfully, I was not at all dependent on gaining immediate access to those funds because it is taking time (and an attorney’s fee) to close the account and receive the money. 

I did not know the access code to his phone or tablet. Here again, I am thankful. My dad only played silly games on his tablet and used the phone for, wait for it, making calls. Neither device contains the many precious photos, videos, notes, and voice recordings that most people do. The act of trying to guess my dad’s access code: 

my birthdate… 
my late brother’s birthdate … 
my dad’s own birthdate … 
the year he was born …

Knowing that each time I tried and failed, I got closer to the device shutting down forever. After so many inaccurate attempts to gain access, most devices will shut down permanently as a security measure. With each guess, I was getting closer to losing the information entirely. The attempts gave me an experiential empathy for the sheer panic and devastation many grievers go through when a loved one dies not having shared access to security codes. 

And finally, preparing to sell the property where my dad lived, nestled next to the Rio Grande in a coveted area of northern New Mexico, the neighbors who want to buy the property are sharing stories about the last few years of my dad’s life. Some that I believe, some that I don’t. I knew my dad very well, and I am of above-average emotional intelligence. Still, these anecdotes are burrowing into my mind and memories. Were I not a self-aware, stable individual who has, for several decades, placed a high value on therapy, emotional healing, and personal development, these narratives would have me gaslighting the already fraught plight of the long-distance caregiver now turned griever.

I hope you are taking the following from this missive: 

• Long-distance caregivers exist and have some of their own unique challenges.

• Most of the time, family caregiving ends with the care recipient's death, and the caregiver transitions to the griever. Caregivers and care recipients need to actively manage that future.

• Someone, perhaps many, will be sad when you die. You risk adding unnecessary: moral distress, financial strife, and the devastating loss of photos, videos, and personal effects, if you don’t have conversations with loved ones about end-of-life wishes and share the location of all important documents and passcodes.