I settle into the driver’s seat of my car, feeling something more than satisfaction, more than freedom—a third feeling, a synergistic combination of the two. Next to me, in the passenger’s seat is Poppy, my copilot / Blue-Fronted Amazon parrot, in his travel cage. Just over my shoulder, all of my belongings are packed in one compact space. My personal Queendom in the form of a Honda Fit. Having just left my keys behind at the transient apartment I subleased with a friend for the summer, I feel whole. It’s like the entirety of my being exists between here and Port St. Lucie, FL, where I’m headed.
As I pull out of the parking lot, the song “Budding Trees” by Nahko and Medicine for the People plays.
“In the moon of the budding trees
I was gifted new eyes to see
All of the shifting shape and ways you can be
Wake the dreams into realities.”
The gentle strumming of guitar carries his optimistic voice, which stirs a sense of peace within me. Moving into complete uncertainty, I am leaving a city that I’ve called home for most of my life and going to Florida to care for my grandma. I don’t know for how long, or exactly what I’m going to do while I’m down there. I start thinking about what Nahko means when he sings, “Wake the dreams into realities.” Uprooting my life to care for my grandma isn’t something I ever “dreamed” of doing, yet it fits in my life in a way only God could have planned. Us millennials were taught that to make our dreams come true we must be unyielding in our pursuit of one outcome. To settle for anything else would be a failure. If the pandemic taught us anything, it’s that the laws that govern the natural world don’t care about our goals. Before the pandemic, I had dreams of moving to the West Coast, getting a high paying job, living the quintessential twenty-something-year-old experience. I had just finally completed my long-awaited Bachelor’s degree! I felt the world opening up to me, and then the world closed. During that time, I thought a lot about the saying, “When we make plans, God laughs.” Personally, I didn’t see the humor. Yet, I understood that material goals are different than spiritual evolution. Through the most difficult times, we are gifted opportunities to progress down our paths to our higher selves.
With this in mind, my approach to life is not about setting concrete goals; it’s more like sailing. Disclaimer: I’ve never sailed a day in my life. What I know is that you don’t try to control the winds and the tides. Instead, you attune to them. You move your sails with them, directing the boat in the direction you want to travel. In life, this means having the courage to face difficult truths head on. This meant accepting that my grandma isn’t as independent as she once was. When I faced this reality, I was honest with myself about what I can do about it. I can make sure I spend time with her, learn from her, and provide her with the care she deserves.
At first, I resisted my divine path.
When I initially was asked to go down to Florida, I did not have the serenity that I do now. No, I quite adamantly resisted it. I thought, Why me? Why am I being asked to do something that is so undervalued in society? A quick search on PayScale shows that the average pay for an elder caregiver is $12.00 an hour. That doesn’t account for the countless hours of unpaid labor that is expected of family members. Why me? Why should I be asked to sacrifice my plans before others? In trying to find the answer, a lot of insecurities ran through my mind. According to the Caregiver Action Network, 66% of caregivers are women. The most typical caregiver is a daughter caring for her mother. In the case of my family, that role defaults to me because my grandma’s only daughter, my mother, died when I was thirteen. I lamented having to change my plans because of my gender and because I lost my mom prematurely. And I thought about my own socialization around care work, remembering when my great-grandmother came to the end of her life. My grandma was the one to care for her. At the time, I was just seven-years-old. Still, my grandma and mom urged me to help her remember words and care for her in subtle ways. Meanwhile, my older brothers were off somewhere, doing “boy things.” I remembered a project I did for school during that time, which my grandma hung on her wall for years afterward. We had to write about the wisest person we knew. I chose my grandma because she knew how to help someone at the end of their life. When I remembered that project, my perspective shifted. I want to be someone that my younger self would think is wise. Caregiving is like a baton that’s been passed through generations of my maternal lineage, holding all the wisdom I admired as a child. Yes, it is undervalued. And yes, that should change. But trying to resist what I am called to do would only leave me lacking in the areas that truly matter.
My self-pitying question, “why me,” turned into a genuine inquiry. So, why me? When I went back to school as an adult with a renewed sense of purpose, it was for Human Services. I didn’t have an exact career path in mind. I was simply called to the idea of helping people. That degree led to experiences that taught me a lot about the world we live in, about the human condition, and about myself. I spent time working as a support professional for children and adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities. From there, I completed a year of service with Flower City AmeriCorps, an anti-poverty initiative. Then, I began working for Planned Parenthood, supporting people often during the most vulnerable moments of their lives. All of my prior experiences caring for others has been so rewarding but I often struggled to understand how it would eventually fit together—care work, community service, reproductive health, and writing. I maintained faith that someday it all would.
Reproductive health and elder care are connected.
When we think about reproductive health, we often envision birth control, prenatal vitamins, pap smears, and STI tests. We don’t usually think about death. Working at Planned Parenthood, I have witnessed the deep grief involved in the reproductive process. This is the side of reproductive health that is taboo in our culture. Our ability to bring life into the world is inextricably tied to death. You cannot have one without the other. The care that goes into attuning to a person’s needs during pregnancy is the same care needed to anticipate someone’s needs who has lost abilities they once had. My model of reproductive health encompasses the entire life cycle from conception to death, bringing light to taboo subjects. With my strong connection to my maternal lineage, I’ve been gifted with wisdom to navigate our reproductive life cycle, honoring both the beauty and mystery of life.
As Nahko’s song closes to an end, I am somewhere on the highway. He sings, “Dawning adventures sparkle. Get some rest.” I bask in the wonder at what my adventure will bring. I look forward to sharing my journey with care work and reproductive justice through my writings on here. What I know for sure is I have Poppy by my side, my sails are raised, and I can feel the ocean breeze.
Since originally publishing this in October 2020 on my original blog, I have begun working as a doula and birth educator. I've been able to combine my experience and passion to offer a wide range of birth services, offering reaffirming options for birthing people.