I felt that way so many times in the seven years I spent as a caregiver for Rodger. I cried and vented and wished for more wisdom daily. I saw every setback, every new symptom, and every dreadful new diagnosis as a sign of failure on my part.
Scalded by guilt, worn down by his refusal to trust me, I resented him. Fearing where this spiral would take us and knowing any chance of respite care was weeks away, I began to pray. There were no miracles for us. He was not cured. I did not develop the patience of a saint. But it helped me understand, again, that he and I were not alone. And in that moment that’s exactly what I needed.
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