The carer load
Your time, your work, your marriage, your body. The carer's body breaks first. How to keep yours from doing that.
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§ Journey
Your time, your work, your marriage, your body. The carer's body breaks first. How to keep yours from doing that.
Eighteen months in, my GP looked at my blood pressure (140 over 95, up from 120 over 80 the year before), my weight (eight kilos heavier), and my face (he didn't have to look at the chart for this one), and he said something I've thought about a lot since: "The carer's body breaks first. You know that, right?"
I didn't, actually. I'd been treating the whole thing as a pure logistics problem with a sad subtitle. He was telling me it was a health problem, mine, and I was a year into not noticing it.
This module is about what's happening to you while you're holding everything up for someone else.
Carer health declines measurably. The data is consistent across the literature: primary carers of ageing parents show, compared to age-matched non-carers:
These aren't soft outcomes. They're the body running a marathon it didn't sign up for, on the cheap fuel of stress and missed meals. If you're a year or more into this and your knees, your gut, your sleep, or your blood pressure are flagging, that's not a coincidence.
Get a full physical. Tell the GP what's been going on. Frame it: "I'm caring for my parent, I want a baseline, what should I be watching." Most GPs will book the bloods, the BP, the lipids, and have a real conversation. That visit is yours, not hers.
In roughly the order I've watched them go in friends:
1. Sleep. First because it's the easiest to lose. Late-night phone calls, 3am hospital rings, the ambient anxiety that makes 10pm bedtime feel premature. Sleep loss does the most damage of the four; it amplifies the other three.
2. Training. The gym session was already negotiable. Now it's the first thing cut when the schedule slips. Within three months of regular cuts, you've lost most of the fitness you had. Within six, you don't recognise the body in the mirror.
3. Your marriage. Stress comes home. Your partner gets the version of you the system has chewed up. Conversations with her shrink to logistics. Sex declines. Resentment builds, often unspoken, often on both sides. The marriage doesn't end. It thins out, and you don't notice until you're alone in the kitchen at 11pm wondering why she stopped asking how you are.
4. Work. The most resilient of the four for a while, because work is structured. Then a missed deadline, a meeting you wasn't quite ready for, a colleague who quietly stops including you on the interesting projects. Career drift, not career collapse, and harder to spot.
These four go in that order, and they recover in roughly the reverse order: work first, marriage hardest, training second, sleep last.
You are probably between 35 and 55. You probably have one or both parents needing help, and one or more children still at home or recently launched. You're the financial bridge for both ends of your family.
The Australian Bureau of Statistics calls this the Sandwich Generation. The honest version of what it costs you:
The trap of the Sandwich Generation is that nobody asks how you are. Your kids assume you're fine because you're the dad. Your parent assumes you're fine because you're functional. Your partner is in the same sandwich. Your colleagues don't know.
You will need to ask, of yourself, the question nobody else is asking. And then you will need to act on the answer, which is usually: less than I'm currently carrying.
Early burnout looks like normal tiredness. The specific markers are these. Tick honestly:
Three or more, sustained, is burnout. Get help. Not "self-care". Help.
We covered respite in module 3. It's worth saying again because most men don't use it.
Book it. Don't apologise for it. Don't call it a holiday; call it operational rest. Your parent will be fine for a week. Many parents are quietly relieved to have a change of scene. The carer who comes back is a better carer than the one who collapsed.
The men I've watched do this badly all asked for help too late. The men who did it well asked for help early, in small specific increments.
The asks that work:
The asks that don't work:
The cost of asking is much smaller than the cost of breaking. The people around you mostly want to help. They just don't know what would actually help, and they're too polite to insist.
Be specific. Be small. Be willing to ask again next month.
Two truths most local siblings don't admit out loud:
The local sibling carries about 70-80% of the load. Time-and-motion studies of Australian families bear this out. Not 50%, even when there are four siblings. Geography wins.
The local sibling resents the interstate siblings, often quietly, often unfairly, sometimes fairly. This resentment is corrosive. It also doesn't fix anything. The interstate siblings are not bad people for being interstate. The fairer version of the conversation, had monthly:
Specific. Cumulative. Documented. Not as ammunition. As fairness.
If the interstate siblings can't or won't contribute meaningfully, that's worth knowing too. Some families have one sibling carry it all, by tacit agreement. If that's your family, accept it consciously instead of letting it eat you. Charge for it if you can (some families pay the local sibling out of the parent's care budget, with the parent's consent and an accountant's involvement; this is legal in Australia and underused).
Three things that actually work, none of which are "self-care":
1. A weekly ninety minutes that is yours. Not your parent's, not your partner's, not your kids'. Same time every week. The gym, a walk, a coffee alone, a swim, a long bath. Defended.
2. One conversation a fortnight with a man who is not in your family. A friend, a brother-in-law, a colleague who's been through it. Just to hear yourself say what's been happening out loud. The talking does the work; the advice is mostly irrelevant.
3. The GP visit, twice a year. Bloods, BP, weight, mood. The data tells you what the feel can't. Twenty minutes. Booked in advance. Don't skip it because Mum has a thing on the same day.
The carer's body breaks first. Make yours the exception by treating it like a piece of equipment that has a job to do for the next decade.
You can't pour from an empty cup. You can't carry a parent on a body you've stopped maintaining. Same idea, less Pinterest.
A blunt field guide to the first month after the conversation. Sleep, paperwork, the kids, and the part nobody warns you about.
5 minHow to start the talk you've been rehearsing in the shower for six months. A practical guide to the words, the room, the aftermath.
4 minWhen she ends it and you didn't see it coming. The first 72 hours, the stories you'll tell yourself, and what to actually do.
4 minA self-interrogation guide for the man considering ending his marriage. Not advice. Questions. The hard ones, in order.
5 min