Rocks in My Pockets

This summer of 2025 has been a challenging season. I feel tired and am learning, sometimes slowly, how to take better care of myself.

At the end of June, Doug came down with a chest cold. I actually caught it first—just a head cold in my case. Thankfully, I had plenty of Kleenex on hand. It followed the usual pattern: two days of misery, then several more of sneezing and sniffling before it finally passed.

Doug, unfortunately, didn’t fare as well.

At this stage of dementia, a weakened immune system shows up in countless ways. Even mild allergies can trigger a rash. Scrapes and bruises linger before healing. And what is a brief, minor cold for me can linger in him, wearing him down. He needs much more rest than before, and because he doesn’t hydrate on his own, dehydration can sneak up quickly.

When Doug caught my cold, it went straight to his lungs. What started as a simple upper respiratory irritation quickly settled deeper, leading to fluid in his right lung and a deep, wet cough. We decided to give him antibiotics, which may or may not have helped, but they most certainly unleashed the chaos of a microbiome storm, which finally, after six long weeks (and a lot of laundry), is now under control.

Today, I’m relieved to say Doug is much better. As I write this, he is sitting comfortably in his recliner, a blanket tucked over his legs to ward off the cool air conditioning. He just enjoyed a good lunch, is watching a final round of golf on TV, and even completed the “challenge” of a grueling five-piece puzzle.

Two years ago, I began meeting with a therapist to help me navigate grief and overwhelm. It has been a game-changer for my mental health. Caregiving dementia—even with support—is relentless and consuming. Sometimes I carry it with grace; other times, exhaustion tips me into irritation and impatience. I’m learning to recognize that the difference often comes down to how rested and replenished I feel.

I am also slowly learning to prioritize and set boundaries. I’m struck by the gap between what I think I can manage and what I’m actually able to do. Too often, I push past my limits without realizing it—until I feel like I’m drowning in the weight of being needed, with too little energy left to give. I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever feel light, spontaneous, and capable again, or if this heaviness, like quicksand pulling at my feet, has become my new normal.

My therapist described my reality as walking around with rocks in my pockets. Each rock represents a responsibility, a stressor, or the weight of caregiving that I carry every day. She encourages me to notice how heavy my pockets already are, to resist adding more, and to guard against letting others add to my load. It’s such a simple image, yet it gives me language for what I feel when I’m overwhelmed and permission to set boundaries before the weight pulls me under.

Looking back on this summer, and on the long, uneven road of dementia care, I see both the heaviness and the unexpected mercies woven through it. Doug’s illness was another reminder of how fragile he is at this stage—how quickly a cold can tip into something more threatening—and also of how resilient he can be, inching his way back to stability and comfort. My own path mirrors his in some ways: weariness and overwhelm pulling me down, yet at the same time, I am charitably steadied by new practices and boundaries, by resting when I can manage it, and by slowly learning to name and release the rocks I cannot carry.

I don’t know if lightness and spontaneity will ever return in the way I long for, or if this new rhythm is simply the shape of my life now. But I do know this: every time I choose to pause, to care for Doug with kindness, and to guard a small margin of care for myself, it is its own quiet act of strength. Perhaps that is what sustains me—not the absence of burden, but the grace to keep walking with the rocks I must carry, one day at a time. And maybe, for now, that is enough.

Karen