In the week after my husband died, several milestones occurred, each bringing its own white-hot pain. Meeting with the pastor and the funeral director to plan a service. Entering the casket room and picking out a plain, pine box. Writing out the words to say at the service. Saying those words. Greeting people afterwards. Talking to the tax office and innumerable other government officials, shutting down the life that was his. Unfamiliar and frightening, each brought a special kind of hell. But the one I dreaded the most was the day I had to return to work.
My workplace was a close and loving community of frail elderly people whom I served and the staff I served alongside. Everyone knew me and knew my journey. Everyone would want to express their condolences. It would be caring and awkward, painful and exhausting. Everything in me recoiled, but I needed to face this first day back.
I rode the elevator up to my floor and held my breath as it opened. Sitting in her wheelchair, her anxious face furrowed and her gentle eyes fixed on the elevator door, sat Miss Simpson. She parked herself there almost an hour ago, watching for me.
Miss Simpson and I formed a special bond on the day, a few years earlier, when we shared a hot cross bun recipe as I shopped for 
ingredients. She lived in an apartment in the same building and she often sent mouth-watering cooking smells drifting through the halls of her floor. She leaned on her walker that day and gave me baking hints and we became fast friends. When she suffered a stroke that took away her ability to walk and care for herself, she moved into a room on my floor. I hated the disability which caused her frustration and pain, but I loved Miss Simpson. Thick, grey hair perfectly styled and eyes which would twinkle one minute and turn on you with fury the next if she didn’t approve of what you’d said, Miss Simpson taught me every day.
One look into her eyes and I knew her elevator vigil was because of me. I dropped my purse and other parcels and knelt by her chair. She reached out her arms, one of which curled at the wrist because of the stroke. Her hug was both gentle and fierce and we both dissolved into tears. For some minutes I knelt, absorbing her love and care. When I raised my damp face from her shoulder I quipped, “You aren’t helping!” (But of course, she was.) She laughed and then snorted, then we both laughed. I got to my feet and she wheeled down to breakfast.
That day remained interminably long as people paraded by my desk to express their condolences. But I made it through because of the love of Miss Simpson.
Reciprocal care. When the person you care for, cares for you. It’s a radical, almost unheard of concept. Eden Alternative says giving and receiving care is the antidote to helplessness. (1) That makes sense to me. If the person(s) I care for also care for me, then they will feel purpose. They are needed. I am needed.
When I started in the industry, and for many years after, it was considered “unprofessional” to open yourself in any way to a resident. You gave to them, and did not receive from them. Thankfully, we grew wiser with time and experience.
The difference between a caregiver and care partner is this: a caregiver gives care. A care partner gives and receives care in a reciprocal arrangement. Care partners allow themselves to receive care in the most unusual ways.
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(1) https://www.edenalt.org/about-the-eden-alternative/mission-vision-values/