So I checked his blood sugar – quite low – and tried to get him to drink some orange juice. Unable to rouse him I called 911. The dispatcher had me put a glucose tablet in Freddie’s mouth while she sent an ambulance. The Pearland EMTs came quickly and by then his blood sugar had dropped more, into quite dangerous territory.

They were wonderfully helpful, courteous and friendly as always, and absolutely professional in caring for him. Freddie is stable now and resting at home.  There was an appointment with his ear doctor this afternoon that I had to cancel, but otherwise this is par for the course.  Every day is a surprise, and I must be ready for anything.

I thanked the EMTs very profusely, and they thanked me for being so well prepared.  I keep a spreadsheet with a list of Freddie’s medications, his health conditions, his past surgeries, and his doctors’ information at the ready and take it with us when we go to appointments.  A copy of Freddie’s Health Care Power of Attorney is kept in that folder, too.

I’m so grateful for the service the EMTs and all our medical professionals provide, and grateful that it’s possible for me to work from home and be present for Freddie when he needs me.  We’re lucky to live where we do, and that Freddie has access to this level of care.

Now, on to try to squeeze a little work into what’s left of the day.

For my family, this individualist feline was the model for how we related to the world around us. We traveled as military brats in the years before email and Skype, when long-distance phone calls meant a death in the family and when friends were temporary in nature, limited by the two or three year span of duty in any particular base at home or abroad. Some, it’s true, responded to this by become hail-and-well-met extroverts but by and large my siblings and I became introverts We read, we dreamed, we became self-sufficient with a rich inner life.

It’s now understood that introverts are not the same as “shy people.” Although we may have social anxiety or rusty social skills, introverts are those who draw energy from being alone. Groups and gatherings can drain our energy and leave us emotionally spent. We “recharge” in our quiet places. Opening up to a stranger, even with good reason with someone with the best intentions and purposes, can become a difficult task.

I’ve been through that period of shyness, emerging with help from many factors: Coming out as gay. A couple of years of therapy. And yes, Paxil, an anti-depressant SSRI that also treats social anxiety. Being with my extrovert partner Freddie for over twelve years has given me constant models for more sociable behavior, making small talk, and especially giving compliments as an ice-breaker or social lubricant. It also doesn’t hurt to have moved back home to Texas where saying “sir” and “ma’am” and exchanging a few polite sentences with any random neighbor, stranger, or service provider are simply taken for granted as a way of life.

Now that I am more and more a caregiver, I’m looking back at Kipling’s cat and wondering if he has some new lessons for me. In the story, this cat asked for what he wanted, made a deal, and took care of a baby without giving up his essential self and identity. Something in this idea speaks to me.

As a caregiver, I’ve looked after Freddie in some ways as long as we’ve lived together, thanks to his falling off a ladder a couple days before he moved into my house. That time was just a three or four month recovery period, followed by a return to normal activity, or whatever passes for normal.

It’s really been over the last four years that caregiving for me has become more intensive and increasingly non-stop. Diligent reader me, I’ve pored over many different articles, web sites, and books for caregivers. I’ve participated in email discussion groups. And I’ve talked to doctors and social workers. One thing that I often find missing in the advice for caregivers is a sense that it needs to be tailored for your personality type. How, specifically, does the introvert approach caregiving?

For example, one frequent suggestion is to join a support group. As an introvert, I tend to move to the edge of any group and spend most if not all of my time listening instead of speaking. The very idea of joining a group makes me cringe. I’ve never been a “joiner” of any sort, not from Cub Scouts through sports teams, only reluctantly in choirs and never in clubs. I am a group of one.

And of course, as an introvert my approach to this is first to spend time by myself, whether it’s walking the dogs – well, not quite by myself – or working in the garden. I can sort through my thoughts and work through emotions and come back a little more at ease and able to cope with the next challenge.

With today’s technology, there is also the virtual group. It is not necessary to meet in person to share one’s heart and mind, worries and fears, hopes and dreams. I have a couple of friends and family who I connect with more through email or Facebook than in person. Maybe if we lived closer we’d actually see each other. Be that as it may, like Kipling’s cat I wander off and come back as I may. My introverted self does not actively seek out others, although sometimes they serendipitously appear.

The second thing I do is read. And I do mean read. Last Christmas I was given a tablet and I’ve finally gotten into reading those e-books that seemed too much to handle on my little smartphone screen. I find that reading other caregivers’ stories gives me a point of connection. Sometimes I pick up a tip that I can use, other times it’s just getting the sense that “I’m not the only one.”

Another frequent suggestion for caregivers is to ask for help. I am, of course, not just an introvert but also that quiet self-sufficient person who always did everything for himself. My home is not just my castle, it’s my sanctuary. It’s hard sometimes to let other people in, especially when their services are combined with a loss of control. I want to clean my own house, thank you, even if – especially if – a couple of the rooms are an unorganized mess. My stuff is my stuff, and I still cling to the wish to deal with it. And when those home-health workers come to visit, oh, if only they could schedule more in advance and always be on time.

Here again, Kipling’s cat has something to teach me. I don’t have everything I need. He wanted the shelter of the cave, the warmth of the fire, and a bowl of milk. He made a deal with the Wise Woman to obtain what he needed without giving up his essential self.

What can I do to name what I need and find it, ask for it, while keeping my sense of control, sanctuary, and self?

We have a cat, Gateway, who’s been with me about fifteen years now. I think I’ll go talk to her and see what she has to say.

Note to reaaders: I try not to ask for nor give advice, and I will make it clear when I do. Here’s some: My advice is think carefully about what caregiving strategies work best for you, and do not assume that any particular method that works for another is the best for you. Seek your own path and follow it, and the best of luck to you and yours.

At the time I’d been lying down, giving in again to the intense weariness that comes to me so often these days. Between the general level of stress, depression, uncertainty about life, and those anti-anxiety pills the doctor gave me, it isn’t surprising that I’m tired much of the time. We talked about it when I saw him recently. The doctor and I both know the situation I face these days, and I suppose it’s the bargain I’ve struck while I wait for something to happen.

The only thing that is happening, though, is that Freddie is not getting better. Every day, slowly, he seems to get worse. That same evening while watching television he got up for the bathroom again.

“Do you need the walker?”

“I’ll be fine.”

And next he’s at the edge of the room, shaking, legs like noodles

“I’m bringing you the walker.”

“I need you.”

So I got up and ran. I held him from behind in a tight hug until he stabilized.

“I’m not always going to be able to follow around after you to catch you when you fall.”

To that, he has no answer.

Then I brought over his walker and sent him on his way.

And so, the walker. He does not use it. I don’t know if he forgets it, with his cognitive impairment, or if it’s too inconvenient in some sense of being less convenient than falling, or if it’s pride. Most likely it’s simply ingrained habit.

Whatever it is, it’s also a ticking time bomb with a hidden clock. One more fall, I tell him, is a broken hip or a concussion or worse. The choice is up to you, I say. And yes, he agrees. And then we go on as before.

Friday evening, same scenario, in the kitchen. He comes for a glass of ice tea but only makes it as far as the counter five feet away from his Laz-Z-Boy recliner. Once again, the tight hug to keep him on his feet. And then he’s back in his chair, I get the tea, I make another pitcher, then get back to bustling around the kitchen cleaning up after dinner.

We’ve owned this house six years this weekend, moving from a two-story historic home in a walkable tree-lined neighborhood to a single-story neo-traditional in a vast sea of similar suburban homes, fifty miles closer to Freddie’s doctors and preferred hospitals. The trees are small, there are no squirrels, and we must get in the car to reach everywhere we go.  With his increasing number of doctor visits and occasional hospital stays, we accepted this compromise. We knew – sort of – what was ahead for us. But we had no idea it would happen this soon, nor in quite this way.

Six years ago he was walking and active and there were no falls. That same year both my parents passed away. Freddie was with me every step, strong and supportive, even able to help clear out my mother’s apartment, lifting furniture and boxes, driving a U-Haul truck.

And now he cannot drive.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child in my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well I’ve been afraid of changing
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you.
But time makes you bolder,
Even children get older,
And I’m getting older, too.

 Landslide, Stevie Nicks, 1975

The year of 2005 was unforgettable to my family. It was the year that my wife Heather was diagnosed with cancer. She had malignant pleural mesothelioma. That day, I became her caregiver, and life changed for us in many ways. I wasn’t ready to become a caregiver right away. It took a lot of patience and understanding. During this time, there was another life that I was also in charge of. Our newborn girl Lily had been welcomed into the world just three months before Heather’s diagnosis. While we had been preparing for a happy first Christmas, everything came to a shocking halt.

I didn’t really know where to start as a caregiver for someone with cancer. However, my journey began right as we left the doctor’s office. The doctor told us about mesothelioma, and laid out some options for treatment. There were three choices: a local university hospital, a regional hospital that offered excellent services but had no mesothelioma program, or a doctor from Boston who specialized in mesothelioma named David Sugarbaker. I remember looking at my wife wanting to know what she thought, but neither of us could speak at first. I didn’t know what to do but I had to speak up. I declared, “Get us to Boston!” This was one of the first decisions that I remember making as a new caregiver for my wife.

The next months were chaotic at best. There were many times that daily life seemed impossible. Heather and I had been working full time jobs before the diagnosis, but now we were down to a single income. I had to spend time with my wife when she went in for treatment, but I also needed to make travel arrangements and arrange child care for Lily, all on top of my full time work schedule. The list of things that I had to do each day grew and grew. I faced the idea that we were going to lose everything because of my inability to provide. The stress on me grew with the surmounting medical bills and responsibilities. I couldn’t ever show my weaknesses because I had to be strong for my wife and daughter, but still, this was one of the most difficult experiences of my life.

However, we were blessed to have help from our family and friends. They turned everything around during the darkest hour. I can’t ever fully thank everyone who helped us during this difficult time, but it’s definitely what saved me and my family from ruin. Being a caregiver for someone with cancer is a full-time job, mentally and physically. It’s difficult, and oftentimes, decisions that you don’t want to make are unavoidable. It was the toughest thing that I had to face, and it’s something that I will always remember. Now I am grateful to have a happy, normal life with my family and despite everything, Heather was able to beat mesothelioma. She is now a cancer-free mommy and still the love of my life. We hope that by sharing our story, we can inspire others in their own battles with cancer.

For me this is a time of transition, but I don’t know the destination. I have two jobs, one as a full-time caregiver for my partner Freddie, the other as caretaker and editor for my late friend Keith’s web sites. The future of both positions is unclear. I wait for Freddie to get better or get worse, pondering our future lives. I wait for Keith’s estate to be settled, pondering my future career options while also managing a tight budget and financial uncertainty. Each day is lived more and more in the moment as I try not to worry about things I cannot control.

Freddie had six short to medium-term hospitalizations in 2011, and a somewhat lengthier stay in 2012. His problems are – to use my new favorite term – “muti-factorial.” A Type 1 diabetic since childhood and a long-term HIV survivor, he has been officially disabled since the early 1990s. When we met in 2000 he was doing relatively well but then fell off a ladder just days before we moved in together. Our life as a couple has revolved around his health, increasingly so in the last few years. There’s been a stroke. A pulmonary embolism. A heart attack and then quadruple bypass. Surgery on his cervical spine. And over all of this, increasing fatigue and mild cognitive impairment.

As this has progressed I am now the one in charge of everything, from medical matters to walking the dogs to cooking the dinners to cleaning the commodes. It all comes down to me.

There are times when I feel resentment or anger, or more often, a simple desire to escape. I have come to recognize, however, that my feelings are simply that, feelings. They do not define me or control me. My feelings come and go. They are not the essence of myself. Once I recognize them and express them in some appropriate way, my decisions and actions are what truly matter.

Beyond that, I choose to cultivate gratitude. I know that I am lucky to have the opportunity to work from home and set my own hours. I am lucky that Freddie is still alive. I am lucky that, in spite of financial challenges, we are still in our home, can pay our bills, keep our dogs and cat happy, and keep food on the table. And the dogs and cat love us so. For all these things I am grateful.

And thus I choose to carry on.

Keith’s memory lives on.  His closest friends will be releasing his ashes at Mardi Gras 2013 in New Orleans, his beloved longtime home.

I seldom write here these days, having been called away by more pressing concerns.  One of those pressing concerns now brings me back to this space.

For the last twelve years I’ve worked with my friend Keith Griffth on his web sites.  Since the 1990s in his sites, and in other ways for years before that, he has been a shining example to the gay community.  His work has provided a waypost  for those on journeys of adventure or self-discovery as well closeted or non-gay-identified men who seek a path in a difficult world.  As one who worked for HIV/AIDS causes and for sex-positive issues, Keith has done much to raise awareness, fight negative self-images, and yes, even save lives.  He has always been a fighter.

Now fighting lymphoma again, Keith is in his final battle.  And now he needs your help.  Not having health insurance, his expenses for hospice and health care are mounting.  Your contribution, even a small amount of five, ten, or twenty dollars, can make a tremendous difference.  It all adds up to a community of care.

Feddie, Bonnie, and Bob: Kemah Boardwalk at Christmas