Find Your Fuel, Keep It Close

Written by Mark J. Resnick

Each week, each day, each hour can feel like a long exhale that never quite ends when you’re a caregiver.

It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s just the steady drip of it. The calendar that looks like a game of Tetris. The phone calls you can’t ignore. The mental checklist you keep running even while you’re brushing your teeth. The way your body stays half-on, even when you’re technically sitting down.

And if you don’t have something that fuels you, you burn out. Not in a poetic way. In the real way. The short-tempered way. The numb way. The “I can’t do one more small thing” way.

So, I’ve been trying to pay attention to the things that bring me joy and keep them in my life on purpose. Exercise. Seeing friends. Walking. Writing. Playing music. Whatever it is for you. It doesn’t have to be big. It just has to be yours. Something that reminds you you’re still in there, too.

Which brings me to this: I’ve never been a music person.

That’s not to say I don’t like music, but growing up, it wasn’t important to me. There were songs I clung to, yet always for a reason. They reminded me of something or someone. A certain summer. A certain car. A certain person who is no longer sitting at the kitchen table.

During long car rides, whether to or from Woodloch in Pennsylvania, visiting the kids, or driving to see my dad, I’m okay with long stretches of silence. I like it when my mind races toward new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes a silly or unrealistic thought pops into my head, and I hold on to it for hours.

Like creating my own airline. Or inventing a new travel neck pillow.

Other times, entire businesses get created. The forgotten bakery. Or a new pizzeria, which would be called Finalmente, as in, “Finalmente, una pizza decente.”

Finally, a decent pizza.

When I was caring for my dad, those car rides changed, though. Silence was a luxury. It felt like the only place my brain was allowed to say what it’s been holding in all day. Sometimes the silence was peaceful. Sometimes it was loud. Sometimes it was just me doing the math: how many days in a row have I been doing this, and how many more before I get a break?

Today, when the solitude has run its course, I turn to a podcast. I like Smartless and Armchair Expert, though truthfully, I can’t stand Dax’s sidekick, Monica. I’ll go through phases of audiobooks, too, but right now, those aren’t part of the rotation.

When I’m writing, I’ll dictate, but that never lasts. It feels too weird talking to yourself. It never sounds very good. And I get self-conscious. Inevitably, I turn back to the silence.

Norwell friends supporting Brett Miller and me at our talk at the Norwell Public Library, 2022.

I’m good with silence. On Beers Ave, there was plenty of it. Though I was the “chatty” one as a kid, the older I got, the fewer people there seemed to be to chat with. It’s partly why I have such fond memories of hanging with my dad by the grill. Our little chats by the fire.

Or silence. That was okay, too.

In high school, I couldn’t wait to see my Norwell friends on weekends. We spoke by telephone during the week, but it seemed like an adult was always harassing us to get off. There were no cell phones, texts, snaps, or facetimes as workarounds. So when a long week of commuting to and from Xaverian ended, I was exhausted yet energized, because it meant I would soon see my friends. And catching up.

Exhausted but energized.

Those two words probably describe my high school experience better than any other.

I consistently wrote in my journal, “I’m so tired…” because I was. Between school, hockey, and seeing my friends, I was constantly on the move. Staying up late, sleeping late. Catching up.

College was the same. Always on the move. From the classroom to the dining hall to the hockey rink to the FUSA office to hanging with friends. There were still no cell phones, and any time I could find solitude on campus, I took it.

I seemed to be the only person on campus with Rollerblades, and I used them almost daily. I would skate to class in shorts, sit for an hour with the skates still on, then skate to my next destination, or nowhere in particular. Those were the best skates. To the back of Bellarmine or down to the pond, two places where I could always find the solitude I needed. Off the grid.

My family knows I may not be the first to text back. I’ll get there, eventually. I’m not tied to my phone like, well, most people. I start using it around 8 a.m. and stop around 8 p.m. It’s not the first or last thing I look at. I get bored on the phone rather easily. I don’t spend minutes or hours looking at reels, either. I hear Coleen or the kids laughing at them, but I’m good.

It was different when I was a caregiver, for sure. The “just in case” glance. The missed call that spikes your heart for a second. The number you don’t recognize that you answer anyway. The reminders you set so you don’t forget the thing you never wanted to be responsible for remembering.

These days, I spend a lot of time catching up on my writing. As a publisher, I have deadlines. Some are self-imposed, but others are firm. During the week, I am occupied with the merch business, so when the weekend comes, I find myself in another state of exhaustion and energy.

But caregiving adds a third layer. It’s not a job that starts at nine and ends at five. It’s always there, humming in the background. Even on the days when nothing “happens,” something happens. You’re tracking. You’re managing. You’re noticing. You’re trying to stay one step ahead of the next issue.

And that’s where we live, isn’t it? In the overlap.

The place where you’re tired and still showing up. The place where you’re trying to be patient, even when your patience is running out. The place where you’re doing your best to keep the person you love safe, while also trying not to disappear in the process.

That’s why the fuel matters.

The place that brings us the most joy. Time with family. The garden. Building in the workshop or tinkering in the garage. Long walks. Saturday night dinner with the Belchers. A good book. Watching your kid’s hockey game.

And yes, the solitude. The silence. The comfort and peace of sitting still.

Because, as a caregiver, joy can start to feel optional. Like something you’ll get back to later, when things calm down. But later is a liar.

When my dad moved into assisted living, I saw him every day. Those 200 meals and 600 cups of coffee we enjoyed weren’t just about catching up or reliving those chats by the grill on Beers Ave.

They were also about the small responsibilities that piled up. Checking in with staff. Making sure the right things were in the room. Asking questions you didn’t know you’d ever have to ask. Learning the language of new routines. Paying attention. Advocating. Being the familiar face that says, “He matters.”

And there were long stretches of silence, too.

Dad and I enjoying the silence at Newfield House in Plymouth, MA

And that was more than okay. For both of us.

Sometimes the silence was the point. A break from trying to fix what can’t be fixed. A moment where neither of us had to pretend we weren’t tired. Just sitting. Just being.

All those years of my dad taking care of us growing up: Cooking, laundry, food shopping, and hours spent driving to school and sports. Coaching our teams. Working. I knew when the opportunity for solitude came to him, he took it. Short naps on the couch. Extra time cutting the grass. A cup of coffee after practice. Just a little silence to break up his week.

A moment to catch up on his thoughts.

Despite those long, exhausting weeks, on weekends it was his turn to be energized. For him, it was largely hockey. There was hardly a weekend that went by without us being in the rink and Dad being behind the bench. It’s what gave him joy.

Coaching was my dad's fuel. Big win for Coach Resnick just two months after USA's Miracle on Ice.

That’s the part I keep coming back to.

We don’t just need rest. We need something that makes us feel like ourselves again. Caregivers especially.

Because if caregiving is the drain, joy is the plug-in. Not the kind that magically makes everything easy, but the kind that keeps you from running on fumes. The kind that gives you a little patience back. The kind that reminds you you’re more than schedules, errands, and worry.

Most of us live exhausting lives. Young or old, we’re always on the move. That’s unlikely to change, right? At least, let’s hope not. Full lives are busy lives, and busy lives are exhausting lives.

But caregiving is its own category of exhaustion. It’s physical, emotional, logistical, and quietly relentless.

So I’m asking: what’s the thing that fuels you?

What brings you joy, what gets you through the long weeks so you can keep showing up without losing yourself in the process? And if it’s the idea of some peace and quiet, some solitude to catch up with your thoughts.

Well, that’s perfectly okay, too.

Just don’t let it become the first thing you sacrifice.