“By their fruits you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thornbushes, or figs from thistles?” — Matthew 7:16 (NIV)
I’ve heard that verse most of my life. I didn’t really understand it until I spent six years taking care of my dad.
Most people read it as a warning about false prophets, and it is. Dig a little deeper. A good tree brings forth good fruit, and a corrupt tree brings forth evil fruit. That’s not only about preachers. It’s about people. You don’t find out who somebody is by what they say. You find out by what they do.
And nothing in this world shows you what people do like caregiving.
I had to look at my own tree first
I can’t write about other people’s fruit without being honest about mine.
Before Dad, I wasn’t living a life I’m proud of. I’m not going to list it all here. Just know I’m not writing this from a high horse. If you’d judged me by my fruit back then, you wouldn’t have found much.
Caregiving didn’t give me a choice. Every day there was something that had to get done, and I was the one who had to do it. Meals. Medications. Doctor appointments. Nights on an air mattress on his bedroom floor so I’d hear him if he got confused and didn’t know where he was. You can’t fake that for six years. Somewhere in all of it, I grew up.
Caregiving shows you who people really are
When someone you love needs care, everybody’s real self comes out. Maybe not on day one. Give it a few months, though, and you’ll know exactly who you’re dealing with.
Some people show up. Some people disappear. And some only show up when there’s something in it for them: a signature, a check, a say in the house.
I saw all three. Up close. For six years.
The good fruit
Here’s what surprised me. None of the good fruit didn’t come from family.
Before I ever moved in, it was the neighbors handling Dad’s day-to-day. They brought him dinner. He was in a wheelchair after his hip fracture, still cooking his own eggs and toast every morning, and the neighbors made sure he had a hot meal at night.
When Dad fell and broke his hip, he crawled about twenty feet to get to a phone and called 911 himself. It was a neighbor who saw the police and EMTs at the house and called me.
It was Eric, a neighbor down the street, who told me Dad had said it would be nice if I moved in. And when almost everybody I talked to told me not to do it, one neighbor told me I should.
His church ward checked on him. A man from the American Legion came by about twice a month just to see how he was doing.
Sue, his aide, worked with him for close to four years. He called her Maria. I don’t know why, and I don’t think she minded.
Lori Davis, his VA nurse, told me I could call her anytime. I took her up on it more than once.
His doctor told me I was the reason Dad lived an extra five or six years. He called me Dad’s hero. I’m not sure I believed him, but I’ve never forgotten it.
None of these people owed my dad a thing. Most of them weren’t related to him. They showed up anyway. That’s good fruit.
The bad fruit
Then there’s the other side.
Family visited a few hours a year. Some of Dad’s grandkids lived about a mile away and weren’t part of his life at all. In five years of round-the-clock caregiving, I can remember one real break: a two-and-a-half-hour run to the store. Nobody in the family ever asked if I needed one.
While he was in rehab after his hip, Dad looked at me and said, “You’re the only one I can count on.” He wasn’t saying it to make me feel good. He was telling me what he’d seen.
And when it was all over, some of the people who were nowhere during showed up fast for what was left. I’ll leave it at that.
After he died, I was angry
Dad died at the VA. And when he did, the staff lined the halls on both sides and played taps for him. Nurses, aides, people who’d only known him a short while, all standing quiet for a WWII pilot on his last trip down that hallway. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
And standing there, it hit me again. It was just me and him. No family. Nobody else. Same as it had been for six years. Just me and him.
When Dad passed, my whole life changed in a split second. I was angry. Angry at people, angry at how things ended, angry that the ones who did the least had the most say.
So I took some time off. I thought about myself, and about that verse. And I finally understood that it wasn’t just about the people around me. It was about what six years had shown me about everyone, me included.
What I see now
I look at people differently now. Not bitter, but aware.
I don’t pay much attention to what people say anymore. I watch what they do. I notice the quiet ones, the neighbor with the casserole dish, the aide who stays a few minutes past her shift. And I notice the ones who talk a big game and are never around when it counts.
There’s no amount of money in the world that could have taught me that. I had to live it.
By their fruits ye shall know them. So I know them.
If you’re a caregiver right now
You’re probably seeing some of this already. The surprises go both ways. People you counted on disappear, and people you barely knew turn out to be the ones holding you up.
Tell the ones who show up that you see them. It means more than you think.
Don’t spend what little energy you have waiting on people who’ve already shown you who they are.
And look at your own tree. What you’re doing right now, the meals, the meds, the nights you barely sleep, even the days you snap and feel terrible about it, that’s good fruit. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise, including yourself.
If the person you’re caring for is a veteran enrolled in VA health care, look into the VA Caregiver Support Program. It’s open to caregivers of veterans from every era, not just recent ones, and it offers skills training, one-on-one coaching, peer mentoring, and respite care.
You can also call their Caregiver Support Line at 1-855-260-3274. I went through their training when I was caring for my dad, and I wish I’d found it sooner.
