My name is Greg, and when I think about caregiving, it doesn’t just start with my dad’s heart attack or end with my mom’s mental health crisis. It’s more like I became a vessel for presence—for being there, in whatever way I could, for my whole family.
It started with my dad in June. He’d been complaining about back pain for a while. Nothing dramatic. Just his usual routine—taking the dog for walks, pushing through whatever discomfort he had. That’s who he is. Gritted teeth, quiet endurance. We all thought it was a back issue. But it turned out to be something far more serious: heart trouble.
Even when he went in for a heart catheter, it didn’t feel emergent. He texted us saying it was probably a routine procedure. “Might need a stent, maybe a balloon, or maybe just meds.” I remember getting that message and thinking, okay, they’ve got this handled. I live hours away, and three of my siblings are in Sioux City where he was. So I stayed put.
Then, five days later, I got a message from my mom: “Dad’s having chest, back, and arm pain again. I took him to the ER. They’re taking him to the Cath lab.” I remember where I was when I read it—sitting in my attic office working on Family Room stuff. And something in me just knew. I threw a painting in the car, grabbed a Khalil Gibran book, and drove straight there.
That drive was a strange mix of fear and gratitude. I had been immersed in building tools for caregivers through Family Room, and now I was living it. I felt like I had a small backpack of tools—emotional preparedness, curiosity, spiritual grounding. And I brought those tools into the ICU with me.
When I walked in, my dad had already come out of surgery. He looked okay. No ventilator, no tubes—just resting, recovering. I remember feeling relief. I sat with my mom and my sister Kat, and we just… were there. My presence wasn’t logistical; I wasn’t the note-taker or the meds expert. I brought art and stillness. That was enough.
At one point, a nurse came in and wrote her name and number down and said, “Call me anytime.” That mattered. I kept checking in with my dad after that—“Did you call her? Do you have what you need?” Because when someone offers you clarity in the murkiness, it’s a lifeline.
The trauma didn’t end there. In September, just a few months later, my mom checked herself into an inpatient mental health facility. That hit differently. It was vaguer, less clean. There was no “procedure” to fix it. No clear roadmap. I remember hearing from my dad that she hadn’t been sleeping. She seemed disconnected during family visits. And then, suddenly, she was gone—off to a place hours away, and we weren’t sure what was happening.
With my mom, I had to be more active. I found her a psychiatrist. I researched outpatient programs. I checked in on her emotionally—because that’s where I felt I could help the most. We started doing art together. Listening to spiritual podcasts. Reading mystics. Our relationship transformed into something deeper. Not just mother and son, but spiritual partners.
I remember bringing a painting to her at the facility. I couldn’t even give it to her directly—they don’t allow that—but I showed it to her in the lobby. It was a painting of a church lit by golden light. I had written on the back: “It’s okay to find joy in moments of suffering. We find it in each other.”
That’s been a theme for me—joy and suffering, held together. I learned that from my mom, who has given us a lifetime of unconditional love while often losing herself in it. And I’ve learned it through my own caregiving journey, not by being the one with all the answers, but by being the one who shows up with intention.
My role in our family isn’t to organize the meds or keep the spreadsheets. It’s to create space. To reflect love. To remind us of who we are and what we mean to each other. And that kind of caregiving—emotional, spiritual, artistic—is as valid and vital as any other.
