I’m Rachel, and I’m a nurse—and also a daughter. My caregiving story started unexpectedly in fall 2018, at my dad’s retirement party. He had been feeling a little off for weeks, nothing we could quite put our finger on. But that day, he started coughing up blood. He walked himself into an urgent care, and they immediately sent him to a hospital. Within hours, he was admitted to the ICU.
Being a nurse gave me a unique perspective when my dad fell ill, but it didn’t prepare me for the emotional journey ahead. This was the start of a journey that’s now lasted years. Multiple ICU stays. Strokes. A metastatic cancer diagnosis. Neurological changes. Every time something goes wrong, I pack a bag and go—dropping everything to be with my dad and support my family through another stretch of the unknown.
Finding Our Rhythm in Crisis
Managing communication became one of my most important roles. I established myself as the information hub – if family members had questions, they called me, not my stressed parents.
With my medical background, I could provide a realistic picture of what was happening – explaining when a situation was truly serious versus when it sounded worse than it was. I could intercept well-meaning but unhelpful suggestions and shield my parents from additional stress.
My sister and I also took responsibility for taking care of my mom. While my dad was the patient, my mom needed significant support too. Left alone, she wouldn’t sleep, eat, walk around, or shower – her stress levels would escalate to where she couldn’t effectively communicate with the medical team.
We established a clear schedule: one person would handle hospital duty (bringing a cooler of food, drinks, entertainment options, and staying for the day) while the other managed home responsibilities (working, cooking, cleaning, and preparing to care for mom when she returned in the evening).
That rhythm has helped us manage repeated long admissions. We’ve learned what to pack: pajama pants for Dad, a toothbrush, lotion that doesn’t smell like antiseptic, and noise-canceling headphones to drown out the endless ICU beeping. We’ve learned what to say to the rest of our family: “Don’t call Dad. Don’t call Mom. Call me.”
Making the Hospital Room Feel More Human
During one particularly difficult admission when my dad was intubated and had suffered a stroke, we faced the challenge of the care team treating him as just a body rather than a person. They’d never known him as the vibrant, passionate person he was.
In response, my sister (a graphic designer) and I created poster boards with information about him – his favorite sports teams, what music he liked, the fact that he wore glasses and would need them when he woke up. We included photos of him looking healthy and the things he was proud of.
This small act made a significant difference. When EMS transported him, one provider asked what kind of music he liked so they could play it in the ambulance – a moment of human connection in a clinical situation.
Over time, we learned what comforts made the biggest difference – pajama pants instead of hospital gowns, personal hygiene items to avoid the antiseptic hospital smell, noise-canceling headphones to block the constant beeping of machines. We discovered the value of bringing entertainment that was neutral and calming – cookbooks, home renovation shows, and small games rather than current events that might add stress.
Finding Hope in New Normals
But even with all that, nothing makes this easy. I’ve learned that explaining less is sometimes better. That you can’t protect everyone from the fear, and trying to over-translate every medical update can sometimes make things worse.
And I’ve learned to teach my dad—and the rest of my family—that you can ask questions. That “no” is an option. That some tests are optional, and some symptoms don’t mean another hospital stay. That sometimes, comfort matters more than data.
I still field the hard stuff—planning for when his kidneys fail, preparing my family for the conversations to come. He may not make it to 70. But he made it past 60, and today, he’s playing in a golf tournament. After everything he’s been through, that feels like a miracle.
