Guest post by Kat Crawford

Years ago, I rushed my husband to a hospital emergency room. The ER doctor talked Gary into staying overnight. Two days later, the surgeon said, “Mr. Crawford, I removed a Mucinous Cystadenoma mass from the appendix. We won’t know anything for certain until after the tests are returned, but it appears to be a benign cancer.” The surgeon hesitated and then added, “Unfortuantely….”

The next day the oncologist said, “Mr. Crawford, unfortunately, we have no treatment.”

In the following days the word “unfortunately” felt like a swear word—a life-altering word I did not want to hear again.

Cancer forced me into the role of caregiver.

Caregiver defined:  Car-E-Give-R

Car: Find your chauffeur’s hat. You’ll need it.

E is for ear—develop a new habit. Listen with your ears, your heart, and your gut. Hear the spoken and unspoken requests. Hear the breath of life: Did the patient’s snore change? Is the belly sound a hunger rumble or a bowel problem? Listen to the patient reminisce, lament, cry.

Listen with the ears, not the mouth. Let the patient express their feelings—good or bad.

Give with a willing heart. Time. Energy. Love. Care. Add “up” to the word give: Give up ownership to your sleep, your spare time, your emotions, and your fears.

R is for rookie—I learned in hours what I thought I knew but found I didn’t—how to deal with doctors, nurses, and inconsiderate roommates.

R is also for rich—until Gary entered the hospital, I thought I needed more from life. More money and things. The first hospital stay taught me how rich life is with your mate even without things.

The dictionary definition for caregiver is long. My definition is better: A Caregiver is a Person of HOPE.

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. James 1:2-3