First Things First

When I was training for search and rescue, and as a First Responder, the thing they hammered over and over was to stop and assess the scene before you dove in to rescue the injured or lost. If you jumped in and got hurt or dead, then who was going to help? Humans have an instinct to rush in and act heroic. We'll put ourselves in danger for loved ones, or even strangers. But sometimes that is the exact wrong thing to do, and taking that moment to evaluate, ascertain dangers, and possibly retreat briefly to come at the problem from a safer route is essential to actually being helpful, rather than compounding the situation to having two people needing rescue or heaven forbid, body retrieval.

The same principle is taught if you fly. In those safety briefings no one really listens to, the demonstration of the oxygen masks falling out of the ceiling? If you are traveling with someone who cannot put it on themselves, like an infant, you must first put it on you. Then, and only then, can you put it on the helpless one. If you chose to put them first, which seems like the noble, loving gesture, you run the risk of passing out before you can secure your air. And then they lose your help in the middle of crisis when they need it most.

When you are a caretaker, self-care becomes crucial to the survival of the one you care for. Recently I had a long conversation with a dear friend, who reminded me of the oxygen masks. I was dealing with a serious failing as a mother. At least, that was how I saw it. I had made a choice, a few years ago, that at the time seemed like a rational and considered way to tackle some major obstacles in life. In hindsight, I felt I had made mistakes and potentially brought my children to harm from taking the path I had chosen. My friend pointed out that on the contrary, I had done what was necessary to take care of myself, and then when I was strong enough, I had reached back and pulled my kids out to safety behind me. Had I not made those decisions, I might never have had the strength to drag us all out of the mess we were in. I had, in short, put on the oxygen first, then helped them with theirs. The First Reader and I both still deal with some guilt over how we managed my exit from bad situation, but then we realize that it was not possible for me to have fled with all the children in tow at that time. Money, stress, space... it took us a lot of time to get ready for throwing out the lifeline to bring them safely to shore with me. When we talk it through, we come to the same conclusion time after time. It had to be this way. It wasn't easy, and there are scars, but there was no better option available at the time.

Even in small ways, we have to stop and look at our lives from time to time. Whether it is taking an hour to hide in a hot bath and relax over a fluff-and-nonsense book, or taking a few days to retreat from the pressures of life, work, and family, we all need to take care of ourselves. If we go on and on letting stress grind us down to a nub, then we will eventually start to fail those who depend on us through no fault of our own. We just can't. We're past the point of human capacity. If you redline the machine long enough, it will break down. Taking time for maintenance is essential. Don't feel guilty about it. Feel good about it. You are doing what you need to keep yourself strong enough to power the machine that is your family. First thing to do: take care of you. Eat something. Sleep. Take a long shower and wash your hair. Take a long walk and decompress. Let go of some tasks you don't have to do, they would just be nice. Learn to say no.

Most of all, accept that no matter how much you try, there are times it will fail. You can't always be everything to everyone. It's not that you are a failure, or inadequate. It is simply more than you can shoulder on your own. So if you are offered help, take it. When someone comes to rescue you, but they can't pull you and the helpless out with you in one load, accept that you may have to reach safety and then... then you can rescue them, too. Make a chain. Pull with all your will, but only when you are not fainting of hunger and fatigue and in danger yourself.