Antonio Z. Zuniga, a first-generation Mexican American, who gave inspirational and spiritual lectures in the U.S. and around the world. Here, at the Cliffs of Moher, Ireland, one of the many countries where he once spoke.After a long career writing primarily for newspapers and magazines, Marielena Zuniga took early retirement with the idea that she would finally be able to accomplish a goal shared by many writers: to get a book published.
She managed to self-publish Loreen On The Lam: A Tennessee Mystery, and also focused on creative inspirational and spiritual writing. But Zuniga soon found herself in a new and unexpected role: as a fulltime caregiver for her father after he suffered a stroke.
Her account of caring for her Dad, Antonio Z. Zuniga, tied for second prize in the 2014-15 John A. Hartford Foundation Story Contest: “Better Caregiving, Better Lives.” It also marked her return to writing.
“The essay I submitted is the first piece of writing I’ve done since Dad had the stroke,” Zuniga says. “I haven’t had the time to do it. I just said I’m going to make the time because this is important.”
Her story, “Sitting With Raymond: The Zen of Caregiving,” reprinted below, recounts her struggles dealing with her father’s failing health, and how a course in mindfulness-based stress reduction helped her cope and learn the zen of caregiving.
As a writer who always most valued work that allowed her “to help or educate or empower people,” Zuniga says she hopes her story helps other caregivers and their families understand that they are not alone, that they need to take care of themselves, and to accept that most things in life are beyond their control.
“When you’re a caregiver, it can often feel very hopeless and very isolating,” she says. “You’re so busy just trying to do what needs to get done that it’s easy to start feeling very lonely and very isolated. So I’d like my essay to give them a little bit of hope that there is some light somewhere.”
For Zuniga, doing a half hour of mindfulness meditation daily has helped her cope with what she calls “the ebb and flow of caregiving.” And that’s a lesson that all caregivers need to learn, she says.
“The majority of caregivers are women. And women, unfortunately, are notorious for not taking care of ourselves because all of our lives, we are caregivers. I would hope my essay would at least motivate some people who are reading this to carve out some time for themselves that will be a little self-nurturing. And that’s going to be different for each person. It may be a 10-minute walk. It may be picking up the phone and talking with a friend, going to the movies, or like myself—I found a meditation course that was very self-nurturing. So I think finding that piece of taking care of ourselves is so critical for caregivers.”
Most of life is really out of our control. Most of life is uncertainty. I get that intellectually, but emotionally, when you’re in the midst of caregiving, you lose sight of that real fast.
Zuniga says her essay “is really about accepting what is. Most of life is really out of our control. Most of life is uncertainty. I get that intellectually, but emotionally, when you’re in the midst of caregiving, you lose sight of that real fast. So I hope that readers would ask themselves, ‘I can’t control this situation, but what can I control?’ And what we can control, I believe, is how we respond to any given situation. So do we respond with fear or love? Do we respond with guilt or that we’re doing the best we can right now?”
Zuniga’s father passed on a strong faith to his daughter that runs throughout her story. “For me, it’s like an offering of everything over to God,” she says. “Faith, for me, has been so critical to help me cope with so many stressors in terms of caring for Dad. I think it’s a critical part of the caregiver journey for many people.”
As difficult as caregiving is, Zuniga says she is “thankful for the days I have with Dad because I know I will treasure them. I know when Dad passes I will be so thankful I have done this.
“It’s a gift and a privilege to care for him right now, even though it’s hard.”
Sitting with Raymond: The Zen of Caregiving
By Marielena Zuniga
Marielena ZunigaDad is trying to tell me a story. Before the stroke, he was an amazing storyteller. Not just to family, but to thousands of people around the world. Stories of faith, hope and love. Inspirational stories that healed others. Miracles happened. Many.
Now, he is in need of healing. He needs a miracle. I see none. For him, for myself.
Dad can speak, but his words are often misplaced, his cognition scattered, like puzzle pieces trying to connect and take shape. He gropes to find meaning in some dark, recessed cavern of his brain.
“I am holding the door open,” he begins, as we sit on the deck. He pauses, struggling to finish. “And there was a miracle.”
Dad repeats these words in an endless loop for almost a half hour as I watch a robin flit in and out of the leafy trellis where it has built a nest. I sit with dad most days. He can’t fall. Nor can he do many things he once did, he, who was his high school’s valedictorian, he who once worked in broadcasting and met movie stars and celebrities.
I interrupt. “What miracle, dad?”
He smiles, “Wait. I’m getting to that.” And the loop begins again.
Inside I am crying. I have been weeping since the stroke on Good Friday. It was not good. It feels like a cruel joke that God would nail dad to the cross of non-communication on that particular day, dad, who valued speech above all else.
How could God do this to dad who gave countless lectures in churches, schools, veterans’ hospitals and more, not only in the United States, but around the world? Dad, who told others, “You were born for greatness, why settle for less?” Dad, who told others about God’s healing love? Dad, who helped so many people.
I am angry. At God. At life. I miss my father.
Dad is quiet now, looking off into the blue, cloudless sky. His gaze goes toward the backyard and the flowering bushes. Where is he? The tears and fears well up within me again and I wrestle to find acceptance and peace.
I disrupt dad’s reverie and tell him about the robin. He cranes his neck to look and smiles. The robin is nesting, waiting for birth. I am, too. I feel only emptiness.
My cell phone rings. More doctors. More appointments. I am always on the phone these days with someone about dad. I am thrust into learning about INR levels and navigating the maze of the medical system. I have lost my life. Is this healthy? I know it’s not and not only do I battle with acceptance, but also balance.
I catch dad staring at me and he breaks his silence. “I have an answer to your solution,” he says.
I catch dad staring at me and he breaks his silence.
“I have an answer to your solution,” he says.
I smile at his choice of words. Despite his stroke, he recognizes “something” is not right with me these days. The irony is, dad doesn’t realize he is the reason I am so stressed. The part of his brain that flooded with blood doesn’t understand my exhaustion. His care is more than I imagined. And I worry about my mother, who provides the majority of care. And my brother. I am the relief. It never feels enough.
“You have to hand everything over to Raymond,” he says.
It takes me a second to understand. But I do. Before the stroke, dad would tell me to place everything in the hands of God. To let go. To trust. He used to tell me that God was in charge and I needed to let God take control.
“Raymond will help you,” he says, “and take care of things.”
The truth is, I have been talking to Raymond forever. Praying to find wisdom, direction. Asking for graces and strength. Feeling little in turn.
Dad says he wants to go inside. I help him out of the chair into his walker and he shuffles through the back door. I knew some day all this would happen. I just didn’t think it would be so soon, or so hard.
I feel trapped in the black-and-white world of dad’s stroke and the selfish part of me wants to run as far away and as fast as I can. But I can’t. I love my father. But there they are, the confused stew of emotions – duty, guilt, responsibility and yes, love – that trap me, beckon me, invite me. Perhaps save me.
He is in his recliner now, watching a TV channel filled with old programs. I feel trapped in the black-and-white world of dad’s stroke and the selfish part of me wants to run as far away and as fast as I can. But I can’t. I love my father. But there they are, the confused stew of emotions – duty, guilt, responsibility and yes, love – that trap me, beckon me, invite me. Perhaps save me.
Friends tell me I need to take care of myself. But how? I pick up a newspaper and am led to an article about a mindfulness meditation course. I have always been interested, but location and cost were always prohibitive. But here, I read, the program is being held down the street and in the evenings, by the Jefferson-Myrna Brind Center of Integrative Medicine in Philadelphia.
I call and learn scholarships are available. I apply and wait to learn if I’m accepted. I hand it over to Raymond. If I’m meant to attend, God will arrange it. Raymond does come through for me and I begin an 8-week course on mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR) where I learn to focus on my breathing, to be in the present moment. I learn to sit. To stay with whatever is happening, without judging it.
It is the miracle I needed and I learn to navigate the stresses of caregiving with greater ease and presence. In the past, I wanted to prepare for illness or death of a loved one. But now I know that it’s not possible. It was the control part of me that wanted to be ready, to have things in place in the hope that I might handle it better. But all that is nonsense. We can only experience the sorrow when it comes, in the moment.
And although dad will not have a cure, his miracle, in some ironic way, is his stroke. He always loved helping others. Now, he has been helping me. All this time, he has been teaching me the zen of caregiving and how the two are so similar – sitting, being in the moment, patience, letting go, accepting, and staying with “what is.” Dad’s stroke has been his one last great gift to me.
The next day, we are on the deck again. Dad begins his story again, but never finishes. He never does these days. But I am more at peace with this.
“I love you,” he says, surprising me. His words pierce my heart.
“I love you, too,” I say, walking over and leaning down to hug him.
“Remember to trust in Raymond,” he reminds me.
I hug him again, the robin snagging the corner of my vision. She is still nesting, still waiting. She can do nothing but be in the moment until new life is transformed and shaped, until some hope flits off into the sky with birthed wings.
I sit again. I stay with the moment. With dad. And with Raymond.
Marielena Zuniga is a creative writer and award-winning journalist of more than 35 years. For the past 15 years, her writing has focused on spirituality and women’s issues.
This is the last in our series of posts spotlighting the prize-winning authors and their stories from the 2014-15 John A. Hartford Foundation Story Contest. Read the previous two installments and other Health AGEnda posts on the contest:
Family Caregiving: 'A Progression of Life'
Dementia Caregiving: Returning to the Village
Prize Winners in ‘Better Caregiving, Better Lives’ Story Contest Answer the Challenge