Coping: It's Not Just Hanging On

In a text yesterday, with a friend who is going through his own dementia journey caring for his wife, I used the word “coping.” It was the right word used in the right context but, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that word since yesterday.

When you hear the word coping, what comes to mind?

Probably not something fun. You’re not “coping with a vacation” or “coping with a surprise inheritance.” Coping is almost always tied to something hard—grief, stress, illness, change. It usually signals that someone is just barely keeping their head above water.

But here’s the twist: coping has another meaning. One that’s actually kind of…crafty.

If you’ve ever done any woodworking or home improvement (or wandered into a hardware store with confidence you didn’t earn), you may have come across a coping saw. It’s a thin, flexible saw used to make detailed cuts—especially when you need one piece of wood to fit snugly against another at some weird angle. It’s not about hacking something apart. It’s about precision. Fitting. Shaping.

Now hang with me, because this got me thinking.

Isn’t that a better way to think about coping in the emotional sense, too?

Coping isn’t just about surviving the storm. It’s about figuring out how to shape yourself around a new reality. Maybe life took a sharp turn, and now you are trimming off some old expectations or reshaping the edges of what used to be familiar. It’s slow work. It takes patience. And honestly, some days you might feel like you’re using the wrong end of the saw.

The root of the word cope actually comes from old languages meaning “to strike” or “to contend.” In other words, to deal with something head-on. It wasn’t originally about quietly suffering—it was about showing up and doing what needed to be done, whether that meant going to battle or learning to live with a new normal.

So maybe we should stop treating coping like it’s something sad and pitiful. It’s not weakness. It’s craftsmanship. It’s adaptive, creative, even a little gritty.

“If you aren't in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”
― T.S. Eliot

We’re not falling apart—we’re just figuring out how to fit into a new corner of life. One careful cut at a time.

What My Car Battery Taught Me About Potential

If you are one of the 19 people that consistently reads my blog, you know that I’ve been caregiving full-time for my wife, Carol for quite a while. It’s not a job I was trained for. There’s no manual, no certification. Just love, patience, leaning on God, and trying to recall how Carol handled things... and trying to do what she would have done.

But it's an unusual kind of exhausting. Not split a cord of firewood exhausting, not carrying your wife's shopping bags at the outlets exhausting, not taking off those post-workout yoga pants exhausting, no—the emotional and mental kind. For a long time, I didn’t even notice how depleted I had become. I was getting through each day like an iPhone 6S that only charges to 12% no matter how long it’s plugged in. Running on fumes, on my last leg, [insert favorite idiom here.]

Almost a year ago, I finally did something that felt almost radical: I hired someone to help me. Her name's Joanne. She comes three days a week. Six hours a day. 18 hours out of the week's 168. That’s it. But those three days give me back pieces of myself. Time to walk. Read. Think. Breathe. Write. Enjoy a $7 coffee. Remember that I’m still in here.

I started to feel like… me again.

And it got me thinking about energy. Not the caffeinated kind, but the deeper kind. The kind we all carry quietly—the stuff we call potential.


So Here’s Where the Battery Comes In

For almost 33 years I worked for a company that, among other things, produced a lot of battery-powered vehicles. So I know a bit about storage batteries. I promise this isn’t going to be a science lesson. But stick with me: a lead-acid battery (like the one in most non-EV cars) contains something called potential energy. It’s the power stored inside, just waiting to be used. Not buzzing. Not active. Just… ready.

A fully charged battery isn't a box of electricity though. It actually is a box of chemical potential energy. When a demand/ load is wired to it, there is a chemical reaction that immediately starts to occur (I'll spare you those details) that converts the chemical energy into electrical energy. But, as that chemical reaction occurs, the battery ingredients do start to lose some of the potential for energy. The lead materials convert to different forms of lead with lower potential energy. The dilute sulfuric acid changes and starts to move towards the chemical direction of water. But, even with repeated use, the battery still has potential.

That’s what I think we lose track of when life gets hard—especially when we’re feeling depleted from responsibilities, loss/grief, working too much, or simply surviving. We forget that even when we’re worn down, we still have energy inside us. It’s still there. It didn’t vanish. It’s just been slowly depleted by life.

Maybe you’re like I was—still functioning, still doing all the stuff, but forgetting what it feels like to be plugged into something that starts getting you back to full charge.


But, You Don’t Have to Always Be Fully Charged

Enough about me and my car battery. The truth? You don’t need to be at 100% to make a difference. A battery at 55% can still light up a room. You can still write, connect, smile, make someone’s day, or still tell people why you think about the Roman Empire.

We think potential has to look Instagram ready and strong. But often it looks like getting out of bed, getting dressed and walking around the block. Or calling a friend back. Or sitting with a quiet thought long enough to hear yourself think again. Or talking to God (that's a whole other power source conversation.)

The point is to keep the current flowing. Use the potential.

Recharge Without Guilt

Rest isn’t laziness. It’s physics. Help asked (or hired) isn't weakness. Took me some time to accept this. Today is Saturday. For many folks this is a recharge day. I have a friend who is celebrating a birthday today. I texted her Happy Birthday and asked her how she was spending her birthday. She said she was hanging out with her family. Recharge. I have another friend who is about to leave for the beach for their annual summer beach trip. Recharge.

Even the most powerful batteries need downtime. Recharging, especially after caregiving or loss or burnout, isn’t selfish—it’s how you make sure your light can last. It's the process that puts the energy potential back to it's optimum state. A battery that stays in an ongoing state of discharge eventually breaks down.

But, the beautiful part? Every little recharge you allow yourself gives you more to give. I'm a better caregiver when I keep the battery healthy.

Energy Vampires

I have an old Ford Taurus that has something that isn't obvious that constantly but slowly drains its battery. Mechanics call it a parasitic drain. Something less obvious that is draining energy. Even a good battery can get drained fast if it has somehow gotten connected to the wrong stuff. Be mindful of people, habits, or expectations that leave you feeling more drained than you ought to be. We have enough in our life that are the necessary energy consumers. We don't need the parasitic kind.

Boundaries are insulation. Use them. I've had to use them a lot given our circumstance.

I think I've learned some things as Carol and I have navigated this dementia journey. One is that I'm no good to Carol or anybody if I waste my potential. So that requires some battery maintenance. Rest, Relax, Recharge, Respite.

You need it too.

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I Applied For a New Passport

Given my current situation, which most people that have been reading my blog know, this action on my part might seem a bit odd. And maybe it is. I haven't needed a passport since Carol, our son, and I went to Korea exactly 13 years ago to visit our daughter and her husband, who was stationed over there.

she had a blast

Two months after Carol's dementia diagnosis in 2016, I took her to Niagara Falls (on her bucket list) and New England. We did walk over into Canada one of the days we were there but it didn't require a passport going in either direction. (This was before Canada was our 51st state.) I've not left the country in almost 9 years. It's an accomplishment now if I leave the house.

Rainbow Bridge US-Canada

You may have noticed the title of this blog does not say "I renewed my passport." That's because you only have up to 5 years after your 10 year passport expires to renew it. I've waited too long. I had to walk into a Post Office like I was getting my very first passport. (My expired passport was adequate proof of my citizenship though... my birth certificate was unnecessary.) By the way, why do so many cities' main US Post Office buildings feel like you are stepping back in time to 1979 when you enter? Except for the computers and electronic payment stuff they have at each station and no FBI pictures of the Unabomber on the wall, it still looks and feels like a bygone era in there. That said, the guy that handled my application could not have been any nicer. It was a painless experience.

So, sometime before college football season resumes, I should see a new passport come in the mail.

So then what?

I don't know.

I'm not sure that I can really articulate this. For me, the passport represents something. Sure, it documents that I am a citizen of the United States of America. And that's a pretty big deal. But, it is more than that. A valid US passport represents the freedom to travel to foreign lands and to be welcomed back on return. It says, no matter where I go, I can return home.

But, even more important than that, it is the idea of being able to go in the first place that is invigorating to my soul. (cue Mel Gibson shouting, "FREEDOM!")

The season that I am in right now is not a season of "go." It's not a season of getting out into the world and enjoying what it has to offer. This current season says, "stay." And it is with genuine cheerfulness and a profound sense of purpose that I do that because it is the right and necessary thing to do. And I do it because of love. I do confess though that I have to instruct the wanderlust creature inside of me to settle down... and wait. But it's often like I have a pestering back seat passenger nagging me with refrains of, "are we there yet?" I'm truly confessing here.

There will be a new season one day and I really don't know what that season will look like. I mean, how could I? I simultaneously yearn for it and absolutely dread the thought of it. That's an acutely strange place to be.

I don't know what tomorrow holds so I surely don't know what the next season does. My hands are full with today. But, whatever comes next, I probably shouldn't stagger into it as if I'm a deer staring into headlights. That's why I need my precious blue and gold permission slip that whispers, "it's OK... if you feel you need to go... then go." 

One day.

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Quiet Exile

It’s now 11:39 am on Saturday. I can see by my Kasa app, which shows views from the 3 different cameras I have pointed at the hospital bed occupying our bedroom, that Carol is still asleep. It’s not unusual for her to still be sleeping after 14 hours… sometimes she sleeps until early afternoon.

Earlier this morning I decided that I should write some. Maybe try to describe some things I have been feeling. Just this week, a good friend encouraged me to keep writing. And some recent posts by Sean Dietrich* (Sean of the South) have prompted me to maybe bare a bit more of my soul. Why not. As I have mentioned before... it is good therapy for me I think.

The dictionary defines exile this way:

exile

noun

: the state or a period of forced absence from one's country or home

Caring for a spouse with dementia is described as a labor of love, but rarely is it acknowledged for the real sense of exile it can bring. This exile isn’t marked by distance or borders, but by an invisible barrier that grows between the caregiver and the world to which they once belonged. As a caregiver, I remain physically present in my community—shopping at the same stores, walking the same streets, even spending much cherished snippets of time with friends and people I know—but emotionally and socially, right or wrong, I feel like a stranger in a place that no longer recognizes me.

The first signs of this exile appeared quietly (and none of what I am saying is criticism… it is just reality.) People stopped calling as frequently, unsure of what to say or how to offer support. Invitations dwindled, conversations grew awkward, and I began to sense that our presence—mine and Carol’s—was a reminder of something uncomfortable, something folks would rather not confront. Dementia is not just a disease of memory; it is a slow, painful unraveling of identity, and with it, the social fabric that once connected us to others, began to fray.

Daily life becomes a series of negotiations—managing moods, repeating answers, calming fears—and through it all, I find myself both overexposed and invisible. People may recognize the effort, but few truly understand the isolation. The emotional burden is heavy, compounded by grief that comes not in a single moment, but in a thousand small losses. Carol is still here, yet gone in so many ways. And, in losing her bit by bit, I also lose the future we imagined, the roles we once played, and the shared life that anchored me to my “community.”

Support groups (via a few online FB groups) offer some solace—a reminder that I am not alone in this exile—but they also reinforce the truth that this is a separate world, one outsiders seldom enter. While others make plans, chase goals, and talk about their next vacations, I measure time in medication schedules, hospice nurse visits, and quiet moments of lucidity.

I’m pretty sure being a caregiver has indelibly changed me. I think it has taught me some patience and compassion, yes, but also a hard-earned resilience… but mostly forged in solitude. Just me and God. I don’t seek pity, but I do wish for recognition—not as a hero, but as someone who, while caring for another, has quietly lost his place in the world I once called home. In that quiet loss is a truth many caregivers carry: that love, even when constant, can be a lonely road.

Sorry if this was hard to read. Imagine how hard it was to write.

*if you are not familiar with Sean, you really should check him out. He writes via Substack

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