He Made Me Bread

A caregiver's love letter to being seen

This is the bread my husband woke up early and made for me.

I am allergic to gluten. It sucks, but over the years I’ve gotten used to it. Plus, there are so many more options and a much greater understanding than there were 10 years ago.

However, a little over a year ago, I said to my husband how much I missed bread. Like, real bread. Like, I need some legit carbs, pronto, bread.

If you’ve ever eaten gluten-free bread, you know what I mean. Store-bought stuff is not ideal. It does make a good hefty weight when propping anything open, though. (Why are they so dense?!) It’s tolerable toasted. That’s about the nicest thing I can say about it.

Anyway, my husband came to me and said he had read that people with non-celiac gluten sensitivity can sometimes tolerate homemade sourdough bread. He asked me if I would be interested in trying it if he learned how to make it for me.

I was stunned. Here was my husband, not just hearing what I was missing, but going one step, no, multiple steps forward. He genuinely researched and then took the initiative to learn how to bake it himself, looking for ways to make me happy without me having to ask. That’s everything.

Fast forward, and now I simply ask, “Can you make me bread this week?” A few days later, I have it. Since that first loaf, he has made bagels (ugly but good!) and deep-dish pizza. All of it is based entirely on paying attention to what I miss, to what I wish were different. No prompting. Just paying attention.

Do these things change my caregiving load? No, they do not. But they change everything about how I feel. I feel appreciated. I feel heard in a very real way, during a season that can make you feel invisible.

While I am my son’s primary caregiver, my husband does everything in his power to be mine.

He knows I am fully capable of taking care of myself. He simply makes it known that I don’t have to do it all on my own. There’s a difference between needing someone to rescue you and having someone who simply refuses to let you disappear.

This is our version of teamwork. It’s what works for us. And it’s what I wish every exhausted and overwhelmed caregiver had: someone who shows up in the small moments, someone who occasionally wakes up early and makes them bread. Whatever “bread” means for them.

Do I wish that the system weren’t broken? Do I hope for a day when those living with disabilities and their loved ones don’t have to fight for every single benefit? Do I pray every single day that I am doing what I need to not only keep my child alive, but to thrive? Do I worry that in my task-driven mind, to get everything done that needs to be done, I don’t inadvertently forget to pause and be present with my son, the one I’m doing all of this for? Yes. Yes, to all of that.

But, alas, we continue to fight the system that should help us. We continue to wake up each day trying to balance the weight of caregiving and loving our loved ones well. Every moment of every day, I try not to let fear have the final say in how we live.

So, for today, I am setting aside the advocacy, the medical director tasks, the clinical trials, and the fear. Today, I am focusing on my husband’s bread that he lovingly made to make my day just a little bit easier, a little brighter. He actively strives to help me feel seen.

Today, I received the care this caregiver needs most: knowing someone hears her.