Usually, the word "caregiving" is saved for the time in a middle-aged person's life when they make their aging, close to death parents comfortable. In this circumstance, it's a short-term commitment, depending on the illness in question. Other times, though, caregiving is a long-term lifestyle. I feel as if I fall into the latter category, and have been in it for some time.

I've been a caregiver for a majority of my life (the life that I've had so far, anyway). When I was 17, my dad was diagnosed with a form of brain cancer called glioblastoma multiforme. The diagnosis came after months of not knowing the cause of my dad's erratic personality changes, nausea, and constant headaches. Once his chemotherapy treatment started, my sister and I helped our mom - who was still working full time - take care of our dad. We gave him food, if he could keep it down. We tended to his laundry, made sure he didn't get bed sores, made sure he got at least some exercise during the day. We took him to weekly church visits. We gave him his pills; soon innumerable prescription bottles populated our kitchen counter, barely pronounceable names promiment in black letters.

With my sister and I still in high school, we didn't have much time to ourselves. But that was fine, we told ourselves. Our dad needed us. Our mom needed us. We didn't need to tell a lot of people. It was fine. Keep it in the family. We didn't want to have the "sick dad" label blazoned on our foreheads during high school. We had to stay strong.

About a year and a half later - filled to the brim with diligent prescription refills, monthly chemotherapy treatments, hospice care, and burgeoning hospital bills - my dad passed away in our first month of senior year. My sister and I took a week off from school: the three of us cried a lot.

A few years and one move later, my mom got sick. She had had undiagnosed mental and physical issues, and, with the grief of my dad's death still very raw, all of her health concerns happened at once. She grew despondent, slept late into the afternoon, suffered from liver problems. There would be glimpses of her brighter, loquacious, and wonderful personality, but not often.

Suddenly, the caretaking cycle resumed: we took her to doctor's appointments, got her medication, cleaned her, fed her. Sometimes she would eat only a little bit of food; other times the food would run cold. Ultimately, my sister and I were responsible for her wellbeing. Ultimately, my sister and I, again, kept things in the family; we didn't keep friends; we didn't do a lot outside the house; we had to stay strong.

A year later, our mom passed away from liver cancer.

My sister and I now live with our maternal grandparents. They - 95 and 90, respectively - are remarkably healthy for their age, let alone demographic. We take them to their doctor's appointments, get their prescriptions, get food for them...you know the rest. In spite of their health issues, of their slowness, they are both doing great. My grandma recently had hip surgery, and she's recovering very well for someone her age.

I've learned through all of my caregiving experience. I went to great lengths for my parents. I learned how to talk to medical professionals on the phone and in person, how to make meals, and how to properly disperse medication. But, most of all, I learned about how to be patient. Hospital visits, picking up prescriptions, making food, making sure things go as they should, and negotiating chemotherapy appointments: it all involved patience, keeping cool under pressure, taking care of details. I don't recommend that everyone learn about patience through these circumstances: physically, emotionally, and mentally, it's an exhausting experience. But, for my family, I'd do it all over again.