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While Sissy and Rhonda amuse Dad out on the deck, I enjoy a slice of quiche and check emails on my iPhone. There’s one from Remembrance Care, an organization located here in Asheville that focuses on caregivers who have loved ones with memory loss. It’s trying to raise funds to expand its facilities because there’s a four-month waiting period for its clinical services. The banner on the newsletter asks: “Can you please donate?” I wish I could! It’s a wonderful organization that I discovered two years ago through a philanthropic women’s group I belonged to when I could still afford the annual dues.

We’d brought in a group of caregivers for a Saturday luncheon at a local restaurant, when spouses, neighbors or children could cover for them. We wanted to ask how we could help. There’s no government money nor any compensation, let alone appreciation, for the hard job of being the caregiver for an elderly or ill person.

When I heard those caregivers’ stories at that luncheon, I’d felt an odd mixture of discomfort and relief. I was contrite because my dad was in a great facility being well tended to by others. I had thought my daily visits and taking him to the doctor and out to lunch and bringing him to the house for day visits were such good-daughter things to be doing.

Alternatively, I was relieved because I wasn’t living with the huge challenges those women faced every single day. I’d wondered why there were no men present at the luncheon. David’s uncle had taken care of his wife—who suffered from the very worst effects of Alzheimer’s—for eight years before she passed away. Was that a unique circumstance? Based on the fact that there were no men there that day, it seemed likely.

The most appalling thing I learned was that these women had little-to-no help with their caregiving, ever. Their husband and children were “lazy,” “running around,” “mean drunks” or “using drugs.”

Many also worked menial jobs and continuously worried about the safety of their disabled loved ones who were at home alone. Feeding and medicating them were major concerns for these caregivers when they couldn’t be there to provide those needs.

They wore their fatigue like a cloak with holes that offered little protection from the winds of despair that tore through their lives. Their shoulders were weighed down by labor and despondency.

Lines of worry etched their faces, reflecting the loss of hope that anything would change to make their lives better. Their collective, overriding trait was their desire to do their best by their charges, regardless of their resources, and to keep them comfortable as long as they could. But what a toll it took on them.

The handouts we provided contained grim information, and while we debated whether to include it with the helpful resource and care information, we felt it important that these women learn all the risks—especially to themselves.

Among the many things they learned that day was the shocking fact that Alzheimer’s caregivers have a sixty-three percent higher mortality rate than non-caregivers, with forty percent dying from stress-related disorders—before their patient dies.

A medical system that so often failed them, plus grinding poverty, were their biggest obstacles in getting the care their loved ones, and they, needed.

And time. Time is a precious commodity, perhaps the most precious of all commodities, particularly for working caregivers who are also wives and mothers, because there is never enough of it. I had read the excellent book, The Thirty-Six Hour Day, which focuses on what can be done to improve the lives of people with dementia and of those caring for them, including how to manage their time. Meeting needs and demands eats up the greatest portion of a caregiver’s precious time. A full and good night’s sleep was something they couldn’t imagine.

It was a vicious cycle that inevitably left the caregiver feeling inadequate or ashamed for not being able to do all that needed doing. More than that, becoming angry, losing their tempers, crying for hours out of the day, and even thoughts of suicide permeated their daily lives.

I remembered bowing my head in gratitude for having the financial means to keep Dad in a facility like Crestview, which did all of these things for him, relieving me of the worries and burdens these women suffered.

These concerns, and many more, were vocalized that day, and it became obvious that these stalwart women hadn’t discussed these issues in such depth and so freely with anyone else.

But that day those women were able to talk, to cry, to hug each other, to reach out and generously offer advice and even help for those who seemed even more careworn than they were.

Robin, a member of our group who was a retired social worker and psychologist, had explained to them that everything they felt was normal for a caregiver. She told them that asking for help from family and friends—just having them listen, or sitting with their charge for a few hours—was not just beneficial, but necessary. Otherwise, their frustration, anger, and depression could be misdirected and cause harm, either to their loved ones or themselves.

It was one of our most meaningful meetings, and our women’s group had rallied its resources, raised community awareness, solicited donations, and pressed social services to do more, such as liaise with the Capital Assistance Program on behalf of those caregivers whose parents had disabilities and qualified for rehab services.

The president of Remembrance Care of Asheville spoke that day, and it surprised many of us to learn there was such a professional, caring and effective organization right here in Asheville. It is comprised of a team of physicians, nurses, social workers, and volunteers dedicated to one goal—helping individuals with Alzheimer’s and other cognitive disorders live as fully as possible for as long as possible at home or in their preferred setting. More to our point that day, we learned it is an organization that focuses on equipping caregivers with the resources they need, in addition to providing excellent care to their loved ones.

He encouraged those caregivers in attendance to get in touch with Remembrance Care, and made sure each one had a brochure with contact information in her hand when she left.

Our organization made a large donation to Remembrance Care, confident the money would be well spent. We worked on other ideas, including the initiation of a volunteer program among community church members of all ages and incomes to give caregivers some relief, if only for a few hours a week.

We established a fund earmarked for emergency assistance and administered by a committee. The membership of our community service club stepped up and made a difference.

In the two years following that initiative, we received many thank-you letters that brought tears to our eyes as they were read aloud at our meetings.

I sure could use its help right now, but I’m not going to reach out to Remembrance Care because they’re underfunded and understaffed. There are so many caregivers who need assistance from that organization much more than I do.

I is a self-aggrandizing word, however, when you have a husband of twenty-two years who is a true partner in everything you do. We take care of Dad, and there is a deep layer of comfort in having a partner to share that duty.

Other than David, I can’t count on anyone who isn’t being paid for help. My sisters have jobs they can’t leave for any length of time to come and help out. I understand this, but I also resent it. After all, I have a job, too: Caregiving. It’s the toughest job I’ve ever had because of the emotional element involved and because I’ve had zero training for it.

I envy my sisters for their full-time jobs that ensure their freedom from caregiving.