Motorcycles, Ninjas and Caregiving

“If it falls, just let it fall toward me,” says my husband lying on the garage floor working on his 600-pound motorcycle. I’m on the other side, not actually holding or supporting the bike; I’m there as a safety measure. In my mind, one of the things I’m guarding against is a 600-pound bike crushing my husband, so his instruction seems ill advised.

I’m not at ease around the bike. It’s not my thing, so my instinct is to hold tightly, but I know immediately that’s the wrong strategy. My job is to respond if something goes awry. If I get anxious, I’ll probably grasp the bike and then I’m more likely to move the bike. At that point I would create a problem. I’m there to be the solution, not the problem that requires a solution.

So, I stand coolly nearby, only touching it when the bike starts to wobble. This is rare, but when it happens, I notice that after the wobble passes, I continue to grasp when I should let go.

There’s a ninja that lives in my mind. She is calm, supple, nimble. She lingers in the shadows and when the moment for action arises, she springs into motion. She sails through the air, lands like a cat, does what must be done and then quietly slips away. In these moments, I long to be that ninja, but I have an exit problem. It’s hard to quietly slip away when your nervous system hasn’t realized the moment has passed.

I have the bike/ ninja problem with my parents too. My parents are in good shape. They live active, independent lives, but in the past few years, they’ve each had some health issues that have required a little support. In those moments I’m actually quite good. Like my ninja, I spring into action. My husband calls me General Issimo, a family pun passed down from his grandfather.

I am the model of calm efficiency, until the crisis has passed. Then I become very un-ninja. It takes a minute for me to loosen my grip, to relax and trust. But after the crisis, my parents don’t need that level of support. They’re fine. And my control that was helpful three days ago becomes the new problem.

But we’ve learned to talk about it, to acknowledge my blind spot. I’m learning to take a full, deep breath and release my grip on the exhale. My nervous system and I are getting better at trusting the return to normal. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll exit with the grace of my ninja.