This is my debut column for 50+ Fabulous about caregiving, and the theme is joy. You can imagine my difficulty. I know something about caregiving. I’ll bet you do, too. Perhaps you’ve cared for kids, friends, grandparents or parents. And if you haven’t yet, you most likely will. My husband and I cared for his mother, Eva, for the last two years of her life. At home. 24/7. It was exhausting, frustrating, frightening and costly. In the months ahead I’ll write about what we learned and what we’ve learned since that we wish we’d known then. My motto was “This is NOT what I expected.” Now I know that nothing is quite what I expect, ever. Joy is like that.

One night my husband was out of town, and I was rushing to meet a deadline. I finished my report about midnight, but I couldn’t get our fax machine to work. (This was in the “old days” when we still faxed reports to clients.) Eva was sleeping in her room. I took a chance and drove to my office about 10 minutes away, telling myself I would be gone no more than “a few minutes.” This is what really happened: I couldn’t find the master switch for the lights, the emergency flashlight on the wall had no batteries, I used the glow from the copy machine to operate the fax machine, and, of course, it took several attempts to fax the damn report. I was gone over an hour. When I returned, all the lights in our upstairs flat were on and the front door was wide open. I raced up the stairs to find an empty bed. Heart pounding, I ran downstairs and knocked on my neighbors’ door. A sleepy Robert opened the door. “It’s okay, everything’s okay,” he said. Behind him I saw Eva sitting next to Janet on the sofa. She was frightened and disoriented. I began to explain, but, really, what could I say? I’d left her alone in an upstairs flat in the dead of night. It was no different than leaving a small child alone. I felt like the lowest of the low, scum, irresponsible, a bad daughter – you can fill in the rest. I apologized profusely to everyone and helped Eva back upstairs, murmuring reassurances. I tucked her into bed, turned down the lights and sat beside her until she fell asleep. I sat there in the dark feeling incredibly stupid and unbelievably grateful.

The next day I took flowers to Janet and Robert, in apology and gratitude. Here’s what they said: “It was no trouble at all.” “That’s what neighbors are for.” “You must be so exhausted.” “Please let us help.”

It’s what you would have said in the same situation. It’s what I would have said, too. But, frankly, it’s not what I had expected. Joy is like that. It’s not always party-time jubilation. Sometimes it’s something small and quiet, like releasing a long-held, pent-up breath. It’s not what you expected, is it?