My Journey as a Caregiver and the Dog Who Helped Me Heal
By Susan Hartzler via Share Your Caregiving Story
In January of 2000, my life changed forever. My mother passed away suddenly, just hours after celebrating her 80th birthday. It was peaceful—she died in her sleep—but for my family, especially my father, it was a seismic loss. She had been his devoted caregiver, the steady hand helping him navigate the daily challenges of Parkinson’s Disease. Suddenly, he was without her. And we were all faced with the question: what now?
As the youngest of three siblings—and the only one who wasn’t married—I volunteered to step into the role of caregiver. That decision meant leaving behind my life in Los Angeles and a thriving career in public relations to move back into the family home in Northridge. I knew nothing about caregiving. I didn’t know what “advanced Parkinson’s” truly meant. I didn’t know how it would feel to become the parent to the man who had raised me. I stepped into that house full of grief, uncertainty, and love—and I stayed for the next three years.
Those years would change me in ways I never expected.
At first, I approached caregiving like a job. I created charts, organized meds, and took him to all his doctor’s appointments. I tried to be efficient, upbeat, and strong. But caregiving isn’t about checking things off a list. It’s about showing up, every day, even when you’re exhausted, even when your heart is breaking, and doing your best in the mess of the moment.
One of the first hard lessons came the day my dad looked up from his red leather chair—the one he’d claimed as his throne for years—and said, “I want to go home.” We were in the den, the same place he’d watched CNN at full blast and dozed off after tv tray dinners. At first, I gently tried to remind him that he was home. But that only upset him. He started yelling. I felt helpless.
Later, I learned from his doctor that Parkinson’s can cause hallucinations and dementia-like symptoms in some patients. For my dad, those episodes were real. Logic didn’t help. What he needed was compassion—and sometimes a little creativity. So the next time he said he wanted to go home, I leashed up Baldwin, the rescue dog my mom had given me just before she died, and told Dad we’d walk there. We circled the block. Baldwin trotted beside us with his usual calm confidence, tail wagging. By the time we returned, my dad had calmed. He was smiling.
Baldwin became more than just a dog—he became my partner in caregiving. He reminded me to breathe. He got me outside when I wanted to hide. He gave my dad comfort, distraction, and affection. Without Baldwin, I’m not sure I would have made it through those years intact.
Caregiving is both deeply human and deeply humbling. It will break your heart and then offer it back to you, mended in unexpected places. I had moments where I doubted myself constantly—especially during my dad’s episodes of confusion or frustration. I questioned if I was doing enough. If I was doing anything right. But over time, I began to measure success differently. It wasn’t about perfection—it was about presence.
There were small victories that kept me going. Like the day my dad returned from a senior center field trip—an activity I nervously signed him up for—and shared his enthusiasm with me about the day. Then there was the times he sat proudly during Baldwin’s agility classes and competitions, clapping as if we were in the Olympics. I found that keeping Dad engaged—through music, classes, therapy, even massages—helped both of us stay grounded. Structure helped, yes, but so did flexibility. When Parkinson’s turned a “good day” into a “can’t get out of bed day,” I learned to adapt, not panic.
One of the most powerful moments came when I took my dad on a trip to Kansas City, where he’d grown up. It was not an easy journey, considering his physical limitations. But seeing him reunited with childhood friends—watching his face light up as they reminisced—was worth every travel hiccup. I got to meet the people who had known him as a young boy, long before he was my dad. That trip gave me perspective. It reminded me that my dad’s life was much bigger than his illness.
There were dark days too. Days when the grief felt like it had settled into my bones. But those days didn’t define the experience. The love did. The laughter did. The moments we found peace, even in the chaos, did.
If I could share a few things I wish I had known at the beginning of my caregiving journey, they would be:
- You have to take care of yourself. This isn’t selfish—it’s survival. Walks with Baldwin saved me.
- Expect emotional exhaustion. And don’t pretend it’s not there. Feel it. Talk about it. Let it out.
- Ask for help. You’re not meant to carry this alone.
- Flexibility matters more than perfection. Let go of “shoulds.” Meet the moment as it comes.
- Structure helps—but joy is essential. Singing classes, therapy, dog cuddles—these aren’t extra. They’re everything.
- And yes… get a dog. The unconditional love of a pet can be your greatest ally.
My caregiving journey ended when my father passed away, but what I learned stays with me. It shaped how I see the world. It inspired me to write, to advocate for caregivers, and to share the healing power of animals through my work and writing.
If I could inspire one movement, it would be centered around integrating animals into caregiving and wellness. Dogs like Baldwin are more than pets—they are therapy, connection, and healing. They remind us how to love in the moment. And if more caregivers had that kind of support, I believe we’d see not only better care for our loved ones, but better care for the caregivers themselves.
Caregiving cracked me open—but in the cracks, light poured in. And I hope that by sharing my story, others will find light in their journey too.