Jan's Story by Barry Petersen

and saying that I just didn't have the energy. I was simply exhausted. I didn't see it then, and wouldn't for a long time, but this was the first symptom of the toll that being a caretaker was taking on me. What fool thinks he can do it all, the work and the caregiving, when neither really end? That fool was … me.
    The producer in New York who wanted the story that night was understanding and gracious and said the story wasn't that important. She told me to go home and try to sleep.
    But rather than going home, I curled up on the floor and fell asleep next to the phone, in case she changed her mind. The incident shook me. How had I come to this? As I lay on the floor, I wondered what my bosses would think if they heard about this night. Wasn't this dangerous behavior if I wanted to keep working? One simple answer was that they would think I could no longer do my job. This would not end well for me.
    It didn't take middle of the night calls to wear me out. Caregiving was doing that just fine, thanks. One morning a colleague walked into my office and asked the casual, “How are you?”
    â€œI'm tired,” I answered.
    â€œYou're always tired,” she said in response. I thought about her comment and realized she was right. I did always feel tired. It was the mental tiredness from having one part of my brain constantly attuned to Jan; how she was doing, where she was, was she okay.
    And most of all, would I be home that night to care for her, or would I be off somewhere on a story? In years past, that wasn't a problem. It was work, and Jan accepted it. But this was not about her approval. If I wasn't there, would she remember to take her pills in the morning, or would she go for a walk somewhere and forget where she was. Or worse, would she try and cook something and then go take a nap and forget the stove was on.
    This loop of questions and worry ran loud in my head, and I dared not turn it down. She needed a caregiver with never ending vigilance, and I wanted to be that caregiver because I loved her. But the reality, ever slow to dawn on me, was that I may not be the most dependable person for this job because of all the traveling I had to do. The pressure was building, and so was the exhaustion. It took covering a story away from home for me to discover my journey was the road to destruction.
    The question was always the same for me: How do you fight back against a disease you can't beat? I found a way—I took it out on the rest of the world, and got to know a new emotion one-on-one—uncontrollable rage. It began deep in my stomach, a welling up until my gut hurt, and the adrenaline poured into my system.
    I could feel it taking over my body, starting with my stomach tightening. Some part of my brain would try and stop the emotions, sending warnings that this was not good, that I was losing control. I got good at ignoring those warnings.
    Instead, I would feel it in my whole body. To others it seemed like a spilling of anger, but from the inside there was the rage that The Disease attacked Jan. She was an innocent; she was someone who brought smiles into other people's lives.
    The rage took over because I could simply not hold it in, and maybe, in part, because I wanted it out, yearning for some searing catharsis, even if it was about losing control around others.
    I couldn't aim my anger at Jan, even though the anger was all about The Disease and what it was doing to her. So it erupted at odd times and toward people who had no warning of what was coming, and no understanding about what had triggered my outburst. Someone made a small mistake or irritated me, and I exploded into a screaming, irrational rage.
    One day, in southern China, we were outside about to shoot a key interview. It was a lovely day and we had just finished lunch, courtesy of our hosts. The translator was standing with me, the cameraman behind me, the sound man on the other side, and the producer was behind monitoring the