Life After Caregiving

How caregivers heal after a loved one’s death

Fact checked by Jim Lacy

The Volbrecht family faced an agonizing choice — one that left Don Hall, the adult son, wondering for a time whether he had killed his father. After years of treatment, Hall, his sister, and his parents decided to invite hospice into their home and let nature take its course for Hall’s father.

It was “less a decision than a resignation,” says Hall, a Chicago-based writer, podcaster, and theater manager, who was at his parents’ home in Wichita, Kansas, when the family made the decision.

Lawrence “V” Volbrecht had spent nearly two decades undergoing treatments that wore him away while working to keep him going. He was diagnosed with multiple myeloma in 2008. Bladder cancer followed six years later. Then came aortic aneurysm surgery. His kidneys, decimated by treatments, failed in 2021. Caregiving became treacherous — demanding, exhausting, and expensive.

Roughly 63 million Americans are caregivers, with an average age of 51, according to AARP. Hall’s mother, Jackie Volbrecht, joined those ranks at age 60. At 76, she is finally out of a job.

“It’s like being in prison,” she says of caring for V. “Everyone asked, ‘How’s V?’ But no one asked, ‘How are you?’ It’s lonely.”

Emotional strain and isolation are common, says Michael Ziffra, MD, associate professor of psychiatry and behavioral sciences at Northwestern Feinberg School of Medicine. “Stress has a cumulative effect on the brain.” 

Symptoms include lack of focus, poor memory, mood changes, anxiety, worry, and rumination. “The longer the experience, the more this is going to accumulate,” Ziffra says.

At diagnosis, doctors told V he had three years to live. A big, strong, stubborn man, he pushed far beyond that timeline. Had he known what his final years would look like, Jackie says, he wouldn’t have chosen so many treatments. Once you get in the system, though, she says you can feel stuck in panic, like a one-way road with no U-turns.

For most of V’s illness, the couple lived on Lake Marion, about 60 miles north of Wichita. The nearest dialysis center was an hour away. When the travel became too much, V and Jackie, who had retired from real estate in 2012, moved to Wichita for easier access to care. Within three whirlwind weeks, they took a line of credit on the lake house, bought a new one in Wichita, moved, and sold the old place.

“It was such a gradual thing to lose him,” Jackie says. 

“He wasn’t who I married.” Things worsened after the move. V grew mean, she says. “He knew it was taking its toll on me, but he was sick. Really sick.” Her life revolved around him: dialysis runs, appointments, meals, cleaning, care. Exhausted and hopeless, she started to plan her own suicide.

There’s little data on suicidal thoughts among caregivers, Ziffra says, but he sees it. “It’s not that they truly want to die,” he says. “They want relief. They feel stuck.”

Jackie wanted freedom. Instead of acting on her thoughts, she got help from a psychologist. Still, the desire to flee lingered. When Hall visited for the July 4 holiday, he saw how dire things had become.

“Something had to change,” he says. “If it didn’t, they’d have killed each other. Dad would have to either go into a facility, or hospice was going to come in. He wanted to stay home. He was ready. He said, ‘I’m going to let go of the knot in the rope.’”

Once V did that, calm followed. No one knew how long he had left. Doctors thought he would have died a decade earlier. But everyone was ready. V became talkative, as if unburdening himself. Two days after hospice began, the talk turned to pain.

“I didn’t want to, but I forced myself to go into his room and comfort him,” Jackie says. “I stroked his hair, and he opened his eyes and said, ‘I love you.’ I said, ‘I love you, too.’” She saw the man she married one last time. V died the next day in his son’s arms.

Afterward, Jackie was lethargic. Feeling like she had nothing to do, she slept for hours.

Caregivers who have lost their care recipient have to figure out how to exist without them, Ziffra says. “There is a process of relearning what they need, what they want to be doing with their time,” he says. “They may feel guilt for enjoying themselves. But you can experience bereavement while living your life and doing things that are pleasurable.”

“I’m not afraid to get on with my life. I’m delighted to have the opportunity because there were times when I didn’t think I’d make it.”

After a few weeks, Jackie’s motivation returned. She embraced small acts that helped her rebuild her identity — something she hadn’t felt in years. She went to Pilates, ate dinner on her own schedule, watched movies, visited friends, and took road trips to see her grandchildren.

What stays with her now isn’t how unrecognizable V became or how close she came to giving up — it’s the financial toll. When the Volbrechts retired 13 years earlier, they were comfortable. Even with Medicare and supplemental insurance, V’s treatments consumed almost everything. Had he lived longer, Jackie might have lost their house.

“But I would do it again,” she says. “You have to. I’d just do it smarter. I wouldn’t have done it alone. Say yes to the help that’s offered.”

Ultimately, she adds, “I’m not afraid to get on with my life. I’m delighted to have the opportunity because there were times when I didn’t think I’d make it.” 

These days, Jackie still misses her husband but no longer measures her life by his illness. She measures it by the freedom she’s earned — and by the many choices each day brings.

Originally published in the Winter/Spring 2026 print issue.