Activate Offensive Line!

There are moments in caregiving that don’t come with a warning label.

No slow fade.
No gentle cue.
No time to think.

Just instinct.

I’ve learned to read his eyes.

Not in a poetic, romantic way—but in a split-second, gut-drop, oh (insert your favorite cuss word here) kind of way. The look changes. His body stiffens just enough to set off every internal alarm I have. There’s a pause where time stretches thin … and then it starts. The jerking. The wobble. The unmistakable loss of balance. The mumble, as if to say, “uh oh!”

And my brain shouts one word:

TIMBER. Ok, if you know me, TIMBER isn’t the first word to come to my mind but for the sake of keeping this more on the line of G-rated …

This man isn’t a small man losing his footing …

My husband is 6’4”, 250 lbs - and when syncope takes over, his body doesn’t fold easily. Sometimes he flops like a fish, his eyes roll in the back of his head like a horror story, and he makes this terrible seizure-like, gagging noise. What can I pretty much guarantee will take place? It locks!

No simple catch, no easing him down, no graceful bend.

I literally drop into a squat like an offensive lineman (Thanks Adam Snyder #68) coming off the snap—feet in a wide stance, knees bent, center low and braced, arms out—and I shove him onto the bed before gravity takes him in another direction (as in crashing on top of me).

It’s not pretty.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not something they teach you in caregiver training videos.

Adam Snyder is my love’s cousin. As an armchair spectator watching his career, evolve from an Oregon Duck to playing the majority of his NFL career with the 49ers, his stance and response has become the plan, the preparation, and the reaction to my love’s syncope.

But it works.

Because when a syncopal episode hits, there is no time for fear or finesse. There is only now. There is only don’t let him hit the floor or the bedside table. Instinct takes over - muscle memory forged from years of love, panic, and repetition.
I feel it in my chest before my brain catches up.
And my body moves before my emotions do.

Afterward, once he’s safe and the moment passes, the adrenaline drains. My hands shake. My heart pounds. I replay it in my head—What if I hadn’t been there? What if I was in the other room? What if next time…

When he comes to, I get the usual, “What just happened?” to which I respond (and get a giggle), “I had to Adam Synder you …” “Well, thank god for Adam showing you how to knock me on to the bed,” quips my love.

That’s the part people don’t see.

Caregiving isn’t just schedules and medications and routines. Sometimes it’s becoming a human safety net. Sometimes it’s reacting like an offensive lineman instead of a spouse. Sometimes it’s realizing that your body knows what to do before your mind catches up.

And yes—sometimes it’s terrifying.

But it’s also love in its most primal form.

The kind that doesn’t hesitate.
The kind that doesn’t ask permission.
The kind that says, I’ve got you, even when your knees are shaking afterward.

If you’ve ever caught someone mid-fall…
If you’ve ever trusted instinct more than instruction…
If you’ve ever thought, How did this become my normal?

You’re not alone.

You’re just doing the impossible, one reflex at a time.

And somehow—you’re standing strong, even when you’re crouched low, bracing for impact.