Window view from inside the Montreal General Hospital while P waited as I had surgery. (Provided photo — Photo provided by Peter Berra)

A student once asked the anthropologist Margaret Mead what she thought was the first evidence of civilization. Rather than say something about hunting tools, or cultural artifacts, or weapons, Mead answered that the first sign of civilization was a 15,000-year-old fractured femur that was found in an archeological site. The particularity of the femur is that it had healed.

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The significance of a healed bone

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What happens to a deer when it breaks its leg? The Adirondacks knows very well that the deer dies before it has time to heal. The same is true for all animals, including humans. The only way a broken femur can heal is if another person helps.

Mead read the significance of the healed femur anthropologically — the process of callusing and restoration written in the bone meant someone cared long enough to see a person through their pain. One person stopped to help someone else; this is the beginning of civilization.

This is also the beginning of the intersection between the ethics of care and distributive justice. How should we compensate caregiving? The answer isn’t clear, partly due to the misconception that caregiving is unskilled labor, something anyone can do without training. Another part of the challenge is that much of the work of caregiving is “invisible,” done at home rather than at the office or in public.

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The invisibility of care(givers)

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It is therefore no surprise that our caregivers are often invisible, or at least, that their work is overlooked and uncounted. In her book “Essential Labor,” Angela Garbes writes, “American society values work in terms of how much we produce, and how efficiently we can do it. It tells us that our output is our worth. Caregiving, conversely, is inefficient. But it pays dividends. If we were to think about work in terms of our humanity — making people feel dignified, valued, and whole — then caregiving is the most important work we can do with our time on earth.” (pg. 10).

As a full-time college teacher who has dabbled in consultant work in the past and is also the primary caregiver for my daughter C, I often find myself reconciling with the absurd truth of Garbes’s words. My most creative moments, insightful problem-solving, active listening and thoughtful conversations have all been honed through my (unpaid) forever job of shepherding my daughter through the quicksilver of her days. But as a consultant, I can spend 30 minutes selling ideas to optimize your company’s productivity, and the dollars pour in.

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To my caregivers

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About a year ago, I broke my ankle. I needed surgery and now have a plate and seven screws stabilizing my bone. It was my right ankle, which meant I couldn’t drive my daughter to school, to piano, to swim practice, to playdates, to her world and life outside our home. Forget about groceries. Forget about laundry. Forget cooking. Forget life. Here’s how I healed.

P drove my daughter to school in the morning, picked her up in the afternoon and did all the things in between. As I was in the post-surgery fog of a Vicodin-drip, he woke C up, made her bed, cooked her breakfast, listened to her practice piano, helped her wash her face and brush her teeth, packed her lunch, got her into her snowsuit and out the door on time, all while I heard her lively chatter from my bedroom. P drove me to my medical appointments, made me tea and cooked me food just the way I like it. At night, we’d watch documentaries he’d found to suit my interests, energy and pain. I received better care from him than I knew existed.

There’s more. W and M cooked food and drove it over. S had tea with me and gave me a gift card for a spa. M and A offered food from the restaurant they own. J drove C back from swim practice. H helped me through my physiotherapy.

My sister flew from California to stay with me for the first three days post-surgery, the most excruciating hours of pain I have ever and hopefully will ever experience. And my daughter gave everything. She made me a “hope card,” offered warm hugs, patiently explained to curious parents what had happened to me and adjusted to our sudden, temporary life. I love and am eternally grateful to these people.

The reality that this network of care pulses through the world, literally keeping it alive, and that it is undervalued and mostly unpaid, is inconceivable to me.

There is a lesson in that 15,000-year-old femur. If there is a way for us to meaningfully value care, to fairly compensate our caregivers, to find our way to Margaret Mead’s vision of civilization, I hope we find it.

Prompt: Tell me about someone whose care you are grateful for.