The Last Respite (Halloween episode)

This Halloween, four weary caregivers are offered the break of a lifetime at a mysterious retreat.  But what begins as a peaceful getaway quickly takes a spine-tingling turn. In this haunting one-off episode, we meet Cheryl, Paula, Christine, and Brian—each caring for a loved one and each burdened by a secret fear. As eerie events unfold and the line between rest and reality begins to blur, these caregivers must confront not just the whispers in the dark… but the guilt they carry from home.

Settle in for suspense, soul-searching, and a storytelling style that blends the spooky with the sincere—because even in the scariest moments, caregivers deserve a break.

Transcript

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Welcome to Take Care Time, the Tales and the Exhales of Caregivers. I'm your host, Beverly Nance. This week we're taking a slightly spooky turn for Halloween, but don't worry, this tale still carries the heartbeat of what this podcast is all about, the complexity, the courage, and the quiet exhaustion of caregiving. So grab yourself a glass of wine, light a candle, and settle in for this haunting story of what happens when four exhausted caregivers accept an offer that might be too good to be true. This is the last respite. Each of them received a letter an elegant cream colored envelope with a silver script that shimmered in the light. There was no return address, only a wax seal pressed into the letters that said REST. Rest it. Read. You've been chosen for a complimentary respite retreat at Whispering Pines Estate. Three days, two nights, all expenses paid, no catch. Just care for you. Each recipient stared at the letter skeptically at first, but when you're burned out, broke and barely holding on, even a suspicious gift can feel like salvation. They all said yes. But before we get into what happened inside Whispering Pines, let's meet them. Cheryl Watson was a pastry chef before caregiving hijacked her life. Her younger brother Marcus, survived a motorcycle crash that left him unable to walk or remember anything for more than 20 minutes. Cheryl gave up her job, her boyfriend, and her dream apartment. Her days are now filled with cue cards, medications, and apologies. She no longer wants to make. She hasn't taken a day off in five years. Next we have Paula Jenkins, a retired librarian. She spends her days and nights caring for her 86-year-old mother Bernice, who lives with advanced dementia. Her mother often mistakes her for a nurse. Sometimes a thief, Paula tapes post-it notes all over her house. Some of them say It's Wednesday. You are safe, Paula is your daughter. But the notes never stick to an emotional erosion of watching someone disappear while they're still alive. Okay, next is Christine Delgado. Christine is a nurse, a solo mom, lives in a constant loop of exhaustion. Her son Matthew, age 10, is nonverbal and autistic. Christine works the night shift. She sneaks naps in her car and that school doesn't call because when they do it means her boy is overwhelmed. Overstimulated or worse, she has no family nearby. Her friends slowly drifted away. Her ex well, he's been long gone. And finally, there's Brian Thomas. Brian cares for his wife Lisa. Lisa has a LS once a vibrant athlete. Lisa now communicates using eye tracking software. Brian lost his job after too many missed days. He gave up his social life, sold their camper van, and turned their living room into a care unit. He's grieving his loss while she's still alive, and that kind of grief eats at you from the inside out. All four of them packed a small overnight bag each wondered if the retreat was a scam. They just needed a break. As the four weary caregivers, Cheryl, Paula, Christine, and Brian packed their overnight bags for what was supposed to be a relaxing respite retreat. Each had wrestled with guilt, not just because of the cost of leaving, but because of who they were leaving behind. That's when the doorbell rang. Each caregiver had been matched with a vetted professional caregiver from a specialized program called Care Match Reserve, a trial initiative from their local respite coalition that sends trained short-term caregivers to offer relief during planned breaks. It was a miracle they hadn't even applied for someone from the coalition, had anonymously nominated them. They were all nervous at first. Cheryl double checked her care instructions three times. Paula left a note taped to a cabinet door. Christine walked the new caregiver through the bedtime routine as if auditioning a Broadway understudy. Brian hesitated the most, but eventually handed over the keys and whispered, just call me if anything changes. The stand-ins were remarkable trained, calm, kind. They assured each caregiver, we've got this. Go take care of yourself outside each caregiver's home. Just after sunrise, the sound of tires crunching, gravel breaks. The morning stillness. A slick black van with tinted windows pulled up. No name, no number. Just a symbol. Sleek, but subtle, like a secret. Inside the seats were plush, dark leather with builtin massage controls. The walls were lined with soft, amber lighting and quiet instrumental. Music played. Smelled faintly of lavender and cedarwood. Cheryl groggy but grateful, hugged her, loved one goodbye at the door, Paula triple checks the list. She left for the stand-in caregiver Christine Hesitates. Just a moment longer. Peeking at her son, still sleeping on the couch before locking the door behind her and Brian. Well, he was already outside pacing his bag, packed the night before and placed neatly at the curb. As each caregiver steps into the van, they're handled a warm drink in a spill proof mug. Coffee, tea, or cocoa, somehow tailored to their known preference. A folded paper rest beside each an itinerary with just two words at the top. Whispering Pines, they don't speak much. At first, each loss in thought, in doubt, or maybe just relief. But as a city fades into the countryside, the trees grow taller. A sense of strange excitement starts to fill the van. Where were they headed? Where was Whispering Pines exactly? They didn't know but someone had planned this for them. Whispering Pines was hidden deep in the Georgia woods so deep that GPS lost signal five miles before the gate. The van glide to the top of the edge of the winding gravel path ahead, nestled among the whispering tall pines and shrouded in light. Miss stands a large rustic lodge with wraparound porches and wide rocking chairs. On the wooden sign there was etched above the entrance. It said Whispering Pines Retreat. As the door opened, a woman standing in a long burgundy cardigan, cozy leather boots, elegant silver haired with calm eyes that seem to know more than she says. Welcome. She calls her voice warm but commanding. I'm Viola. You're here because you matter. Come inside, we've been expecting you. She gestures toward her staff. Three kind. Looking at attendants, dressed in matching dark green vests. They move quickly, but gently unloading bags, offering cozy slippers and guiding the caregivers into the house. Inside the lodge is a dream. The air smells of cinnamon and pine. A crackling fireplace anchors the great room where oversized armchair and a t bar await. Viola begins the welcome tour. She shows them to their private rooms, each one thoroughly tailored Cheryl's features soft jazz playing, and a shelf of poetry books, Paula's has an ocean sound machine and a lavender eye mask. Christine's room includes a weighted blanket and a set of knitting supplies. Brian's stocked with graphic novels, vintagevinel and a back massager. There's no need to ask for anything already anticipated. Over the next few hours and days, the caregivers are offered a curated blend of rest and reconnection. Each day begins with guided yoga on the patio where viola herself leads slow, stretches beneath the trees. No pressure, no expectations, just breath and movement. Okay, lunches serve family style, but with dietary needs already accounted for. Viola surprises them with southern comfort food. One day a Mediterranean spread the next. Nobody is asked to serve or clean up. This is their time. Afternoons, they have optional activities, which include quiet time by the pond with a journal and herbal tea, a storytelling circle in the library, nook, aromatherapy workshops or silent walks through the sensory garden. And when the rain rolls in a cozy film screening with hot cider and fleece blankets in the evening before bed, there's a nightly fireside wind down where they're invited, but not required to share their thoughts, fears, memories, and moments of joy. Viola listens with the wisdom of someone who has walked through every storm herself. Viola's team doesn't hover, they attend, they gently check in but never intrude. They refill teacups, warm neck wraps, and make space for silence because caregivers often need that, most of all, and it's here in this intentional care that something shifts. The caregivers laugh. They really laugh, but for the first time in a long while, they sleep through the night. They remember who they were before the world depended on them although the first few hours they didn't trust it. Christine had paced. Brian checked the windows. Paula tried to call her mother Cheryl Baked Banana bread in the commercial kitchen because relaxing. It was just too unfamiliar. But eventually the house worked its magic. They slept bathed. They cried in solitude. They remembered who they were before caregiving consumed them. Until the last night. That's when the doors began to lock. It began with the sounds a child's giggle, echoing through the halls a whispered, help me drifting through the vents. Christine was the first to hear it, then Cheryl, then all of them. Paula swore she saw her mother in the mirror holding a photo from her childhood. Brian watched Lisa's eye tracking messages appear on a screen that wasn't plugged in. The house was haunted. By their guilt, by their grief, by every moment they resented caregiving, but felt too ashamed to say it out loud on the final night they gathered in the library. You feel it too, right? Cheryl whispered, yes, said Brian, but I'm not afraid anymore. The house wasn't punishing them. It was freeing them. It forced them to face what was buried, the belief that they didn't deserve rest. That love means sacrifice without boundary that no one else will step up. So they must always be on call. As dawn approached, Viola appeared once more. You faced your ghost, she said. Now go. And do not forget. when they left The mansion vanished from the rear view mirror. No GPS signal, no letters, only memory. As the custom van rolled away from Whispering Pines, the laughter faded, but something shifted. The caregivers, Cheryl, Paula, Christine, and Brian, weren't just returning with memories of ghostly whispers and shared glances. They were returning with a truth that was harder to face than anything that went bump in the night. Caregiver guilt. It is the shadow we don't talk about enough. The one that hovers while we pack our bags for a weekend getaway or dare to dream of rest, it says, you don't deserve this. Or what if something goes wrong while you're gone? All four of them had felt it, the ache in the chest when the phone didn't ring because part of them expected something to go wrong. That moment of joy that was quickly followed by a pang of, I shouldn't be this happy. But here's the haunting truth. Guilt is not a virtue. It doesn't make us better caregivers. It makes us disappear a little more each day. And while it whispers lies, the truth is this, your rest is necessary. Your joy is allowed. Your care for yourself is not a betrayal. It's a boundary. So let this strange, wonderful weekend be a reminder. You don't have to wait for a haunted invitation to step away. Your needs matter too, because if you fall apart, who will be there to care for them? Caregiver guilt may be real, but it's not the final word. Sometimes the scariest thing a caregiver can do is stop. Stop running. Stop caregiving for a moment and let themselves rest this Halloween. Remember, even the most haunted souls need peace, and though the last respite was spooky. Don't ever let fear keep you from taking a break, a real one, because respite isn't selfish, it's survival. This holiday season surprise a caregiver in your life with something as thoughtful and comforting as the care they give every day. We have a special gingerbread respite box, a sugar and spices hug in a box made just for them. What's inside? Well, everything inside is gingerbread man. Gingerbread woman, themed from a cozy and collectible mug, mini sensory jigsaw puzzle, fuzzy socks. And those are just the beginning. Whether you're a caregiver yourself or you love someone who is, this box is the perfect way to say, take a break. You've earned it. Join our wait list@takecaretime.com if you have a caregiving story, funny, heartfelt, spooky, or all of the above, we'd love to hear from you. Contact us at podcast@takecaretime.com and submit your story today. Please note that this episode features reenactments and dramatized details. While in most cases the exact verbatim dialogue may not be known, all dramatizations are grounded in thorough research and crafted to honor the stories shared to respect the privacy and confidentiality of the individuals involved. Some names and identifying details have been changed. Until next week, take care.