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| At least I can see him! |
Being pretty much stuck in the house due to the COVID-19 shelter-in-place orders leaves lots of time for thinking. Perhaps too much. As my husband's condition has continued to deteriorate in what seems to me to be an accelerated manner as he slips away from me inexorably, I find that I am spending an unhealthy amount of time in morose thought, self-flagellating over rocks I must have left unturned. Things I wish I'd done differently or not done at all. Things I've said that should have been left unsaid. Things I've not said that I now find myself repeating to him over and over again, hoping to make up for all those lost opportunities. Sometimes, I do get the impression that my words and actions are finding their target in his heart. I certainly hope so, anyway.
One of the thoughts that torments me to the point of sobbing is wondering just how aware he might be of his situation, with no way of escaping or expressing his thoughts and fears. Is he content? Is he at peace? Or is he struggling to be understood, living a nightmare in the prison that is his failing mind and body? Is it torture for him the way it is for me? I really hope not. I really hope his thoughts are fleeting and forgotten before they can be confusing. And I really hope he isn't in pain. Pain on top of all this would be adding insult to injury in a way I might not be able to handle emotionally.
The end of March and beginning of April saw four not-so-great anniversaries come and go for us, all in just over a week. Four anniversaries of loss and heartache and bitter pills, including my husband's diagnosis, his placement, and my mother's death. No wonder the past few weeks have been especially difficult. No wonder I felt as though I had been thrown against a wall and could barely breath under the crushing heaviness of it all.
It occurs to me that those same four painful anniversaries will revisit us every year for the rest of our days. They'll revisit me, anyway. Heaven help me.
