It Wears on You

These past few weeks, for the first time since we started this journey, I haven't been focused on where we are in the process, how long the dark tunnel ahead is, or how far away the light at the end of that tunnel is. Rather, I am starting to wonder how much longer I am going to be able to keep this up physically and emotionally.

At first blush, this seems like a rather selfish thought, but it isn't. I am beginning to realize that, though nobody can care for him as I do, the commitment to "love, honor, and cherish, for better or worse, in sickness and in health" might be better accomplished in partnership with professionals at some point down the road. This is a difficult thing to admit to your stubborn self, even when you've known all along that it was a probability.

Sometimes, as my friends and family remind me often, the hardest thing to do is to make the right decision for your loved one and for yourself. What good will I be to him if I am clinging to sanity and/or health by my fingernails? And when will I know if I'm reaching that point? I have some benchmarks penciled in for myself, but will I recognize them when they happen? Or will I be delusional and feeling perfectly safe? These are valid questions.

This has been a year of steep cognitive declines, personality changes, and care requirements. But I look at him across the kitchen table, focused for the last five minutes on building something unknowable with large Legos, then staring out the window and stroking his beard, then wiggling his eyebrows at me when he notices I'm looking at him.

My heart warms and I smile. And I put those thoughts away for one more day. Or at least for now.