Who takes care…

A ribald old ditty from my formative years keeps whistling through my mind,”Who takes care of the caretaker’s daughter while the caretaker is busy taking care?…” I don’t remember the origins, but I probably heard it from my grandfather who was fond of double entendre and off key bits of mid-30s music. The words transpose themselves for me. Who takes care of the caretaker, while the caretaker is busy taking care? Who indeed.

Caretaker itself is an interesting construct. I don’t see myself as a caretaker. I see myself as wife, lover, friend, occasional nag, and sometime raving bitch. Is there care? Oh, yes. I do not believe that there is a body alive who could care more for the comfort and well being of my big guy. Most days, I don’t believe there is a body better qualified or capable of keeping him happy and comfortable than I. Other days, I am not so sure. I think I am much more of a care giver than a taker.

Is there a nurse who would bring him Russian Caravan at 3 a.m. and drink a cup with him–sitting at his feet? Who else would hold his bald head to her breast and kiss the baby-soft scalp? Who else loves him as well as I?

I am under doctor’s orders to take care of  myself. I want to scream that the only way to take care of myself  is to keep him comfortable when there is little real comfort to be found. Dying is not a comfortable situation. For that matter, living is not all that comfortable most days. Most of us do not have our mortality glaring back at us from the mirror.

A Trying Time

I try so hard to stay up.

I try so hard not to let the water get from the back of my nose to the front of my eyes.

I try to pretend that everything is as it should be.

I am not fooling myself. I doubt I am fooling anyone else.

 

I really want to laugh but I think that the laughter is stuck somewhere in the rubble of my heart.

I want to think about something—anything—except my life and I fall back into the darkness and lose focus on the light.

 

This is the hardest thing I have ever done. I thought sitting with Joyce was the hardest. Maybe it was. I thought prostate cancer was the hardest. Maybe it was. This, though, is devastating. I don’t think I could feel worse if it were me dying. I think I would feel better if it were me dying. Sometimes, I think I am dying—at least the me who has been Mrs. Carroll for 25 years and the me who loves Lane beyond all words. The me who can find his hat in a crowded mall or hear his voice across a soccer pitch—that me—is in terminal pain.

 

The book says there are 7 stages of grief. Colleen says I am angry. I agree. I am angry—but is that one stage or seven? Will I ever not be angry again? Will I ever not cry at the goofiest things? Will I ever be able to just get from Monday to Thursday without wishing the world would end? Will I be able to live with so much of me dying with him?

Okay

Am I okay? No not today. When will I be okay? I wish I knew. I have never done this before. In fact, I never want to do this again. People say that this is better than being hit by a bus. I am not so sure.

 

I am glad to know the passwords and the account information. But I am not good at waiting. I am not good at waiting for pleasant things and this is not a pleasant wait. I want to be doing something, changing something, making everything alright—and there is absolutely nothing I can do.

A Silver Anniversary

Yesterday marked the beginning of our 26th year together. I wear a very lovely princess cut diamond pendant around my neck. We won’t discuss the level of hinting that preceeded the gift. It was not noble. Today the glow-in-the-dark oncologist announced that the most recent MRI shows both brain tumors to have shrunk. Yea! That means that the brain tumors are not the ones that will kill him. That means that he will probably be here longer than the 6 weeks quoted for brain tumors on the grow.

I have been doing Mindfulness Meditation. Apologies to Jon but I am not sure I am doing very well at it. I get into the now and, as soon as I do, I fall quite peacefully asleep. I awaken to the sound of the CD player clicking off. If I set it to auto replay would I sleep forever?

It is a silver anniversary. There is not likely to be a gold. The marriage has been golden though. I could not have found a better love.