The past few months have been a blur of emotions as Harold and I navigated the hospital and nursing home cycle. I cheerleaded Harold through physical therapy with the hope that he would be able to return home. On good days, I would get my hopes up, and on bad days, I tried to muster the courage to stay positive.
“I’m never going to go home,” Harold would say. I argued with him because I wanted it so much. Life had been a struggle for us both for a long time, but we’d been able to get him up and out the door to dialysis.
“You only have to get strong enough to get out of bed and into your chair.” He wasn’t allowed to have his power wheelchair at the nursing home and he missed the independence.
Harold had me on speed dial. He called me when he couldn’t find the button to call for help at the nursing home, or when he had trouble breathing, or if he was confused in the night with dreams interfering with reality. One night when I drove through a downpour in the middle of the night, he said, “I don’t want you to have any regrets. You did everything you could do for me.”
That’s easier said than done. It was easy to have regrets when the outcome wasn’t what I had hoped it would be.
We held hands and reminisced about the good times during the bad times. He worried about the dog and me. “I can take care of myself, and I’ll take care of Lucy,” I assured him. All I needed was the courage to face life without him.
Despite my assurances, he worried. He told his cousin that I put on a brave front but when I was alone, I fell apart. How did he know that?
Harold never made a snap decision in his life, and his decision for comfort care came only after all the other plans failed. He kept asking me if I would be OK. I told him that he didn’t need to worry about me, just make the best decision for him.
After several days of indecision and after he had a long phone conversation with a doctor he trusted, he said, “Let’s do it.” My biggest regret is that at that moment, I didn’t ask everyone to leave so that we could have some time alone. I didn’t realize that once he was pain free, he would fall asleep until the next evening when he peacefully left this world.
I held his hand and stroked his face as he took his last breath. This time I was alone with him, and I spent the next twenty minutes playing “The Rose” on my phone and talking to him.
Everywhere I look, I see reminders of our life together. I’m not handling this as well as I should. There’s just no time limit or boundaries for grief. Being widowed once doesn’t make it any easier the second time.
Most people are lucky to find true and enduring love once, and I’ve found it twice. Their love has become a part of me, and as long as I live, they live in my heart, soul, and memories.
Copyright
© December 2024 by L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
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