Pressing my forehead to the cold hospital window, I watch the tears falling from the sky, as if God is trying to help me “let go”. If only my tears could fall that easily. I could get that lump out of my heart. But it persists. My husband sleeps; the medicine is working. I let my breath out in one big sigh.
When your loved one suffers from a terminal illness, it is terminal. That’s the rub. And at some point, the reality of that sets in. And the other thing that sets in is the not knowing. (See my previous post: Meet my new friend: “I dunno”)
So even for those that think they’ve mastered the art of caregiving there comes a day when it slaps you in the face. No matter how good you are at the organizing, the cleaning, the meals, the love, the jokes, the comforting, the help with grooming, you are not going to make this any better. It’s still terminal. And your patient continues to decline. Your wonderful caregiving is not a cure. There are no classes for this. And so, you realize you must keep going.
My husband was discharged from the hospital today, having diverted an emergency, and is at home once again. Hospice has been called and they will help us on this path. Thank God for these wonderful people.
I went to the store and bought eight different flavored drinks, to see which one might entice his appetite. And that’s what you do. Unconditionally.