Being a care-giver …
My husband has been in long-term care for three years. I am often asked what that has meant for me.
It has meant excruciating loneliness.
The unremitting recognition of losses to come.
Hard-won acceptance that I don’t have a life without him. Along with the realization that I lack the energy, emotional and physical, to make one.
It has meant learning to live, one phone call at a time. One visit at a time.
Consoling him when, as often, he sees just how limited he is. And cries for the man he used to be.
Crying with and for him.
Helping him accept the fact that he can never ever come home again. Something he will never accept.
Accepting that fact myself.
Seeing friendships wither. Having so little time and energy to give to anyone other than him.
Missing “dailyness”. There is no longer anyone with whom I can share: a meal, an article in the newspaper, a t.v. show, my bed. Yes, that too.
Giving our beloved cat away, shortly after Karl had his stroke. She couldn’t handle his absence either. Cried and fouled. Fouled and cried. And I had nothing left with which to console her.
Cursing fate which gave me four abusive families, all of whom I divorced. This has left me with no-one, other than Karl.
Living, loving, sleeping, caring alone. Always alone. Fearing that this is the way I’ll die.
Sorry all for the downer. Karl's home has been in quarantine for the past two weeks. No-one in or out. And I've had a preview of life without him.
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