It’s been a while…

It’s been a while since I’ve written, and that extends across all the ways I write. My journal, my blog, letters, my book. I have been so caught up in surviving the visits to hospice every day that I haven’t taken much time for myself lately. I did, however, take time today to walk the Cape Cod Canal this afternoon after visiting with my husband, and it was well worth the drive. I’d almost forgotten about the beauty my home state offers, even with the winter approaching…

It’s been a while since I’ve felt good, both mentally and physically. I’d gotten used to walking the campus of the VA Hospital where my husband is every day after our visit, and then that freak snow storm hit the area on October 30th. A dusting was predicted. We got 6 inches here in the greater Boston area! I drove in the snow for the first time in many years and did fine. Just kept it slow. I also drove to NH to spend the weekend with family and it was nice. Even nicer? I didn’t have to drive to and from hospice for two days as my brother-in-love did all the driving. Such a relief…

It’s been a while since I’ve felt whole. A long while. We passed the one year mark for my husband’s stroke on October 30th. He had his craniotomy on Nov. 2, 2019 and it’s been more than a year since he looked like someone beat the crap out of him the day after the surgery. In the long year since he had fought so hard to recover and he did so well. Until Covid came. The forced isolation took its toll on him physically, mentally and emotionally. Spiritually he has become stronger, and the closer he gets to death, the stronger his faith becomes. I wish I could say the same. I’m broken, not strong, and when I tell people that, they’re usually surprised.

Have you ever watched someone you love more than your own life die a long, slow, agonizing death? I hope not, but if you have, than you know what I feel like. I feel like this: When our daughter estranged herself from the family and forbid us to see our grandson, I was shattered, As time went on, I began to pick up the larger pieces of my life and tried to put them back together. Light would shine through the cracks and while the light refraction’s looked different, there was still beauty. Then came the stroke, 18 months later. I was shattered into smaller pieces, and again learned to put the small pieces back together. Light again shone through the smaller pieces and larger cracks. Then came selling our home. Moving. Being banned from visiting my husband. Discharging and moving. Again. Still no visitation. Almost seven months without being allowed to touch my husband, hug him or even hold his hand. In that 7 months, the pieces of glass kept breaking. They turned to dust. Dust that cannot be put back together again. My spirit became dust. Glass dust is beautiful in its own right, but it’s impossible to keep together. I also feel like a jigsaw puzzle. Every day that I get to see my husband, for two hours, I feel like I leave another piece of the puzzle behind me when I have to leave him. I don’t even bother to look for the missing pieces. I will. Later. I AM determined to be okay. I am determined to face the storms I’m in with every broken piece of me. And, when I get to the other side of the storm on the horizon, when I get my feet under me and my mind clears from the fog of grieving, I will begin to look for the lost pieces of myself. It’s the getting from here to there that is taking a while…

I do want you all to know that I’ll continue to try to do some self-care, hence the walking of the canal today. I dream of the day I can travel to SC to see my beloved daughter and her family. I miss my grands so very much. I dream of going to Northern California to visit family and heal. I long to walk the beaches of Northeastern Florida and spend time with family there. I know that these desires will have to wait until it’s safe to travel again, but these are some of the things I will do when I can. Until then I will see my husband every time I am able and try to remember to be grateful for the time we have. He is declining every day and I pray for him to find relief from the terrible pain he lives with 24/7/365 now. He is heavily medicated for pain and anxiety, but the pain always seems to find a way to break through the morphine and fentanyl.

In closing, please remember to be kind to one another and try not to take your life for granted. Hug someone you love, pay it forward and smile. The trials of this life may seem insurmountable, but with support and love, we can all find moments of joy. Until next time, I am always thankful for you…

Cape Cod Canal Photo by Barb Enos

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