Monday, March 19, 2007
Man of My Dreams
Jim had a full contingent of visitors on Saturday, so I took the day off to rest. I got a haircut and went back home with intentions of catching up on housework. On the way back into the building, I encountered one of my neighbors, who hails from a former Soviet bloc country.
"I heard your husband is not feeling well?"
"He's in the hospital, as a matter of fact."
"I have injection, from Russia," she said, sotto voce. "A friend of my mother was given three weeks, she take injection, she live three more of years."
"Uh, thanks, really, but he can't have anything unless it's through the hospital."
"Yes, America has too much of lawsuits. In Russia these things are more free."
I headed up the stairs. I was so tired that instead of vacuuming, I lay down to take a nap for the next four hours.
In one of my dreams, Jim and I were like the couple in the new series, "The Riches," except instead of living in a rich person's house, we were living in a rich person's SUV. Jim was healthy and active in this dream, and we were traveling.
When I woke up, I realized that the Jim in the dream hadn't been around for at least three years, and that even a Russian miracle injection wouldn't be able to bring him back.
That's why people who haven't seen him in a while, or who were in denial about how bad the disease was getting, are shocked to see him now. And several people have told me they can't believe how composed I am. I couldn't believe it either, and I was sure that I was repressing some sort of nervous breakdown. But when you live with somebody with a slow-killing illness, you're grieving all along. You grieve by inches.
So I'm doing my best to enjoy the Jim that's still around, now that somebody else is taking care of the physical stuff. In between deciphering garbled conversations and phone messages from him, going back and forth to the north Bronx, taking care of my job, and dealing with the relative who's saying "that place" as if I've consigned my husband to some Dickensian hell-hole.
I feel guilty that my body is telling me it's relieved and hungry for sleep. I have to tell my mind to listen to it; it knows what it's talking about. This is the eye of the storm.
"I heard your husband is not feeling well?"
"He's in the hospital, as a matter of fact."
"I have injection, from Russia," she said, sotto voce. "A friend of my mother was given three weeks, she take injection, she live three more of years."
"Uh, thanks, really, but he can't have anything unless it's through the hospital."
"Yes, America has too much of lawsuits. In Russia these things are more free."
I headed up the stairs. I was so tired that instead of vacuuming, I lay down to take a nap for the next four hours.
In one of my dreams, Jim and I were like the couple in the new series, "The Riches," except instead of living in a rich person's house, we were living in a rich person's SUV. Jim was healthy and active in this dream, and we were traveling.
When I woke up, I realized that the Jim in the dream hadn't been around for at least three years, and that even a Russian miracle injection wouldn't be able to bring him back.
That's why people who haven't seen him in a while, or who were in denial about how bad the disease was getting, are shocked to see him now. And several people have told me they can't believe how composed I am. I couldn't believe it either, and I was sure that I was repressing some sort of nervous breakdown. But when you live with somebody with a slow-killing illness, you're grieving all along. You grieve by inches.
So I'm doing my best to enjoy the Jim that's still around, now that somebody else is taking care of the physical stuff. In between deciphering garbled conversations and phone messages from him, going back and forth to the north Bronx, taking care of my job, and dealing with the relative who's saying "that place" as if I've consigned my husband to some Dickensian hell-hole.
I feel guilty that my body is telling me it's relieved and hungry for sleep. I have to tell my mind to listen to it; it knows what it's talking about. This is the eye of the storm.
Comments:
<< Home
Here's hoping your rest is restorative, and that the SUV of your dreams is waiting for you downstairs...
...and dealing with the relative who's saying "that place" as if I've consigned my husband to some Dickensian hell-hole.
There's always a fly in the ointment(that wasn't your worst word on Amba's post, was it? LOL). I think you are wise to have your husband somewhere that folks can visit and he can get 24/7 care that won't necessarily take every ounce of spare energy from you. I had a very devoted husband, much older than my Aunt, who finally had to put her in a home because his health and age were not up to the care of her anymore. She was in the final stages of Alzheimers. His brother always talked trash about my Uncle for doing this- HE'D never stoop so low. Until HIS wife became a ~chore~ and then he immediately changed his tune.
We do the best we know how.
I would think that the grieving by inches, as you say- is sapping so much already. Maybe one can be hidden by the other- caretaking to ~hide~ the pain of loss. I don't know, and someday i will and that thought is... really scary to ponder upon. So, i don't.
There's always a fly in the ointment(that wasn't your worst word on Amba's post, was it? LOL). I think you are wise to have your husband somewhere that folks can visit and he can get 24/7 care that won't necessarily take every ounce of spare energy from you. I had a very devoted husband, much older than my Aunt, who finally had to put her in a home because his health and age were not up to the care of her anymore. She was in the final stages of Alzheimers. His brother always talked trash about my Uncle for doing this- HE'D never stoop so low. Until HIS wife became a ~chore~ and then he immediately changed his tune.
We do the best we know how.
I would think that the grieving by inches, as you say- is sapping so much already. Maybe one can be hidden by the other- caretaking to ~hide~ the pain of loss. I don't know, and someday i will and that thought is... really scary to ponder upon. So, i don't.
# posted by 
: 6:14 PM
: 6:14 PM
OK-- the gentleman wasn't MY husband- he was my Uncle. But, he was super devoted in love and care of her...
# posted by : 6:17 PM
: 6:17 PM
I would think that the grieving by inches, as you say- is sapping so much already. Maybe one can be hidden by the other- caretaking to ~hide~ the pain of loss.
I've been thinking about that a lot myself lately.
Post a Comment
I've been thinking about that a lot myself lately.
<< Home
