Wednesday, March 7, 2012


3/5/12 Confession: an open acknowledgement of feelings; something admitted or disclosed

T**  hardly slept Thursday night, so he was plastered to the bed Friday morning. When he finally did wake up, he was feeling ill, could barely get to the bathroom, and had to be moved from his bedroom in the wheelchair. I rarely use it inside the house, but I could not communicate with him on what he needed to do, and even if he could have understood, I don’t think he could have walked.

There were big tornado warnings, so I cleared the closet under the stairs and made him a pallet in there.  Because of his confusion, I’m not sure he understood why he was in the closet, nor was he able to position himself in anyway which would have kept him safe or allowed me to comfortably get myself in there when the warnings hit. 

In the middle of all this, because of his stomach upset, I had to move him quickly to the bathroom in the wheelchair. Because we were hurrying, his hand got caught in the chair…and he was not able to communicate it to me for a little bit, so his hand got mashed with a little cut on his finger. Then I had to get him to stand to get his hand out of the wheelchair.  Even as I write, I can see and feel  the absurdly comical nature of this situation. I was trying to get his feet on the foot rests and get him to the bathroom before a bad accident, and he was in pain and stuck and I could not understand. I felt really badly, but still rushed getting on to the toilet as quickly as possible – once his hand was freed.  I won’t say a lot more, but let it be enough for anyone reading to know that I keep gloves, wipes, toilet paper, paper towels, 409 and pine sol nearby, and I think I used each of those! This one of those times when the hysterical laughter mentioned earlier might have bubbled up.

We hit the “3rd time’s the charm” that day in bathroom drama.  This was the first day in a long time that I almost cried. I don’t cry anymore – I can’t. I think I would feel better if I could experience that face-wetting, nose-running, can’t-catch-your breath, soul-cleansing  weeping.  But, even though the cry is in me someplace, it won’t materialize anymore. Maybe it’s the medicine….

By the end of the day,  I was physically and emotionally  exhausted. I could barely think or put one foot in front of the other.  I didn’t even want to think.  As soon as I could, I crawled in bed – knowing I would be at work by 8am on the next day. I had not made it to the grocery.

On Saturday, I began to feel ill myself.  Being the devoted worker I am, I stayed the day, (until 6:30pm) then picked up T**, and got home with chills, nausea, and fever. I had caught the bug myself.   Sunday, I didn’t want to call Steph – I knew they needed family time –  So, I spent the day in bed, getting up only to make something for T** to eat or drink.  This is when his kind nature is still such a blessing. While I slept and groaned with my own discomfort, he did not complain, just watched TV lying on the other side of the bed.  I guess this is what 45 years together lends a couple.

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