Six months ago i took Don in to live at the care home. Seems like no time and yet also it seems i have been living in this limbo forever. Still waiting, somehow, for him to come home.
Oh, I know he never will. I know he does not even remember this house we lived in for 9 years. Didn’t really remember it the last year or two while he lived here.
Often when he realises i have come, he takes my face in his hands and delicately, gently, slowly kisses me. And then nods.
Yesterday he was in good spirits but we went to a concert which didn’t suit, and as we left he was very confused and asked, “Have you got a gun?” Frightened too I guess. He never talked about guns in our real life.
A different kind of music quickly got him dancing, several of the ladies eyeing him appreciatively. As he danced, he leaned forward and asked, grinning, “Is that you?”
And as for me…I still wish all this was just a bad dream but I am finding moments, hours, days, of calm when I enjoy my work or a long natter with my dear friends.
I find I have reverted to what I discovered decades ago after a short bout with cancer, when I learned to “just sit.” I slip into that space at any moment, intense being, suspended in time.
I also still have days when I can do nothing, and crawl back into bed for long delicious naps. It is probably a balance between grief and depression, and self-indulgence.
I don’t know what I’m doing and don’t really care where I’m going. I don’t have the ready joy that used to possess me. But at the very bottom, beneath the tears, there is a quiet peace that speaks to me.