It is now 6 weeks since my husband, Cyril, died. I have spent a lot of that time deliberately alone and the memories have flooded in ... all of the time before his troubles started. I feel enveloped in his love and get this silly smile as I potter around the house.
Then in the wee small hours this morning, as I lay awake in the dark, different memories. I remembered the strokes, ambulance rides, and hospitals (so many stays).The rehab, physio... then the falls and the fits that so scared him. Needing to just hold him at the breakfast table so he wouldn't crash, or if he was walking through the house, getting him to the ground fast, then holding him till all had subsided. Then it was somehow getting him to bed (this took some planning as he was 6' 2" and I am 5' 4"... so we would spend a long time on the floor wrapped in a doona until he could help me), keeping him warm and safe while he slept the rest of the day away.
I remembered the TIA's (which he denied having) that you recognised instantly as not being a fit and would run for the necessary towels.... then back to bed again.
Then the awful onset of dementia which took him on a dreadful journey, his furious, frustrated anger when he couldn't convince me of the dangers we were facing.... so we learnt to accomodate and gentle him through those dark places.
Finally the last nine months when he suddenly could neither stand or walk and he he had to accept that everything would be done for him when he so wanted to do everything for me.
Do I miss him? Oh yes!
Do I want him back? No!
He lived his life and disability with such grace and dignity and I hope that I can live my life with just some of the same. I am happy and sustained and so fortunate that he shared a part of his life and love with me.