Thoughts about my ability to live in this new world where I’m practicing to be a widow rattle around in my head like stray coins clanking in the clothes dryer.
When will I, or will I ever, sleep on the other side of the bed. When will I, or will I ever, stop walking around the bed on my middle-of-the night treks to the bathroom, when I could just roll out the left side?
Will I ever sit on the other side of the kitchen table where Peter always sat?
Will I ever be able to clear the cedar closet of the suits he wore to work (once he realized he had to wear a suit to work) or the Burberry all-weather coat he never ever wore, or the cowboy boots we spent hours shopping for in Santa Fe and that were too nice to wear?
And will I ever stop being his caregiver?
The answer to all the above is, probably not. Anyway, Peter isn’t gone, he’s just removed from the life we lived together.
It just wouldn’t be right to sleep on the left side of our bed, or to change my path to the bathroom, or to sit on the opposite side of the kitchen table. And now, even though he’s in a care facility with round-the-clock coverage, his care really is still in my hands. Anyone in care or in hospital needs an advocate because the carers, the nurses, the aides can’t be everywhere, every time, all the time.
But that’s neither here nor there.
I have no choice but to be Peter’s caregiver as long as he lives—or as long as I do—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I know, if our positions were reversed, he’d take care of me. Oh, he wouldn’t bring me tea and he wouldn’t fluff my pillow, but he would make me laugh.
I’ve learned from my husband how to laugh at myself and life and him, always him.