It’s a privilege (#1309)

Topics/tags: Autobiographical, Michelle

As many of you know, I’m spending most of my days and nights in the hospital with Michelle. But I’m not sure that all of you understand what that means. So I thought I’d take a stab at explaining.

To some, it seems to sounds like a burden. People ask me, Are you still spending eighteen to twenty-two hours each day with Michelle? Or they say, I don’t know how you can sit with her so long.

But it’s not a burden, or at least not much of one. Getting to spend large amounts of time with my wife is a privilege. I get to be there when she needs me to help, whether it’s calling a nurse, or helping her drink some water, or rearranging her sheets. And since Michelle’s love language (or received love language) is acts of service, I know she feels my love. I expect she also feels my love just from my physical presence, sitting beside her.

And I receive something care. While she’s not always able to communicate, and her ability to communicate decreases as time goes on, I still feel the love coming from her, and I cherish her physical presence. I’m glad I can reach over and hold her hand or arm or kiss her head.

That’s not to say it’s always easy. When she could still speak, her voice was often soft and sometimes garbled, and I couldn’t understand. I found it incredibly frustrating to know that my wife needs or wants something, and I can’t help. Unfortunately, I seemed (seem?) to be among the worst at understanding what she said. Some things no one could understand. But many things someone could understand, just not me.

Now, when she’s awake, she often seems to be in pain. And the painkillers don’t always seem to do their job sufficiently well. I wish I could make her pain-free, but I can’t.

There’s also my pain of not being able to fulfill her requests. There were times she asked to go home, even though she knew (consciously or subconsciously) that she couldn’t. If the caregivers can’t safely move you to a chair, we can’t get you home. Having to explain that to her was hard.

But my intent is not to write about the difficult parts. I must acknowledge them, but I can also dismiss them. Compared to the joy of spending time with the woman I love, even if it’s just quiet time, sitting next to her bed, these things fade. Tme together is an amazing privilege. Knowing that, on occasion, I can make her remaining life better is an even greater privilege. We collaborated to make sure she gets dressed in real clothes each day. She couldn’t say that she appreciated it, but I know that she does. I’ve started playing her some of our favorite albums; she seems calmer with them on. Even putting the cross back in her hands.

Or reading aloud. I tried to read Uncle Shelby’s ABZ Book to her since it plays a central role in our life together but she wasn’t interested in that. I read and recited Moo, Baa, La La La since it was a favorite to read to our kids. However, that’s quick. So I’ve been reading Red Earth Nation to her a paragraph or two at a time; I know she would have read it if she could.

I don’t understand. I wish I could help. No, you can’t do that. I wish I didn’t have to say those things. But seeing her face calm when I hold her, or watching her fall asleep as I read, or just seeing her serene. I get time feeling our love connect us. There is no greater privilege.

I so appreciate all the people who have given me this privilege. My sons, who are taking care of so many things. The caregivers at the hospital, who do the hard work of healthcare and personal care. Our friends who make sure that we are doing okay and keep the kinds and me fed. My colleagues who are covering the parts of my work that I can’t do. My job, which allows me to do most of my work remotely. Those who visit and bring both of us joy from their presence and conversation. Others I’ve certainly forgotten to mention. And all the people who send prayers, love, good thoughts, notes, and more. I am privileged to be connected to all of you. We are privileged.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Version 1.0 of 2024-10-02.