Tough day, lucid night

This was the toughest day for Susan in a long time, with still lower levels of alertness, memory, strength, and stamina. I’m glad we didn’t have anywhere to go today. Our friend Gladys Halma visited this morning – Susan was barely awake when Gladys arrived at 9am. After breakfast, Gladys helped Susan play a game of solitaire, a vision therapy activity that helps her with scanning and sequencing. Later, after Susan’s shower and long afternoon nap, her mom arrived to take Austin to finish his DMV written exam. (He passed!). Helen brought us some early dinner afterward since the kids were leaving for Adam’s final choir concert of the year. Susan and I had to forego this one. After dinner it took me at least 10 minutes to convince Susan to take the 8 or so essential pills she needs morning and evening. It was hard to get Susan to concentrate on what I was saying and to respond. It upset Helen deeply to see her daughter doing so poorly. I know what it’s like to feel helpless about a situation you desperately want to change, but I can’t imagine a mother’s pain.

Somehow, Susan and I can manage to have lucid, loving conversation when we’re lying in bed at night after prayer before she goes to sleep. In the dark room with our heads touching as we hold hands and share her pillow, a bit of our old life returns. Her voice sounds the same as it always did. I can’t see her scar, short hair, or puffy face. There’s no deep dialog. We just exchange simple, caring words, so it feels the same as before she had cancer. But the fact of it is never far away. The uncertainty is a burden. I said,

I’m glad I have you. But I don’t know how long I’ll have you. (I don’t know either.) Are you scared? (No.) That’s good. Are you satisfied? (Yes. I have you.) I’m glad we have each other.