It’s been a rough summer. Illness has kept my husband, and by extension, me, mostly indoors, at first in a hospital for a month, and now at home, more or less immobilized by the unfortunate trifecta of shoulder surgery, blood clots and cancer.
And yet there is joy. There are our children, who are the loves of our lives, and their boisterous presence keeps our souls buoyed. There are our friends who have been stalwart and true, spending untold hours in the hospital with us, giving me breaks from the initial 24-hour caregiving I encountered when my husband was released from the hospital, to the point of sleeping on our kitchen floor to spot him through the night so that I could get one night’s good rest up in our bed, and helping me think through things like insurance, financial planning, home health care, and a host of the other difficult issues one must address when faced with life-threatening illness.
There are also the little life pleasures. Retiring the beaten up old omelet pan, the one that took huge amounts of elbow grease to scrub clean each morning. Now that my husband eats egg almost every day, I needed that pan every morning. So I took a deep, guilty breath, threw out the worn-out pan and bought a brand spanking new, fully stick free, omelet pan. Now, every time I use it, a little happy sigh escapes my lips, and I can’t quite believe my good fortune in having such a wonderful, hassle-free kitchen tool.
And then there’s the deep-seated joy, the joy that you didn’t even know could exist. The joy that shows up one day in the guise of your husband’s oldest friend in the world, who called us several weeks ago, upon hearing the bad health news, and told me us was coming. Didn’t matter that he had work to do, or a family to take care of himself. He was coming.
He arrived on Sunday night, with another long-time friend who happened to be in town for business. And the two of them barnstormed our house, commandeering my husband’s time and focus and attention in a way that nothing has in the past two-plus months. The three of them sat and talked. And talked. And talked. And laughed, and cried, and ate up the very fact that this terrible thing had brought them together and weren’t they lucky that they had the chance to be together, even in the midst of sadness.
My daughter and I went out to pick up dinner from the local Vietnamese shop, and as we left, I could hear them comparing favorite NBA teams and players from their childhood. Best team. Best player. Best stats. Best experience watching a game. All toss-ups. All resulting in laughter and smiles and friendly ribbing and competition. It reminded me of that iconic scene in “The Way We Were” when Robert Redford, aka Hubbell Gardner, floated aimlessly in a sailboat with J.J., his best friend from college days, and in a moment of remorse and refection about their lives, played the “best” game -- best year, best moment, best girl (Katie, of course.) A paean to what could have been.
And then my husband’s friend spent the whole next day with us, accompanying us to the treatment appointment and staying for lunch and the afternoon and then dinner. The two never stopped talking. When he finally had to leave, my husband scooped his friend in his arms, and with tears streaming down his face, thanked him for being such a good friend for so many years. They embraced with a joy and a force that could only result from 40+ years of true friendship.
I, too, had thanked both of my husband’s friends the night before. And they looked at me, and as if I had almost insulted them, said there is no need for thanks. It’s what we do, they said.
This week, I am experiencing joy as well. My beloved sister, wanting to help even from afar, brought my children up to her vacation home in Vermont, and is giving them a fabulous vacation, complete with water sports, golfing, and, I believe, ice cream. In the midst of my caretaking duties, it has been hard to spend much energy supporting my kids, other than their immediate needs, and with our own summer vacation plans scuttled, it was a true gift for her to bring them on vacation. And from the texts, photos and videos coming my way, it looks like they’re having a wonderful time.
It’s what we do.
And finally, one of my dearest friends, who lives in Los Angeles, and has plenty of caretaking duties of her own to manage, between two children, one of whom has autism, and an elderly father who wound up in the hospital two days ago, told me several weeks ago that she was coming to stay with us and be my personal assistant. I told her absolutely not, unless something else was bringing her to Washington. She ignored me, got on a plane, and is here now giving me space to breathe, and go to work, to manage errands, and exercise, and actually leave the house for more than 10-minute stretches. It is a gift beyond gifts.
And it is, I guess, what we do.
Dear dear Karen, I've been reading your posts like they are food and am so grateful for your updates and the vivid picture of your days. Sending love.
Posted by: Gina Fiedel | 08/05/2015 at 04:10 PM