Many years ago, when my husband and I reconstructed our tiny bungalow and turned it into a large, four-bedroom home for our large, five-person family, we indulged in a king-sized bed. Prior to the build, our two younger children, 5 and 3 at the time, liked to pile into our queen bed in the morning, which was just a little too snuggly for all four of us. So we thought the bigger bed would make for a happier family romping place. Little did we know that by the time we moved back into our house the morning bed routine would become a relic of the past.
Never the less, we loved our large bed. We bought a gorgeous Cherrywood headboard and indulged in the space. And when my husband got sick, he took over the entire bed for the year and I slept in our old bed down the hall in what had become the guest room. His pillows and wedges and medications all needed to be close by, and he didn’t want anyone or anything touching him. As the year wore on, the indentation on his side of the bed deepened.
I woke him each morning, helped him rise from that bed, helped him get dressed on that bed. I helped him don his compression hose on that bed, tugging and pulling until I was worn out. I put him to bed each night, adjusting the wedge pillow so that it sat exactly where he wanted it to lift his legs so as to prevent blood clots. When he became diabetic I measured his blood sugar on that bed, and I kissed the top of his head each night on that bed. Once he came home from the hospital with his terminal diagnosis, we never again spent leisure time together on the bed; it was all about duty and tasks and preparing for the end of life.
As we neared the end, just a day after he made the decision to remove all life-prolonging medication, he was no longer mobile and a hospital bed had to be ordered. It was placed right next to the bed, and it allowed his aide to move him back and forth for hygiene purposes and to prevent bed sores. He died in that hospital bed less than two weeks later. I had it promptly removed.
It took me a few weeks to return to our bed, which was now my bed. As long as I stayed on my side of the bed, I was ok. For the past four years, I have slept in that bed, on my side. I enjoy my alone time in that bed. I still love the headboard. Over the past couple of years, the dog, who did not sleep in the bed for a long time, has made his way upstairs at night and finally decided that the bed looked comfortable. His blanket sits kitty corner to my head, at the foot of the side that had been my husband’s. He is sweet company, and I appreciate waking with him next to me.
Last night, long after I had washed up and snuggled into bed, the dog arrived in my room. He sniffed his side of the bed, and decided that he needed some closer attention from me. He walked around to my side and demanded a head rub. Finally, he hopped up on the bed and nestled in between my legs. I figured this was fine for a short time but that eventually I would have to move him over to his blanket. I have a hard time touching when I’m sleeping. When the time came to move him, he looked so snuggly and cute that I didn’t have the heart to push him over. So I moved my pillows over to the other side, figuring I would sleep there.
It was a bad night. I kept moving around, trying to feel the ghost of my husband’s indentation, long disappeared. I remained half-awake much of the night, sensing a presence. I had bad dreams. I tossed and turned and woke for water several times, which was now very far away on my nightstand. The dog remained still, keeping his resting place at the foot of my side of the bed. I couldn’t wait for the morning light.
It was the first time I had touched that side of the bed, aside from changing sheets and making the bed each morning, since my husband died. I didn’t like it.
I have friends whose husbands also have died from glioblastoma who have replaced their beds or moved entirely. I didn’t think I needed to do that, since my side of the bed always seemed to work fine for me. But after last night, I may need to reconsider. I have a new life; I think it may be time for a new bed.
I rarely wake up on the wrong side of the bed – I’m a happy morning person. I like rising with the light, getting up and out of bed quickly and starting my day. But sleeping on the wrong side last night has cast a shadow on the day that can’t be easily shifted. It’s a reminder to me of the spirit that still lingers in this space that once housed an intact entity, now a splintered unit that continues to pick up shards among the rubble.
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