Something I'm proud enough of to share.
Jam and Breath
Alice didn't quite remember when the shift from silence anticipated to silence dreaded had happened. So many years of so much noise had programmed her younger self to long for the absence of sounds; to wait expectantly for a respite from TV, stereo, voices, clanging, footsteps, telephone. Now it was much like it was those first weeks home with their first baby where the quiet produced by a deep sleep made her anxious, or a few years later when silence meant a child into mischief. But in between then and now had been several decades of internal sighs of relief when she entered the house and realized she was alone, and would wrap a soft quiet about herself and rest.
Now again the quiet made her anxious. She had become so used to him breathing audibly over the last few years, each day's intake of breath a hair more laborious, that its absence made her heart skip, waiting frozen for the next inhalation. And sometimes, on very good days when every interaction between his body and the medication worked perfectly, he would sleep deeply for brief periods, in that same soundless sleep that had brought her running to their infant children. Only now she ran to him, her speed no longer conveying the same urgency it had when it was the babies to whom she rushed, but her heart and her mind just as fearful, dreading what she might find just as intensely.
Their relationship, fiery and passionate at its inception, mellow and loving as their years together increased in number, was now home to a new intimacy driven by physical needs. She remembered with sharp pangs in her chest the hurt, ashamed look on his face the first time he needed help in the bathroom. Somehow helping him stand, tying his shoes, counting medications had all evolved without too much sense of loss, despite a lifetime of independence and strength. But as the needs became more involved, more bodily, his frustration and embarrassment increased. She remembered cradling his head to her breast, kissing his hair, trying desperately to ease his shame and reassure him that he was not diminished by needing her this new way. But she saw the words in his face as plainly as if they were written: useless, burdensome.
One of the worst fights of their marriage had occurred only a few months prior when he mentioned, trying hard to sound casual despite the fact that it was obvious to her that he had rehearsed the dialogue many times, that she should look for another partner when he was gone. Her reaction split between anger that he would think that way, and love that he could, and they argued about it furiously for some time. He choked up at the end, telling her that he stayed awake at night worrying about her being lonely. She smiled at him then, trying to tease him from his grief, gesturing down at her aged body asking who on earth would want such merchandise now? He let the tears fall freely and answered "any man worth his salt."
The children and their spouses helped as much as they could although it was their company that soothed more than any physical help they could offer. She was determined that he not suffer more humiliation by being subjected to others witnessing his debility, so between the two of them they struggled through bathing, toileting, dressing and grooming. She accepted help with housework and shopping to save her joints and muscles to be his physical support as often as he needed. Every day she helped him arrange himself in the living room to chat and visit, knowing that the interactions helped pass the hours and made him feel like less he was less work for her. She had long since choreographed the dance of the two of them walking without stumbling over oxygen tubes from the bed to a series of strategically place chairs to the final destination of the living room recliner. And she had learned over time to read how good the day would be for him in the amount of time he needed to rest in the chairs on the way down a hallway that had once been a thoughtless hop and was now a cumbersome journey.
This particular morning she woke to a bright ray of sunlight on her face, and the reward of the sounds of his breathing in the hospital bed next to their original one. She knew that he was awake by the rhythm, knew also that he would never wake her to ask for something and instead waited till she roused on her own. She had told him repeatedly to call her if he needed something, and he had repeatedly patted her hand, smiled and said "yes, dear" in a tone that clearly said he intended to do no such thing. She stood and pulled on her robe, watching as he turned his head from the window to smile at her, matching it with one of her own and kissing his cheeks softly. She helped him with his morning ablutions and walked through the quiet house to make breakfast. For some reason she had the thought that a jar of marmalade would look pretty in the morning light and rummaged in the pantry for something to toast. She discovered a package of English muffins, popped a few in the toaster and set some coffee to percolate. She knew she hadn't bought the muffins herself and concluded that their daughter must have liberalized the list she had been given for shopping that week. She sighed softly, remembering the conversation after the shopping was finished.
"Mom?" the tone was uncomfortable, and Alice felt her back tense.
"Yes, sweetheart?"
"I've been talking with the boys, and we were thinking..." again the uncomfortable tone.
"Thinking what?" Alice asked.
Her daughter cleared her throat, becoming dysfluent in anticipation of an argument, as Alice knew she always did. "That maybe...well...since Dad's becoming so hard to care for...not that he would be if he could help it...and since your back's been troubling you...not that you aren't doing a great job...and since we all still work..." her voice trailed off.
"Then what?" she asked quietly.
"That maybe Dad should go into a nursing home?"
Alice's fingers slipped on the potatoes she was peeling and she muttered as they bounced around the sink. She busied herself with rinsing the potatoes and regaining her grip on the peeler and said to herself, "They want to help, they're worried, they want to help" until she could unclench her teeth. "Not to be considered," she said firmly.
"They'll take good care of him there, Mom, and we'll help pay for it."
"I said 'no.'"
Her daughter sighed. "I know you want him here, Mom, I know he wants to be here, and you're doing an amazing job with it. But it's only a matter of time before you do something that hurts yourself, or hurts him, even though you don't think it could ever happen. And what if he gets worse? What if his breathing stops? Wouldn't he be better off somewhere where there are nurses?" Alice heard a sniffle.
Alice set the potatoes down and turned to her daughter. She was surprised for the millionth time to see a middle-aged woman attached to a voice that had remained unchanged since reaching maturity in its late teens. Alice was proud of her children, loved them with all her heart, and was especially proud of this strong woman in front of her. Her daughter had been sandwiched between two boys, grew up in a culture that Alice did not at all understand yet was determined to, and faced struggles as she reached adulthood that Alice could not have imagined when she was the same age. And here she was, this strong woman that Alice loved and respected so much, sniffling at her potato-peeling mother. She took her daughter's hands and sat her down at the table.
"Sweetheart, Dad and I have discussed this. When I can't get him up anymore, then he won't get up. We know that bedpans and sponge baths are coming soon. We know he might have an emergency. If getting an ambulance to get him to the hospital isn't enough time, then so be it, it means it's his time to go. You haven't thought of a single thing that we haven't already. We've talked about it, we've talked about it with his doctor. He's staying here." She leaned over and kissed her daughter's forehead. "Tell your brothers that I love you all, but he's staying here."
That had been this past weekend, but she hadn't told him about it. It had taken many months of discussion between them to establish that he would stay home. He had offered to go to a nursing home back when their house had first started to resemble a medical supplier's warehouse. And if she hadn't been able to feel how badly he wanted to stay in their home, how his offer was only for her benefit, how the idea of being in the hospital afforded him no real sense of security, she might have agreed. But she could feel the anxiety he hid at the idea of leaving home, and selfishly, she wanted him with her. She wanted to sleep under the same roof, hear him next to her, wake up and see him for as long as his body would allow.
She was halfway down the hall, wondering idly if she'd over-toasted the muffins, when she heard the wheezing. She overrode the impulse to throw the tray to the ground and pushed her legs hard to hurry. When she got to the bedroom he was half off the bed, clinging to the lowered rail and trying to reach the flow dial on his oxygen concentrator. She set the tray down with a thunk on a chair and flew to the concentrator so quickly that she stumbled to the floor, only barely stopping before her face banged into one of the dials. She quickly turned the knob, increasing the liters of oxygen pumping through the tube and then turned to him to help reposition it under his nose. His lips were blue and the rest of his face was dusky purple. She rubbed his shoulders as he took deep, shuddering breaths in through his nose, exhaling shakily through his mouth.
"Do you need an ambulance?" she asked.
He shook his head, grimacing at the idea even as he gasped for more air.
It took six minutes by the clock on the wall before his breathing returned to what was as close to normal as it had been for many months. Then she moved next to him, positioning her shoulder under his chest while he gripped the bedrail. She counted quietly to three and they simultaneously pushed upwards, lifting until he could turn and sit on the bed. He raised his head then, meeting her eyes for the first time since she had run into the room. And her breath caught ...Oh, there it is...she thought, as her heart leapt to her throat. She had wondered how she would know when it was almost time. Would it be a smell, or a change to the sound of his already effortful breathing? But it was neither of those, it was more subtle but just as inevitable. It was in his eyes. Those handsome, merry, sparkling eyes were deathly tired. It was as if in looking she could feel the thread in him, once a sturdy rope, thinned and frayed and now stretched so tightly that it could last only a few more weeks, maybe only days. He matched her gaze, knowing what she had seen and felt. After a few moments she broke away, distracting herself with positioning his feet and rearranging covers, blinking back tears and berating herself for her runny nose. Once she felt like she could keep her hands from shaking she turned and sat next to him on the edge of his bed. He reached for her hand and traced over her fingers softly with his own.
"Not much longer, love." he said softly.
She nodded, "Yes darling, I know."
He lifter her hand and kissed her fingers with cool lips.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He smiled a bit, "I suppose," he answered. "Are you?"
"I suppose," she whispered, trying to breathe normally. "Are you angry?" she couldn't help asking.
He shook his head delicately, careful not to dislodge the cannula giving him his oxygen. "No, not angry." He smiled again. "I'm trying hard not to be impatient."
She looked at him, puzzled. "Impatient?"
"Yes, love. I will be waiting for you. I want to wait a long time yet, but a little part of me is trying to be impatient. I'm thinking perhaps it won't feel like so long when I get there, so I will be patient in waiting for you." He smiled a bit more. "But I will be waiting."
It was too much then, her grief and her fear of being lonely for him, and she cried. She had cried so little in all these years, feeling it a pointless waste of her energy, but she could not have helped it at that moment for anything in the world. He reached for her, pulling her close to his frail chest, holding her as tightly as his arms could muster. She could feel each breath in him, rattling and banging, and she wondered how he had lasted so long.
He laughed a little, and it felt to her like making such a sound must hurt, yet he managed. "And if I like your new husband maybe you can bring him along."
She sniffed forcefully. "Don't you dare start that again now," she scolded.
He kissed the top of her head. "Alright, I won't start anything now. We'd have to wait too long to finish it. Is that marmalade?"
She looked back at the forgotten breakfast tray with its over-toasted muffins, sloshed coffee and jar of marmalade. "Yes it is," she answered.
"What a good thought. I'd like some."
She got herself up, wiped her eyes when her back was turned and picked up the tray. "I only got it because I thought it would look pretty," she admitted.
"It does. It looks beautiful. I'm sure it will look even better on toast."
"Muffins," she corrected.
"Yes, love, of course. Muffins."
He ate only two bites, but complimented her twice more on her selection of jam. And before he dozed off for his morning nap said, "Marmalade will be good again tomorrow."
Tomorrow? Yes, she could think as far as tomorrow. "Then we'll have it again."
He nodded as his eyes closed. "It'll be nice again tomorrow. The marmalade will go well with the sun."
She smiled as she settled in the chair next to him, closing her own eyes to get a bit of a rest. "Yes, darling, it will." |
