Grabbing my shoes from
the car where I left them, I sat down to put them on so I could go for a walk. Where
am I? Where am I going? What am I going to do? The thoughts caused the emotions
to well up from inside of me and stick in my throat as my eyes “began to leak,”
a description used by my “bud” for crying. As you well know, men don’t cry. Two weeks ago tonight—has it already been two weeks? —I sat watching one who had become a best friend, my partner of six years, die. The nurses at the hospice house prepared for the event as best they could—explaining the stages and the process of dying. But then there was the reality of the final day, hour, minute…and breath.
I’ve been watching the demise of this warrior for several years--from the time he was given the diagnosis of a very rare form of bone marrow cancer with “no treatment and no cure.” I watched with an eagle eye as blood tests revealed the need for transfusions as his hemoglobin count was diminished. I watched as anemia, a result of the condition, took over his once-strong, robust body, robbing him of stamina, energy, and strength. I watched as he was unable to do the things he most enjoyed in life—a casino trip, hunting, or working in his vegetable garden.
Ironically, it wasn’t that cancer that took him out, but a routine surgery to remove a kidney overtaken by cancer. I overheard two seasoned doctors discussing the ensuing complications outside his hospital room: “This is the worst recovery I’ve ever seen.”
After two surgeries and twenty-six days in the hospital, he made the decision to enter hospice. Eight days later my friend and partner passed peacefully in the middle of the night.
I was at the hospital and hospice every day—my choice. I wouldn’t have had it any other way. It became my routine and my way of life.
Then there was preparation for a funeral—my role was to write the obituary and eulogy. The service was three days ago. My friend’s body is at rest.
And now what? The unanswered questions pushed me out the door to walk in the fresh air. I needed time alone to think.
The little boy’s dad was hosing off a plastic children’s table as I walked by. Bright-eyed and smiling, he waved at me and said, “Hi. What’s your name?” I checked with the dad out of the corner of my eye to see if he was comfortable with the little guy engaging with a stranger.
“Hi. My name is Ladonna.” His face indicated it wasn’t a name he was familiar with. “That’s kind of a big name, isn’t it? What is your name?”
“Juan.” His name was Juan.
“How old are you? Are you four?” I asked, checking with Dad. Juan tried to tell me he was six but was quickly corrected. By then I was smiling.
I asked him if he was going to school and what he was going to learn. “To read? To do math?”
“To play with toys.” I laughed.
As I continued walking, I had to smile. My partner always made fun of me when I went out and about, as I came back with tales of conversations with people I do not know and have never met before. “Did you make any new friends today?” he would ask.
“Yes, I did. His name is Juan."
I have no definitive answers to my questions, but I came back from my walk with some general ones.
Where am I? I am right here, right now—at the moment in a reasonably sane state of mind. 😊
Where am I going? I cannot begin to answer that, but I am following the lead of the One in charge of my life. He has never failed me.
What am I going to do? I am going to live my life—every single day of it. That is what my partner would want. That is what I was created to do. There are plenty more new friends like Juan waiting for me.
My time as caregiver was brief compared to many others. Children, spouses, friends, and any others who selflessly give of themselves have my utmost respect. They are the silent, often overlooked heroes as they support and care for their loved ones.
May God richly bless you. And may you be given the answers to those questions as well when you come to the end of your role as caregiver.