Fifteen years ago, my wife was undergoing a year long treatment for an advanced infection.
Every Friday night she’d inject herself with medicine and take a handful of pills. Saturdays and Sundays she’d be nauseous, feverish, and in pain with flu-like symptoms.
She’d start to feel better by midweek and then we’d start the cycle over the next Friday night.
This went on for 11 months.
It was brutal.
We scheduled her cycles for the weekends so that I could be available to provide whatever assistance she needed when she was bedridden. Fortunately, my work life was limited to Monday through Friday so my weekends were free.
For the first half of the year, every weekend absolutely sucked. My wife would lay in bed all day and night, barely able to function. I would rush around like a madman trying to get caught up on laundry, shopping, chores, caretaking, dog walks, etc.
She was frequently naseaus so we never went out for dinner anymore. She had no energy so going to the movies was out.
Ditto for trips, walking the dog or even light gardening.
One day, several months in, I was complaining to my friend Jim that I was at my wit’s end. I couldn’t keep up with all of the household chores, my work, and caring for my wife.
Jim had direct experience with this. Years before, he had to work, take care of 2 school age children and manage his household while taking care of his cancer stricken wife at home for an entire year. After a long and arduous year, his wife died.
Jim said, “You have to stop trying to get everything done. Some things will simply be left undone. It’s important for you to remember to be your wife’s husband, not just her caretaker.”
I asked him what I should do. He said, “Spend time with your wife and be her husband.”
That weekend I let the laundry pile up and left a bunch of chores undone. Instead I went into our darkened bedroom and lay on the bed beside my wife. When she felt up to it, we watched TV together and held hands. When she dozed, I turned off the TV and read beside her.
When she woke, we’d talk or watch more TV.
Over the next few weeks, the side effects from her treatment lessened a bit. Sometimes she was able to get out of bed and come downstairs for lunch.
In time, she was strong enough to shower and get dressed. At dinnertime, even though she often wasn’t hungry, she’d sit with me while I ate.
I began to cherish these small moments. A shared movie. Sitting and chitchatting over food. Laying in bed holding hands.
Then one Sunday, about 9 months in, I told her about a movie playing at the local theater that I wanted to see. She said, “I’m game. If you’re up to it, I’ll try to go see the movie with you.”
We went and saw the Triplets of Belleville at the Regent Square theater. It was the first time we’d been out in almost a year. It was magical.
At the end of her 11 months of treatment, my wife’s infection was gone – it never returned. The treatment unfortunately left her with a number of permanent negative side effects which affected her appetite, metabolism, taste, and overall health. (I suspect it may have had a role in her developing lymphoma a few years later and lung cancer a few years after that.)
But at the time, she was on her way to recovery. We began to eat dinner together once again. Then we were able go out for dinner and movies again. Eventually, she was able to join me on dog walks, do her gardening and go shopping.
Life returned to normal.
And I learned to appreciate right now.
- When we could sit at the kitchen table and chit chat about the day, I was grateful.
- When the sun came out after a week of gray cloudy skies, I lifted my face to it and inhaled deeply, relishing that brief moment of light and warmth.
- When we sat on the sofa eating ice cream while watching a movie, it felt almost as great as vacationing on the beach.
I have carried this lesson with me from that time 17 years ago right through today.
As my wife was dying from lung cancer in 2018, I strove to enjoy the few moments we could enjoy together – from binge watching a good Netflix series to eating takeout together to simply sitting together in the sun on the back deck.
Today, I have different moments.
- When I pet my little old doggy Snickers, I soak in the moment, fully aware she is nearing the end of her life.
- When I workout in the garage, sometimes I am almost giddy with joy at being able to move, breathe, flex and glide across the floor.
- When I am struggling swimming laps, I’ll refocus my attention on the warmth of the water, the sunshine from the open doors or the rotation and smoothness of my stroke.
When I started writing this post, it wasn’t supposed to be about my wife.
I intended it to be about a post about the Good Old Days.
I was going to write about getting my first dog, taking a road trip, picnics at the state park and ice cream at Dairy Queen.
My intention was to say that these are the good old days – right here – right now. It’s up to us whether we recognize them right now in the moment or only in hindsight, as memories from our past.
Perhaps I wrote exactly what I intended to after all.