The Slowness of Cancer
April 5, 2020
Today is a bad day for my love. His body isn't working correctly. He sleeps and wakes in a rush confused, dry mouthed, and itching. He is thin, as thin as his skeleton yet folks only see him with last year's sweaters that make him look so much larger. But his eyes, they've sunk in his head and become black and worried instead of the beautiful, smiling, hazel green brown.
I watch unable to do much other than offer water which he takes or food which he refuses. I can cover him with a blanket and turn the heat up.
Yesterday was a better day. He slept it is true, but he also was able to sit bundled up outside for a bit. And after taking medication, laughed at silly sitcoms, then ate well and was up until 11:00 PM watching a favorite show.
Perhaps this afternoon will be better. We shall see.
Life has gotten so slow here. Somehow it feels as if the outside world, due to Covid-19, has adjusted to our pace and the isolation of dying. But Covid-19 has put an entirely different anxiety into this time. No longer is it safe to go to the hospital with the reassurance and actual joy of the doctors, nurses, and even the setting, like a second home. And now, not even the hospice nurses and support crew can come out to the house. They call but they only see a tiny portion of the story. No more taking of blood pressure, of listening to his breathing or his heart, checking his color, coaxing out the truth. I see all of these. I hear his breathing get more difficult, I see the paleness of his color. I press my head against his heart at night but not too long as not to crush him. I hold onto that beating in my soul and I pray.
Today is a bad day for my love. His body isn't working correctly. He sleeps and wakes in a rush confused, dry mouthed, and itching. He is thin, as thin as his skeleton yet folks only see him with last year's sweaters that make him look so much larger. But his eyes, they've sunk in his head and become black and worried instead of the beautiful, smiling, hazel green brown.
I watch unable to do much other than offer water which he takes or food which he refuses. I can cover him with a blanket and turn the heat up.
Yesterday was a better day. He slept it is true, but he also was able to sit bundled up outside for a bit. And after taking medication, laughed at silly sitcoms, then ate well and was up until 11:00 PM watching a favorite show.
Perhaps this afternoon will be better. We shall see.
Life has gotten so slow here. Somehow it feels as if the outside world, due to Covid-19, has adjusted to our pace and the isolation of dying. But Covid-19 has put an entirely different anxiety into this time. No longer is it safe to go to the hospital with the reassurance and actual joy of the doctors, nurses, and even the setting, like a second home. And now, not even the hospice nurses and support crew can come out to the house. They call but they only see a tiny portion of the story. No more taking of blood pressure, of listening to his breathing or his heart, checking his color, coaxing out the truth. I see all of these. I hear his breathing get more difficult, I see the paleness of his color. I press my head against his heart at night but not too long as not to crush him. I hold onto that beating in my soul and I pray.
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