Part Two: Verbs in Past Tense
On loving her, on losing her
Every morning, I walk quietly to her bedroom, the sunlight inching its way towards her face, the oxygen machine singing its weary hymn, the pill bottles multiplying on the bedside table. I stand in the doorway nervously, studying her chest, hoping this isn’t The Day I no longer see it rise and rest, rise and rest.
She inhales, I exhale.
My heart shouts: another day together! Then I let her sleep and plague myself with a thousand other worries.
Every night, I hug her delicate body, and we gently scratch each other’s backs. She says, “Love you, sweetie,” and I sleep terribly wondering if my heart might have to shout in a different way tomorrow.
Everything we do in between is determined by pain—a threshold that’s extraordinarily high, but rarely consistent. Some days, we venture outside, visit with friends, do the NYT crossword, eat something wonderful. And some days, out of necessity, we both lie perfectly still and try not to cry. As a caregiver, I do everything I can to make her feel safe and comfortable and unburdened — like she did for me my entire life—with the cruel exception of not having the ability to turn back time.
