The Last Great Act

My last great act as a caregiver has come to an end. My husband died on December 6th. The last four months had been quite the ride and the last two years increasingly intense. It was the time in life when you begin to notice the “no longer able” to perform things.

They are subtle at first. Taking longer to dress. Not remembering to do certain things. You watch and allow the extra time or the “mistakes” which are not really mistakes, but “unables.” Slowly you find your handing him the clothes and making sure they are right side out. Then without realizing it you are putting the clothes on for him and taking them off at night. You are putting the toothpaste on the toothbrush and combing his hair.

Then the walking becomes worse, and you are holding his arm and then moving to a walker and finally a wheelchair on the night he agrees that it will be too hard to walk. And your heart breaks a little bit, but you are grateful you can transfer him and that you picked up that wheelchair when you saw it at the thrift shop. You know, “just in case,” when you knew that just in case was not far off.

He was 93. Just after he turned 90, he was hiking around England, Scotland and Ireland for three weeks. Managing to get up the 74 stairs to the apartment you had rented that did not have an elevator with his usual good spirits – “Have you paid for the place? I can do that babe.” He was a trooper.

Then the pandemic hit and that was what would be the turning point.  Yes, we both had Covid in December 2020, but he only slept for three days and was fine. It was no longer being able to go out with me to the store or a restaurant. He did not understand why you had to wear a mask and he hated it, so he sat at home. My grandmother told me at the age of 103 that she counted off steps in the nursing home every day because if your legs go, you are never getting out.

My husband was a man who never cared about what happened in the past, only looking forward to the next opportunity or adventure.  The pandemic took that away and with it broke his spirit just enough to matter. I was lucky though; his core personality was kind and gentle and twinkly and easy. He would light up every time you presented him with an ice cream bar or some chocolate. His care and needs were intense, but he moved lightly through it all.

It is strange to only be responsible for me. I am still listening for him and anticipating his needs, but this will soon pass, and I will find out what it means to not be a caregiver.  The thought is odd and exciting.