It’s been four weeks since you had any food, yet I’m absolutely astonished by your resilience. I don’t know how you still have the strength to open your eyes.
I can’t help but assume that this is going to be a long, drawn-out decline. And I’m undecided whether this is a blessing or a curse. I can’t let you go but I hate seeing you suffer. We’re on your time now, sweetheart. I’ll take as much time as you want to give me.
How can you smile when I talk to you? I mean, I’m glad you do: it’s a sign that you’re comfortable, not in pain or distress. Despite what’s happening to you, your body failing you, you can still manage to move your lips into a slight smile. You’re not even fully conscious, yet you seem to understand what’s going on around you enough to react with a smile. At least, I like to think it’s a smile.
I smile. I smile at you, obviously. Only, mine is a weak smile. Not the full lights-up-your-face smile that you’ve always had. That you’re known for by everybody.
These days are a kind of limbo. Is it an adjustment period? Are you being this calm so we have time to process and prepare for what’s coming? That might prompt questions of spirituality. A spirituality I don’t have.
All my rationality tells me is that you’re comfortable, not in pain and not distressed. That this bastard of a disease that’s robbed you of absolutely everything is giving you an easier time at the end. It owes you that much.