How am I?

 I still feel unreal as if this is a bad dream, a preparation for the future but not now. Thoughts of Rob keep invading my head. Good ones and not so good ones… and I will not deify him. Most of the time but not all the time, he was easy to live with. I’m sure he’d say the same of me. Once upon a time, I asked him why he loved me and he said because you are never boring. I took that as a great compliment. 

Recently, we were on a plane together and we both liked aisle seats so we sat across from each other. I was watching some stupid comedy and laughed outloud and then realized where I was and covered my mouth. Rob looked over at me. Later, he told me that, when I laughed, he was overcome with love for me. He thought that’s my wife. I loved him for telling me. So many memories. We had a good life together on the whole. And now his ashes are in a cylinder and I hate it… fuck, fuck, fuck… There is a line in a poem by Irish writer, Paula Meehan - “I’d like to leave you in love’s blindness… never mentions how I stumble into the day,/ fucked up, penniless, on the verge of whining/ at my lot.” 

I feel fragile. Of course, I do. I am managing to clean up papers, sort through his pills and ointments - he had a remedy for every small and large ailment - and take care of legalities. The car is now just my car. I hate that I am erasing him, tidying up his space… 

I cannot bear the pain...

 

As Rob lay in his hospital bed, he gave many signs that he knew his family were standing guard. He squeezed his sons' hands, he pulled at his daughter's hair, and one morning when he arrived in Albi, free of needles and tubes, he reached his arm up, drew Yvonne's face to his and kissed her on the lips. 

This poem is by the Canadian poet, Alden Nolan, from a small town in New Brunswick, like Rob:

This is What I Wanted to Sign Off With

You know what I’m
like when I`m sick: I’d sooner
curse than cry. And people don’t often
know what they’re saying in the end.
Or I could die in my sleep.

So I’ll say it now. Here it is.
Don’t pay any attention
if I don’t get it right
when it is for real. Blame that
on terror and pain
or the stuff they’re shooting
into my veins. This is what I wanted to
sign off with. Bend
closer, listen, I love you.

Au revoir, my love

Brendan will read this for me at the Crematorium. I want to go but I cannot. The last month and a half have worn me down. I would dissolve and I selfishly do not want to share my grief for this man with whom I've shared around 55 years, a man who drove me round the bend and yet is the love of my life, a sound man. 

https://vimeo.com/836608420/69bdf09120

Yesterday/All my troubles seemed so far away

Yesterday, Brendan, Michael, Gillian and I were told to wait in the family room while two nurses removed Rob's respirator - a clear tube leading to his lungs with some sort of bulbous attachment deep down his throat. We waited and waited and waited some more. Finally the nurse came for us and we followed her into Rob's room. He was in a near sitting position,  mouth open, his chest blessedly moving in and out! "He has to cough now," one nurse said. We all chanted "Cough, Rob. Cough" and showed him how.  Finally, finally, he coughed loud and clear. We applauded! In the evening, we toasted him with champagne. 

The pneumonia and sepsis have delayed Rob's healing. I am scared. He most often has a vacant look on his face. His eyes look through me. One day at a time. 

June 5, 2023

 I am finding it more and more difficult to write about Rob's trauma. At the end of May, he was sitting in a chair - the first time since his accident - and was beginning to communicate his discomfort and desire. I threw a sponge ball at him and he caught it and threw it back to me at least a dozen times with a pure Rob distainful expression. "Why are we playing this childish game?" 

And then, at the beginning of June, the hospital called. They had taken Rob to intensive care as he was having difficulty breathing. He had a pulmonary infection and his blood pressure was low. When I went in the next day, they explained that they had induced a coma and inserted a respirator, a food tube up his nose, and a number of thin clear tubes disappearing under the sheet. The doctor said Rob had pneumonia that led to sepsis. He looked frozen, grey, almost dead. The following day, he had more colour and the doctor said that he was responding well to the antibiotics. They were slowly bringing him out of the coma and reducing the level of the respirator to make sure he could breathe without it. He was. 

Bill told me that we sensibly could have a "guarded optimism" that Rob would return "whole". We cling to this but it is becoming more and more unlikely. 

Yesterday, we were told that the longer the respirator aided Rob's breathing, the less likely he would be able to breathe on his own, and the longer it would take him to recover: it must be removed as soon as possible. There are two possible outcomes. First, ideally, he would be able to breathe and return to the rehabilitation floor. They noted this is unlikely and today they added that he could catch pneumonia again. Second, his breathing would be too slow to support himself. They'd do everything to ease the pain but would not resusitate. He is too old. 

Michael is with me, Brendan flew in two days ago, and Gill arrived last night with Derek and Wilder. Tonight Jane and Sebastian fly in.

💕