Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Love Letters

Jenny here.

2 years ago today I watched Wil break down in tears at the news of his failure to graft. Last night I knew what today marked. 

Even so, as I opened my TimeHop, still in bed, the mix of news struck me for today: getting my Civic 3 years ago, celebrating Violet's birthday last year, and the link to my blog entry about the news of the graft. 

I don't often reread the blogs, honestly. Because they take me right back there and I remember, in almost real time, the overwhelming nature of it all. Sometimes, the Jenny of then, really makes the Jenny of now still cry. 

This life. What a wild ride. 

Contrast. 2 days ago shopping with Wil. His first new shoes since before cancer. His feet, so tender and swollen from med side effects and his neuropathy.  Still. The kind assistant manager, on the floor, helping him ease into new shoes. 

His smile says it all. 



Him. Still concerned about me and us. "They are expensive. I shouldn't get them."  Yes, Wil. You should. Yes. We aren't still living to NOT be living and getting new shoes. 

But 2 years ago he was equally concerned about everyone but him. Some things are just constants. 


So I read the blog. I cry. I'm stunned. He is still here. I read it to him. A blog he had never heard because he also doesn't go back to those dark corners often. Most of them, he has never read. And as I read aloud, I remember how important writing was to me then. And how I just can't seem to sit and write now even though I'd love to do so. 

I guess this part of things seems more personal and private?  No, I'm not sure that is truth. I was never more vulnerable. What was different was I didn't have him 2 years ago. His body, beaten, bruised, he was barely there because he was held together by meds and blood products, too nauseated to eat, to tired to talk...

I wanted to tell him so many things then. Yet I knew he would feel more guilt and shame and regret if I told him how scared I was that he'd die. I. KNEW. He would take all my grief and desperation as his failure. Just like he did the graft.  I couldn't give him that to hold. 

This is the story of the caregiver. Pushing your feelings aside and saying "I'm
Here. I'm not backing down. I've got this.  And I've got you."  

As you disappear yourself. 


It's worth it. I'd never change it. I see myself differently. I embody a new woman who no longer needs as much. Who values real more than ever. Who doesn't apologize for being herself anymore. It has come at costs and pain. I won't let her down by shrinking into shoulds or relationships that aren't healthy. I love her more than that now. 

See the caregivers. Hold them when they say they are OK. Bother them when you feel your most uncomfortable. Because they are holding it all to hold the hand of their person. 

Today, this summer...2016. I'm
Not writing as much and can't. Instead, I'm living out our love story in real time. I'm living out my grief through growing pains of living this new life. 

Two years ago, those blog entries. They were my love letters to Wil. They were things I couldn't say out loud or in room 813. The things I knew I wanted him to hear, if he lived, but couldn't burden him with. And here we are. Day +712.  Today I read him that love letter. And we cried. And then ate eggs, bacon, toast, and drank an extra cup of coffee.  Unpacked a few more boxes. Walked the dogs. Paid bills. 

We wrote a living love letter, together this time, through tiny normals. 

We lived. 

Much love.