One Christmas, my daughter-in-law gave Gene and me our own pens. Before we could ask why, she grinned and said, “I’m tired of hearing “MINE!” from you. We laughed because we knew just what this sibling among seven meant.
As only children, Gene and I never had to share anything with siblings or complain “he’s bothering me!” Having old-school parents, they left us to our own devices and friends if we stayed out of trouble and didn’t kill ourselves. And when alone, we learned to pursue our own interests.
When I studied growth and development, I learned about parallel play. Two children are together, but each is involved in his own activity. They are not interacting, but enjoy being with each other. That’s not to say they never interact, but mostly tool along on their own.
Gene had his interests and I had mine. They intersected when he joined me, or I joined him, in a social event related to one of our interest groups. But we generally encouraged each other in our separate pursuits.
You need that this minute?
As his illness stole his independence, Gene needed help to pursue his interests, which to be honest, did not thrill me. For the life of me, I could not get excited about an N scale train layout. Bored, my mind wandered all over the place, but I helped because I wanted him to enjoy what he could.
In time, I learned to hold my appointments loosely as well. At the last minute, he could say, “I don’t feel good,” and my plans would pop like a balloon stuck with a pin. That did not thrill me, either. I worried what “not feeling good” may portend, and angry that my schedule suddenly changed.
At first I struggled to bury my frustration, and over time, these incidents bothered me less. People could say only children can be selfish, but we really are not. We’re very good at sharing and pitching in. For me, my frustration grew from loss of control over my time since I’m goal oriented. I write “to-do” lists and sometimes put the tasks on a time schedule to play beat-the -clock.
Eventually, my husband had to come first in all things. Full stop. I grew so used to foiled plans, scaled down goals, that my sense of frustration faded.
Where’s God in this mess?
As I prayed for wisdom and patience, I realized God had formed an elegant plan for our lives. He knew Gene would need a caregiver/nurse, and that explains the bizarre story of how we met. God also knew that I could be inpatient and a somewhat spoiled “only,” so he killed two birds with one stone.
Perhaps God used my dear husband’s care needs to chisel away at my selfishness. I thought, though, if that was God’s plan, my poor husband will need to live to be 100 before I get where God wants me. Thankfully, in his mercy, he declared, “good enough,” at the perfect time.
Eureka!
Is it possible that caregivers, like Job, endure losses to fulfill godly purposes we barely grasp? There may be a method to this world’s trials we do not understand in this life. I would guess when we move on to the eternal, we’ll say, “Of course! Why didn’t I see that”?
When my Bob was diagnosed with Stage IV pancreatic cancer six years ago this past weekend, I felt like the proverbial “shoe had dropped”. Of course this was the cross we two would bear! Bob’s less than healthy lifestyle of smoking cigars and drinking beer had caught up to him; and in my case I would be assuming the most important nursing caseload in my career. Now we both had to prove our worthiness.
Looking back over that feverish three months before Bob finally succumbed, I sincerely hope – and feel- that we accomplished this, each in our own way. Bob told me repeatedly that he was sorry and found ways to lighten my load, even taking a trip to PETCO to find the right kind of litter box for our cat. ( He had previously been the kitty-cleaner-upper.)
For my part my sense of having to be places on time was severely tested. This usually happened on days when he had an oncology appointment at the office clear across the county. Inevitably just when we were ready to head out the door Bob would have an emergent potty run, rendered more difficult because our home did not have a main floor bathroom. After helping him onto the commode, then cleaning up after, our drive to the MD was often a race. Bob would sense my tension and encourage me to “take a deep breath”, meanwhile apologizing for the “inconvenience”. I finally developed the presence of mind to tell him, “Not to worry…you are the love of my life.” Three hospitalizations for infection also took its toll.
We both emerged from this test stronger and hopefully wiser, leaving time open for us to say goodbye, thanking each other for a truly wonderful forty seven years. RIP, Hon, you will always be greatly missed!
Your beautiful story is proof that the word “love” is verb and not a noun.
No doubt you made the last path of Bob’s life’s journey full of light for both of you.
Indeed, RIP, Bob.