Last night marks the first night that my honey and I slept in our own bed, in our own room, together, since December 17, when we were both still sick with the flu, and our temperatures rose in unison. The next day, his temperature continued its rise as mine fell. By Saturday he was in the ICU, less than a week later he could only breath with the help of a ventilator.
There were many conversations about his progress with friends in the first weeks he was home. I didn't feel the great sense of relief that I thought I would, or that many people seemed to think that I would. It was most certainly good news. The best. He had lived. He is alive.
There was a certainly a degree of relief once he stopped dying. My notes include phrases like, "evolving renal failure," and "X-ray much worse." The words congestive heart failure aren't in my notes, only my memory. I spent each day in the ICU with him, reading, working, staring at him, interacting with the staff. Some days I had to leave because his suffering was too much to watch. There was little relief in leaving as I was terrified that something horrible would happen while I was at home sleeping.
I began to feel the first degree of relief after I crawled into bed late January 1st; I have nothing in my notes to indicate a big change, but I knew intuitively that he was on his way back; a week later he was extubated and was able to breath completely on his own again. That small degree of relief was tempered by his inability to speak above a shaky whisper, the hallucinations, and the lack of gross and fine motor skills. He couldn't feed himself or bring a cup to his lips to sate his thirst; I fed him ice cubes. His skin, that had been stretched so far by 50 lbs. of water retention, had shrunk back down and clung to his bones; it was so wrinkled and he was so thin that he looked 40 years older.
But he was awake and cracking jokes. The ability to laugh with him brought another degree of relief, as did the move to a regular hospital room. But I'll be honest, I was terrified that they would send him home before he could care for himself; I didn't think that I could have to care for him, and myself, around the clock. It was a relief when the discharge nurse agreed that he would be transferred to a rehab facility.
Yet, once he was home he still needed a great deal of help in order to function. He leaned heavily on a walker. Getting in and out of the car was slow and at time precarious. His first shower at home, although wonderful, required a slow trek up then down the stairs; he needed a shower chair for stability and two days to recover from the exertion. He moved slowly and tired easily. He could eat and drink by himself, but it was not safe for him to be alone for long periods of time. Friends and family had helped me set up a bedroom downstairs in what used to be our dining room. He woke every two hours that first week, with pain or anxiety or a trip to the bathroom. I woke up with him, still unable to allow myself much deep sleep. I was terrified that he would need me, and I would sleep through his calls or the noise of his body falling to the floor.
That gradually changed. Bit by slow bit. Relief has come in small, sometimes unnoticeable increments.
This is the first time in two months that I feel a sense of palatable relief; our life is finally moving back into normalcy. Once our bedroom was put back together last night, my tears didn't surprise me. Even now, the next morning, I want to sit and cry. No psycho-analysis needed: I'm good in a crisis; I fall apart once the coast is clear. I can finally see the clearing through my tears.
