At least I think it is.
Days meld. As does the precise time on the clock. From intense activity to drift, with Jed in a place outside of time, outside of locale, outside of the ordinary and the distinct.
In the journey that is my caregiving world, I work hard to lean in. To accept the tickles and jokes. The multitude of “I love yous'” that come my way across the day and the night. In between sleeping. And wondering who is in the house and where the bathroom is.
I feel for his dislocation, but he takes it in stride. Smiles. Says, “is anyone here?”
I say, “No.”
“You mean it’s just you and me? Yay!”
My heart smiles and aches. Just us and not us.
Mani, pedi, haircut and shave day. And a lovely walk. Pizza. The weather fine. Observing flowers. The new green of Spring leaves. The many, many babies out and about in their strollers.
This last his joy.
New life. Flowers. Babies. Toddlers. Children.
He lies down on what used to be Izzi’s bed as I work at my mother’s old sewing table on the other side of the room.
Jed and Sugar Ray.
Sharing the space. The company. Being near. Our little family with Milo our other kitty off somewhere … and Izzi long since on her own … though one of us, always, on her visits home.
Doctor’s appointments, medical tests, companion caregivers come and go. Days blend some more as do the new normals. With me forgetting, two Fridays in a row that it was a companion afternoon. And, truth be told, my joy as I opened the door. Whew. A free few hours. Hours I worked on my book about women’s boxing before taking a lovely unfettered walk.
And now a Saturday. Jed full of the need to sleep. On his bed. In the room where I work. Padding in and out. Before he’ll organize his books and and clothing for the umpteenth time.
“It’s me again,” he says, standing at the doorway.
“Hi,” I say.
“Goodbye,” he says walking off to the living room.