Two Birds

Borrowed Solace/June 2022

 Morning

I reach for my cane leaning against the nightstand, heave myself out of bed, hobble over to the bathroom. There, I do my business, put in my dentures, struggle out of my pajamas and into my pants and shirt, begin my journey to the kitchen. I walk slowly, very slowly, the hallway yawning before me.

Once arrived, I get out the pill bottles and start counting. Next, I pour Jack’s juice and cereal, toast and butter my English muffin, and then, at last, pour the coffee and sit down.

 Jack rolls his walker into the room.

“Morning, how you feeling?” I ask my husband.

“Eh,” he pulls out his chair and gets settled. I roll my eyes. Typical. This man has never said he had a good night’s sleep in our entire sixty-five year marriage. With his memory problems, it’s worse. Even if he did sleep well, he wouldn’t remember. He flips on the TV on and pours his milk on his cereal.  He doesn’t ask me how I feel.

The TV blares with bad news.

Helping

Jack wants to feel useful, he wants to help me. Pushing his walker towards the dishwasher, he stops and stares, totally puzzled. He has never emptied the dishwasher in his life.

“How do you do it?”

I explain the concept of taking things out and putting like things together in designated places and leave him on his own to deal with it.  After the deafening crash,  I crane my neck around to see Jack’s face frozen in surprise as he stands with a tangle of silverware at his feet. I pull myself out of my seat, holding on to the table, going to help.  

“I can finish, Trudy, you go sit,” Jack says, observing me struggling. There is shame in his smile.

Not Listening

Jack smashes a fist down on the kitchen table, shaking the dinner plates.

“I’m in pain and no one cares, no one listens,”  he says, “ I need to go to the doctor, the hospital, something.”

“Do you want to go to the nursing home?” I snap, which keeps him quiet.

My Turn

One particular night in a sea of hundreds uneventful ones, I get up from bed to use the  bathroom, forget my walker, and trip over the footstool beside the chair. As I go flying and land with a thud and a gasp, I feel the fear rise up in me. This is it. I’ve done it now.

“Oh, Trudy, let me get you up. Turn on your side, yes, now scooch over this way, that’s it,” Jack’s face hovers above mine, he speaks softly as he pulls me, ungracefully, up.

My breathing is funny. Jack squints as he observes me.

“I just need to lay down,” I say.  He guides me to the bed,  but I cannot take a deep breath.  Jack is again examining me. For once, he remembers something.

 “911,” he says, “That’s the number and I’m calling it.”

Home

After staying at the hospital a week for a punctured lung, I’m so grateful to be home. Jack slaps together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, balancing the plate with one hand as he guides his walker with the other.  He fumbles with the remote, replaces the news with the golf.

We eat in the silence, the old round clock ticking on the wall behind us. Jack moves his hand on my arm, feeling down the boney length of it. He grasps my hand, we both hold on.