In My Head

I spend a lot of time talking to myself about things that I need to deal with before I deal with them. It's practice, I think, so that when I do interact with the actual people, perhaps I won't be as angry or emotional because I have worked some of it out.

Right now as I work on embroidery blocks for a customer, I am having conversations with my husband and his caregivers. Joe has been in hospital for three weeks and now a nursing home for two. That's why I haven't written.

He is doing amazingly well and has recovered from a massive heart attack which would have killed him had he been in any hospital but OSU's Ross Heart Hospital. His care at Flint Ridge Nursing Home is also excellent! But he's not doing something that, in my opinion, is essential to acc0mplish before he comes home and they want to send him home in four days.

This is the sixth major episode in Joe's life that has required me to become his caregiver. By now, one would think, he would realize I don't do it well. The innate compassion for the sick that most nurses and patient care professionals have lasts in me about 15 minutes and then, once I know he will survive, I am like "Get over it and let's move on." Except for giving birth twice, I have never been in the hospital and never been seriously ill ever. I know I don't understand how he feels after these very painful and difficult episodes; he doesn't understand my feelings either. His two daughters and I are the ones who have sat in waiting room after waiting room, knowing he might not make it, knowing that he is so ill that the doctors have prepared us for the worst. And he survives each time, but each time it's harder as we are sure his body can't take much more, over and over again. Once life is certain; I think he should be amazingly grateful and ready to do whatever physical and occupational therapies that will get him back to his previous state. He wants to whine and not have to do anything but lie in bed while waited upon by cheerful nurses and aides.

Flint Ridge has provided amazing care, great therapy, really good food, a pleasant atmosphere, and I can't do that. I am not going to tell you what he's not doing, but I guarantee if he comes home without that skill, his life will be miserable. Matter of fact, I may not pick him up unless I know he can do it. I wonder how long they would let him sit in a wheel chair in the lobby waiting for me. (OK, anyone who knows me knows I am delighted he is well enough to come home and has once again been resilient enough to survive. I'll pick him up whenever they say. I just won't necessarily be happy about it.)

I think the resentment I feel about becoming his caregiver again is normal, and I'll deal with it -- without taking it out on him. My father has always been one of my heroes, but now I admire him even more for taking care of my mom who had M.S. and was bedridden for her last 5 years.
Mom and Dad are both gone now. I wish I could share war stories with Dad and let him know how much I understand his sacrifice.

I closed the shop for three weeks while he was at Ross Heart Hospital; now I close at noon and visit with him while he eats his lunch, return to the shop at 2 and stay open until 4, then go back to check on him before heading home. Today, I will deal out loud with the issue in my head. Wish me luck!