Deathwatch

Everyday, my husband grows weaker. That's an oxymoron. He's not growing, he's fading away. Yesterday he drank a glass of water and could say "hello". Today, he could hardly keep his eyes open and he just couldn't manage to get a sip of tea to come up through the straw. There just didn't seem to be enough energy to make the effort to suck on the straw. His middle daughter and her husband and daughter come every Sunday afternoon to see him but there is hardly any recognition of their presence. His granddaughter always used to bring a smile to his face, but no longer. There seems to be no joy left in his life.

Last month, his niece and her daughter flew in from Vancouver Island on the coldest day of the winter to see him. He managed to get out "nice to see you" and mustered some smiles for them. His sister, his only remaining sibling, sent him a letter after that visit, telling him how much she loved him. He acknowledged the letter with a weary look that seemed to say "too little, too late" but had not a single word of response. Since then, he has continued to slip. He drinks his energy drink, liked the Valentine flowers I brought him, and had a valentine chocolate, but then almost choked on the last of it. At the end of every visit, we think, this may be the last visit, and then we come again the next day and he's there, lying in his chair, eyes half closed, mouth half open, looking more dead than alive but still - with us, at least in body.

I have been reclaiming my identity. My identity as Mrs. is history, so who or what am I? I have my own apartment, not a house. It's furnished with bookcases, a computer desk and filing cabinet, bookcases, six of them, bedroom furniture, a kitchen table and chairs, and a loveseat and two easy chairs. There's a wooden chest for my quilts and a CD player for my music. The accordion and keyboard are waiting to be put to use again. The pictures on the walls are my favourites, mostly scenery, and my University certificates are no longer embarrassed to hang over the computer desk. The music in my CD stand is classical, folk songs and religious songs. I can play it any time I want. I sit up and read until 11 or 12 p.m., get up at 8 and go for exercises and no one laughs at me for exercising. I can express my opinions freely without hearing "that's what you think". The people I live with smile when they meet me and greet me in a friendly way, no one scowls or expects me to make way for them.

I go where I want to, when I want to, and no one asks why I go where I go and why I was so late getting back and why supper isn't ready yet. It's quiet here and sometimes it feels lonely, but mostly, it feels very peaceful.

Guilt and a lack of self esteem don't make for a happy person. My husband struggled all his life with the guilt of having contravened his mother's wishes by getting married and leaving her to live alone. Apparently, the family, even cousins, knew that he was not meant to marry but was to stay with his mother on the farm. No one, including my husband to be, shared that piece of information with me, and so it was as it was. Once the vows had been said, "for better or for worse, until death do us part", it was too late, although my husband's mother and some of his siblings made mighty efforts to try to drive me out of the marriage. My husband and I hardly knew each other when we got married but how can you desert someone whose own family is turning on them, seemingly without cause?

After his mother failed, at considerable financial cost to herself, to break up our marriage, we were left in peace. By ten years after our marriage, she was again speaking to her son, although she never did condescend to speak to me, the villainess who had led her son astray. So we all have roles to play in life and mine was cast for me, forty-six years ago.

Now I choose my own. I am me, the me that I like and choose to be. Hallelujah!