We are clearly in the last days. She sleeps 95% of the time and when she does open her eyes, she just stares, all semblance of recognition is gone. The caregiver, more than I, speaks to her as if she were the Jackie of two weeks ago.
I am paralyzed.
I am taking a drug for my back pain that makes me drowsy, so I drift around the house, not being able to accomplish anything. I put things away, I do simple chores and often find myself on another floor with no memory of climbing or descending stairs.
I think about calling relatives but what would I say? “No, she is not dead yet, perhaps today, perhaps tomorrow.”
Perhaps I will do that and not say anything else. Let them decide what to do.
She ate and drink only a tiny bit yesterday. She holds the thickened drink in her mouth for a while and then eventually swallows.
Perhaps every ten minutes I stand at the doorway to her room and watch for the movements of her chest or hands to know if she still lives.
Nothing smart or meaningful to say.
There will be a tomorrow but, right now, it seems irrelevant to me.
I struggle to think that there will be some happiness without her.
Now I will go back to bed for a while and then look in on her again.