This is the next in a series of transcripts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.
May and June flew by, but this month dallies. Last week and this coming week are stunningly free on engagements and I revel in them.
Last week, Dave was almost sullen—weak and tired and without smiles. Then on Friday, after the rehab gals sent him to the ER again, he perked up. Something stabilized, even before they did anything or gave him the fluids they eventually gave him. After we left the ER, we went shopping at the co-op and to a fish fry in which he ate all of his and some of mine. He was good, very good, and remains so through Saturday and into today.
And what do I do? I keep wondering whether these are his last good days. There is no relaxing into them. It feels like a long, slow descent punctuated by the occasional sunny plateau that provides a bit of rest. I am doing this very badly, but I don’t know what else to do.
Live each day? I live, but am still not loving except with whatever steadfast care I can bring. This is the most confusing season.