“I want you to hurry up and re-marry,” Joe said from the bathroom, “It won’t take you long,” he smirked around the corner as I sat there shocked.
“I don’t want to talk about that,” I said back.
“I am serious, I want you to hurry up and re-marry and have a baby so Mira isn’t an only child,” he continued on with his grand plan for our lives.
“Do you need my help or not?” I spat back as I sat outside on the bed ‘on call’ as he attempted to bathe himself.
Normally, I was the one who started the hard conversations. I’d sprinkle the bombs of ‘hard’ lightly between the day to day.
“Honey, is the dishwasher clean? The nurse arrives at 2pm. I set the bill I didn’t understand on your desk, And, oh yea, do you want to be buried or cremated?”
Hard conversations- they’re painful and awkward and silly and essential.
As his wife, it was my duty to be armed with his wishes and push them forward even when no one else agreed.
“We will go in for surgery and put in the stints,” explained the surgeon as he stood over my husband’s sleeping body.
“Will he wake up and not have cancer?” I asked.
“Well, no.” the surgeon said back.
“Then we don’t want to do it,” said my voice shaking and the surgeon stomped out of the room.
The truth is, I did want to do it. I wanted to do anything to give me another moment, minute, hard conversation. But I knew, he didn’t. I knew he didn’t deserve an ounce more of pain, recovery, or complications. I knew what he wanted because we’d uncovered every layer of uncomfortable to be sure I’d be ready.
So I stood there, wrapped in his intentions and firmly plotted in my own uncertainty to do what is right.
Hard conversations, a chapter buried in the caregiver handbook between, stay positive and don’t forget to take care of yourself.
Hard conversations, a final act of love.