"Where is your room?" he asks and it's not the first time. More like fifty. I remind him of our home, our sons, the cats. I bring family photos taken by my daughter. "Are you living with her now?" he asks and then I say, "No, I am home and you will be coming home soon, after you get stronger."
In bits and pieces of scattered time, I sign all of the necessary forms, from how he likes his coffee to how he wants to die naturally. When I go there to visit every day, I dress like I'm going to church. His doctor there is a youngish geriatrician, who carefully compared his advance directive to a POLST, which in New Jersey carries more weight, legally.
His two daughters and two sisters have, each in their own way, added to the problem, instead of offering help. Ironically, his sister with schizophrenia just moved into assisted living and has been the most encouraging. They all either directly or indirectly criticize my decision to have Medicare and our secondary insurance help him physically recover, in a safe place.
What my heart is whispering at night is fear and loss, please Lord, help me sleep and wake stronger in the morning. What my heart is whispering at night is gratitude for the grocery clerk who commiserated, the aide who promised to bathe him and did. What my heart is whispering at night is, help me be clear-headed and calm; to take the high road and continue to be present as a strong, loving wife who will stop at nothing to protect her vulnerable husband of 29 years.