My poet

This is what I needed to move from the darkness I have been feeling. [To wit, a poem called Seeking Joy, which hardly hit its mark.]

It was a contribution by my love, my p.w.d.

Burt said something that was very uncharacteristic. He told me, “You’re talking to a poet.”

I said, “You are the poet of my soul.” My response was heartfelt and expressed my gratitude at his unusual utterance. Like his statement, it was uncharacteristic.

In the meantime, I had occasion to try to right my floundering ship of mood with another poem. It, too, was heartfelt but sprung from sadness.

Further support was a prompt in my caregiver writing group. This evoked sorrow but allowed me to fight through it. It offered a chance for me to buoy myself up.

The prompt was, “They’re looking good. The invisible burden.”

Here’s what I did with it. Note the reminder to look for the positives in care.

He’s doing well, they’ll say. No response to that makes it any easier. Yes, it’s a progressive illness, and we’re doing what we can. He has good days. I’m glad you got him on a better day. Your visit certainly perked him up.
In truth, I have rarely had to deal with that.

Burt’s pretty transparent, as it were, about his progression. I see more of the decline than others who aren’t with him all the time, but his confusion is evident. He’s not invisible; his disease is in the open.

He can be very clear about his demands, his needs, his wants. That can fool even me into believing he’s stronger than he really is.

Early on, his moments of clarity were a welcome opportunity to deny the realities of his illness. Denial is behind me now, and I face the truth of his decline minute to minute.

I need to say “he’s doing well” more often so I can appreciate what of him I still have.