There’s an undercurrent to every visit—the quiet, persistent awareness that things can change suddenly. A cough that lingers, a bruise that wasn’t there last week, a moment of unusual fatigue. Words like “infection” or “stroke” hover unspoken, yet they shape how I watch them breathe, how I notice the color in their face, how I listen for any shift in their voice. The waiting isn’t dramatic; it’s slow and private, a background tension that never fully leaves.
I find myself measuring time differently, dividing life into “before the last scare” and “since the last call.” When the phone rings late, my body reacts before my mind does. Even on ordinary days, there’s a sense of borrowed calm—as if stability is temporary and fragile. I try to stay present, to focus on the warmth of their hand or the small comfort of shared silence, but the awareness sits just beneath it all: that the next vascular or infective event could redraw everything without warning.
It creates a strange mix of vigilance and helplessness. I want to protect them, to anticipate what’s coming, yet so much is beyond control. So I hold onto what I can—showing up, noticing, listening, and leaving each time with the quiet hope that this visit won’t be the last ordinary one.
No comments:
Post a Comment