Remembering

There is a part of me that wants to put the time we were in Gainesville, January 7 to March 30, in a box buried in the back of my mind, labelled "Do Not Open."  I want to forget that it ever happened.

But that would be a disservice to me, who lived through the most intense period of my life.  It would be a disservice to the many people who were so kind to us.  And most of all, it would be a disservice to Bob, who went through this because of the love he felt for me and our family.

There is much that I will not dwell upon--what happened to him, physically.  That is not my story to tell.

But there is much I wish to remember.

I am grateful to whoever took a holding pond and landscaped it and put in benches and gave a place for a little blue heron and a *lot* of turtles to live.  It gave me a tiny bit of nature, I place I could escape to and walk for a few minutes.  (I am not so grateful for the number of people who used it as a smoking area.  You were in front of a frickin' cancer hospital.  What does it take to get your attention?)

I am grateful to the total strangers who let me pet their dogs.  And to whoever set up housing and a feed station for the feral cats, so that I could sit and look at them.

I am grateful to the nurse who kept telling Bob that as soon as he was allowed to step outside she would bring her cat to visit him (it never happened, but the thought made him happy)

I will be eternally indebted to Mac, who babysat our house for far longer than she thought she would have to, and who sent a steady stream of videos and pictures to us.  It kept us assured that we had a home and our cats to return to.

I am grateful to the support of my friends, especially to my text group "gang" (Gill, Kim, Jeff, and Diane) who kept me going with an endless stream of good thoughts, dirty jokes, and cartoons.

I am grateful to the nurse (Susan) who moved us from our original room, which faced other towers of Shands hospital, to one across the hall with the beautiful view of Payne's Prairie.

I do not want to forget any of the nurses, or his doctors, who did everything and anything they could think of to make him more comfortable, to do anything at all for him, or just to sit and chat.  They treated us like human beings, not just patients.

His birthday, January 27.  When the entire staff came in with a balloon and cake and sang "Happy Birthday."

I want to remember Tanisha.  I teased her one time because I caught her restocking some shelves, wearing her earbuds, and busting out some moves.  From then on, every time we saw each other we'd do our dance moves.  Because no matter what, you have to keep dancing.

So Bob and I danced.  It's very important when you're trying to get your donor cells to graft that you keep moving.  They want the patients to walk the halls around the nurses station as much as possible.  But Bob, despite all precautions, developed a viral infection (we all carry germs/viruses within us) and was confined to his room.  They moved in an exercise bike but his knees couldn't handle it.  So he had to pace the room like a confined bear.  Except for the day we put on the music and started dancing.

Dancing with Bob.  Because no matter what, we were together, and that officially makes it A Date.  And he started laughing--because outside of the nurse's observation window, there was quite the little crowd cheering us on.  They had never seen a patient dancing before.

Squeezing into the bed with him to watch videos on the laptop.  His hand stroking my hair.

There were almost daily cognitive checks.  Mr. Durham, what is your full name?  When is your birthday?  Can you tell us where you are?  Who is that lady standing beside you?  At the last question he turned to look at me, his eyes and voice, so gentle.

"The love of my life."

The number of times towards the end, after I had said that I would let him go, that I would look at him, into his eyes, and say "Tell me that you love me.  Because I will have to go a very long time without hearing that."  And he always said it.

And I never, ever, want to forget his grace and courage.  No matter how harsh the realities, how endlessly unbearable things became for him, he never once said a harsh, rude, or even abrupt word to a nurse.  There was always a pleasantry, even if through gritted teeth.  He was kind and gentle down to the depths of his soul.  Those three months together were the harshest, but the most intense, and the closest of our lives together, and I will always, always remember them.