They are mother-in-law and daughter-in-law. They are often confused for or presumed to be mother and daughter. One is a widow of ten years. The other is a mama on the verge of an empty nest. Each one with her own way of folding towels, doing laundry, loading the dishwasher, organizing the contents of the refrigerator.
Both opinionated. Neither timid. Both are first born.
One is the patient. She is learning the physical pain of fighting for her physical life. She has accepted the fact that her body's functions are now the chief topic of conversation with relative strangers wearing white lab coats. One is the caregiver. She is learning the painful lessons of dying to self. She tries to preserve the remaining shreds of the other's dignity. She has to be careful with her desire to be present where she is. The longing for home is intense. There is an impulse to shut off places in her heart...to disconnect what's not being used...in order to stay focused on the task at hand. This is dangerous.
Both grapple with new roles and the learning curve that is steep, demanding.
One likes coconut. One does NOT. One wonders if she will always do battle with the craving for a bacon cheeseburger. The other just eats the burger. One sleeps on one-third of her king-sized bed, with one pillow. The other has become quite enamored with three pillows and the full dimension of her queen-size bed.
One has an inner critic with the lung capacity of a fog horn. She battles with the idea that this whole shebang will fall to ruin if she doesn't get everything "just right."
Both are missing the places and faces of life before AML. Both are becoming more and more aware of how little control they really have. Both are learning that hospitals are their own time zones. Both have an unspoken concern, apprehension about the existence of the proverbial other shoe and when it will drop. "God's got this" easily rolls of the tongue of one. The other prays for help with her unbelief.
Both are counting to 100.
Both opinionated. Neither timid. Both are first born.
One is the patient. She is learning the physical pain of fighting for her physical life. She has accepted the fact that her body's functions are now the chief topic of conversation with relative strangers wearing white lab coats. One is the caregiver. She is learning the painful lessons of dying to self. She tries to preserve the remaining shreds of the other's dignity. She has to be careful with her desire to be present where she is. The longing for home is intense. There is an impulse to shut off places in her heart...to disconnect what's not being used...in order to stay focused on the task at hand. This is dangerous.
Both grapple with new roles and the learning curve that is steep, demanding.
One likes coconut. One does NOT. One wonders if she will always do battle with the craving for a bacon cheeseburger. The other just eats the burger. One sleeps on one-third of her king-sized bed, with one pillow. The other has become quite enamored with three pillows and the full dimension of her queen-size bed.
One has an inner critic with the lung capacity of a fog horn. She battles with the idea that this whole shebang will fall to ruin if she doesn't get everything "just right."
Both are missing the places and faces of life before AML. Both are becoming more and more aware of how little control they really have. Both are learning that hospitals are their own time zones. Both have an unspoken concern, apprehension about the existence of the proverbial other shoe and when it will drop. "God's got this" easily rolls of the tongue of one. The other prays for help with her unbelief.
Both are counting to 100.
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