Excerpt from ENTANGLED.

Sept.- October 2019 *

I have not kept a daily entry these past few weeks. Janis was moved to palliative care. (And somewhere in this time I started medication for anxiety and depression). This was a private room on the same unit, with the same exceptional compassion and good care for all their residents. She was taken off all her medications, except the ‘comfort’ meds. She was dying. Stopped eating enough to the extent that she basically was not able to nourish herself. Lost weight. No speech. No interaction. At some point these past months her legs and arms had contracted into a fetal position, and were so rigid she could not be relieved by any stretching exercises. Late in September she was unresponsive, and was moved into the private, palliative care room. All her medications other than a minimum of comfort meds were stopped. I moved into that room with her and stayed there day and night, sleeping on a pullout sofa and bed. For a month, I lived on the unit with Janis in this private room. My days with her were filled with holding her hand, tending to her comfort, I watched a little TV and read some. And I began to talk a little more to her than I may normally have done during a visit. (This was, of course a one-way activity.) At night I held her, and spoke to her about how much I loved her. And I told her that I wanted her to come back to me, but only if she could manage it, I said something like, “If you can do this for me I would love it, but you don’t have to…I’ll be okay. Our friends and our kids will all be available to help me. I just want you to know that I love you. No matter what. I love you.” This is a mantra I had adopted. I spoke this to her in her left ear where I believe she still has some hearing left, several times a day but also every night. There was not much sign that she heard this, but I had to believe that she did.
A week or so into this I noticed one morning when I awoke, that her legs were relaxing and so were her arms. She began to smile occasionally. During a visit by family, she woke up, and connected to the event, she began chuckling when she recognized her kids and my sisters. Our grandchildren were all there as well, and gave her kisses; she smiled, chuckled. She was excited. We were all surprised at this response.
Then one day when the CNA was getting her washed up, she laughed and said something. The CNA, one of her favorites, looked at me and said, “Did you hear that?” I nodded, and said, “And notice her legs.” I went to the nurse’s station and asked her Nurse J. to come to the room. Janis continued to respond for days. At times she was almost giddy with excitement and so was I. Of course, everyone was surprised, yet guarded. One evening, a young CNA, K. , was going off duty for her days off, she stopped in to say to me, “Bob-bo, (her nickname for me) I’m so happy for you and Janis. But, I worry that you might expect too much.” This was received by me as a sweet and gentle-hearted concern. We shared a hug. I assured her that I was hedging my expectations.
A month later almost to the day, Janis was returned to her room. She was beaming; she was watching me smile at her, and she chuckled when lowered into her own bed by the Hoyer lift. The word circulated around the whole building. Including the hairdresser and the receptionist at the front entrance to the Pavilion. One morning, a few days later, one of the housekeepers got on the elevator and commented that he heard of the good news about my wife. He said some were calling it a miracle.
Now, I should note this: As emotional as this all was, the month that I lived in her Unit with her and was able to see this Unit on a 24 hour basis, confirmed what I already knew. This staff, the nurses, CNA’s (the front line soldiers), the doctors, PA’s, the housekeepers, the laundry staff, the Activities Director, everyone on the unit, were remarkable; patient, kind, and treated all residents with compassion and affectionate, physical contact, loving hugs, or a kiss on the cheek, and somehow remained in good humor for long workdays (10 – 12 hour days for some.) And when it came time for me to leave the Unit and return home and to my normal schedule of visits, 3-4 days a week, I missed being there. I was treated well and accepted into the Unit by the staff. Some of the residents were a little surprised, at first, to see me around in the hallways at 10 pm, getting a treat and helping myself in the dining room fridge at night. One resident, M., who always has commented on my white shirts, pulled up to me one night in her wheelchair and asked, “Bob, are you living here now?” I smiled, patted her shoulder, and said that I was staying with my wife for a while. She asked if my wife was okay. I said she was not well, but comfortable.
This entire experience with this Unit, was amazingly healthy for me. It helped me reach a degree of acceptance that I think would have taken much longer. I had time to stay with Janis, and we had our time together, to accept all that was happening–to us both. ” ~

*About the journal entries: as you read them be sure to note the date of each entry. I decided on this for a simple reason, but rather than bring that up at the beginning, I decided to explain it at the end in the notes, again for certain reasons. August, 2014 is a significant date.

Update: I’m still shopping around for an editor/proofreader. I don’t have a date yet, but I’m more concerned about losing control of some of the design and content than I am on a perfect corporate product. If I can’t get a corporate publisher that will allow some of these details, I may go back to Amazon publishing. So I’m not wasting a lot of time. I decided a long time ago that these books were mine and good, bad, or ugly (hmmm), I want them to have my own touch. I’m not concerned with sales marketing, I’m more concerned with getting the experience of learning a craft that I love, and putting the books out to the public. Entangled is special to me for obvious reasons.