I Thought Putting My Husband in a Nursing Home Was the Only Choice, Until I Found What He’d Been Keeping in His Nightstand
I found Thomas on the floor at 3:46 in the afternoon.
The laundry basket was still in my hands.
For one second, I could not move.
“Thomas.”
He looked up.
Embarrassed.
Not frightened.
Embarrassed.
“I’m fine.”
“You are on the floor.”
“I noticed.”
I dropped basket.
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“I wanted bathroom.”
“You were supposed to call me.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His face changed.
That was when anger left me.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I wasn’t sleeping.”
“You were downstairs.”
“That is not same thing.”
He looked away.
“I’m tired of calling for everything.”
My chest tightened.
I understood.
I hated understanding.
I helped him only after checking that moving him was safe based on
instructions his care team had given us.
We used transfer support.
Slowly.
Carefully.
By time he was back in bed, my shirt was soaked with sweat.
Thomas looked exhausted.
“So much for independence.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were about to.”
He smiled faintly.
“Forty-two years and you still interrupt.”
“Forty-two years and you still deserve it.”
I fixed pillows.
Checked water.
Made sure phone was within reach.
Then walked into bathroom.
Locked door.
And broke.
I pressed towel against mouth.
I did not want him to hear.
I cried because I was scared.
Because I was tired.
Because I loved him.
Because love had become lifting belts and medication schedules and
alarms.
Because I resented that.
Then hated myself for resentment.
Because Thomas had never chosen illness.
Neither had I.
For nearly two years, I had told everyone:
“We’re managing.”
That sentence was a lie.
Not malicious.
Protective.
I thought if I admitted difficulty, people would think I wanted to get
rid of husband.
Thomas Bennett had been strong one.
He fixed plumbing.
Built deck.
Changed brakes.
Carried furniture.
He once moved washing machine with neighbor because delivery company
could not fit it through door.
I screamed at him for that.
“You’re going to destroy back.”
He kissed forehead.
“Then you can carry groceries.”
He was sixty-five then.
Two years later, body began changing.
At first, weakness.
Then balance.
Then fatigue.
Doctors ran tests.
Eventually, specialists diagnosed a progressive neurological condition
affecting strength, coordination, and mobility.
Treatment helped some symptoms.
It did not reverse course.
Thomas adapted.
Cane.
Walker.
Grab bars.
Shower chair.
Then wheelchair for longer distances.
I adapted too.
At first, adaptation felt temporary.
Then temporary became life.
Our daughter Rachel lived thirty minutes away.
She had two children.
Job.
Marriage.
She offered:
“Mom, I can come Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“You have enough.”
“I can bring dinner.”
“We’re fine.”
“Mom.”
“We’re fine.”
Friends offered.
Church offered.
Neighbor offered.
I refused.
Pride disguised itself as devotion.
I thought good wife should handle husband.
That sentence sounds terrible now.
At time, it sounded noble.
After Thomas’s fall, I called Rachel.
It was 9:18 at night.
She answered immediately.
“Mom?”
“I think Dad needs more care.”
Silence.
“I think he needs somewhere that can give it.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Okay.”
I cried.
“I promised him.”
“Mom.”
“I promised to take care of him.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“I think somebody needs to start taking care of you too.”
That broke me again.
Rachel came next morning.
Coffee.
Bagels.
Brochures.
I hated brochures.
Every resident smiling.
Gardens.
Sunlight.
Clean sweaters.
No exhaustion.
No guilt.
She put one on table.
“Twenty minutes away.”
“I’m not sending him away.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“It feels like it.”
“Then don’t decide today.”
We talked with Thomas’s primary clinician and specialist.
They had already raised higher level of care.
Home health.
Respite.
Skilled nursing.
Long-term-care options.
We had postponed.
Now fall changed urgency.
A therapist assessed transfers.
Safety.
Bathroom.
Stairs.
Caregiver burden.
That phrase irritated me.
Caregiver burden.
Thomas was not burden.
But clinician explained:
“The term describes demands on caregiver.”
“Not value of person receiving care.”
I nodded.
Still hated phrase.
Two days later, Rachel drove me to facility.
Willow Terrace Skilled Nursing and Rehabilitation.
Twenty minutes.
Clean.
No smell of neglect.
Nurses answered questions.
Residents had call systems.
Rehabilitation gym.
Garden.
Old movie night every Friday.
Thomas loved Cary Grant.
I toured available room.
Window faced courtyard.
I imagined his recliner.
Then hated myself.
In parking lot, I cried.
Rachel waited.
No speech.
Eventually:
“What are you thinking?”
“I promised.”
“I know.”
“If he goes there, I failed.”
“Would Dad say that?”
“Yes.”
She paused.
“Actually?”
I knew answer.
“No.”
“Then why are you saying it?”
Because guilt does not require logic.
The facility could hold room briefly while we discussed transition and
insurance.
I told admissions I needed speak with Thomas before any move.
They agreed.
There would be assessments.
Consent and legal documentation.
No one was going to arrive with van and remove him from home.
That mattered.
Still, I could not make myself tell him that night.
Cowardice.
Exhaustion.
Both.
Next morning, Thomas slept late.
I decided to find old watch.
Not pack him secretly.
I wanted familiar objects ready for conversation.
His watch.
Photograph of us at Lake Erie.
Blue cardigan.
Old radio.
I opened nightstand.
Watch was not there.
I pulled drawer farther.
Something caught behind.
Envelope.
Claire.
His handwriting.
Underneath:
For Claire, if the day ever comes when she can’t take care of me
anymore.
I stopped breathing.
The paper was old.
Edges soft.
I sat on bed.
Thomas slept inches away.
I opened envelope.
First line:
Claire, if you’re reading this, then you’ve already taken care of me
longer than I ever had the right to ask.
My eyes blurred.
I slid to floor.
Letter continued.
I know you.
You will tell yourself that asking for help means you failed me.
It does not.
If I need more care than one person can safely give, please do not turn
our marriage into a test you have to pass by destroying yourself.
I covered mouth.
Thomas shifted.
I froze.
He settled.
I read.
You promised to love me.
You promised to stay honest with me.
You never promised to lift me alone.
You never promised to become a nurse.
You never promised to stop being Claire.
Beneath letter were documents.
Long-term-care policy.
Policy number.
Contact information.
A folder labeled:
CARE PLAN.
I stared.
Thomas had bought policy twelve years earlier.
Before illness.
Before weakness.
Before we knew.
I vaguely remembered insurance meeting.
He had told me:
“I added some retirement protection.”
Premiums had been paid automatically from an account Thomas managed for
insurance and retirement expenses.
I had seen company name on statements.
Never asked.
He had also created care-planning memo with elder-law attorney.
Not binding command.
Preferences.
Home care first if safe and sustainable.
Then assisted living or skilled nursing depending medical needs.
Facility near family.
Access to old movies.
Private room if affordable.
He had thought about movies.
I cried harder.
Then final page.
If I can still understand you when this day comes, talk to me.
Do not make decision alone.
If I cannot understand, use documents we prepared with doctors and
attorney.
But either way, do not confuse love with exhaustion.
You promised to love me.
You never promised to become my entire medical system.
Behind me:
“You finally found it.”
I turned.
Thomas’s eyes were open.
I wiped face.
“How long have you been awake?”
“Long enough.”
“You knew?”
“Of course.”
“You hid this?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“So you would find it when you needed it.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Worked.”
I laughed and cried.
“You knew this might happen?”
“I knew one of us might need care.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“No.”
“I told you we bought long-term-care coverage.”
“You said retirement protection.”
“That was poor communication.”
“Very.”
He smiled.
Then expression softened.
“Are you thinking facility?”
I could not answer.
He looked at brochure sticking from my bag.
Of course.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Claire, look at you.”
“I’m fine.”
He raised eyebrow.
Even sick, he knew lie.
“I’m not fine.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you to think I’m sending you away.”
“Then don’t send me.”
“What?”
“Talk to me.”
I sat beside him.
He took hand.
His grip weak.
Still Thomas.
“What do you want?”
I asked.
He thought.
“I want stay home.”
My heart sank.
Then:
“But I don’t want home if it kills you.”
I looked away.
“Don’t say that.”
“It is true.”
“We can hire more help.”
“Maybe.”
“We should compare.”
“Yes.”
“I toured Willow Terrace.”
“The one with garden?”
“You know it?”
He smiled.
“Look in folder.”
I did.
A business card.
Willow Terrace.
Dated eleven years earlier.
“What?”
Thomas said:
“Call Margaret Ellis.”
“Who?”
“She helped me compare long-term-care options.”
“She was social worker then.”
“She is care-planning consultant now.”
“You talked to someone eleven years ago?”
“After my father.”
Thomas’s father had spent final year in poor facility after emergency
placement.
I remembered chaos.
Thomas had hated it.
He said:
“I promised myself if either of us ever needed care, we would plan
before crisis.”
“Then life got busy.”
“I put papers away.”
“Why not tell Rachel?”
“I did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“Not details.”
“I told her years ago there was care file and insurance if something
happened.”
“You two conspired?”
“Prepared.”
“Conspired.”
He laughed.
Then coughed.
I helped water.
This time, help did not feel like test.
It was moment.
Rachel arrived an hour later.
I held envelope.
“You knew?”
Her face went guilty.
“Dad told me there was insurance.”
“You knew about letter?”
“No.”
“Care consultant?”
“He gave me name once.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because he made me promise not to interfere unless you were in crisis.”
“I was in crisis.”
“I know.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I stared.
Then laughed.
“Fair.”
We called Margaret Ellis.
She answered.
“Claire Bennett?”
“Yes.”
“I have been expecting this call for about decade.”
I almost dropped phone.
Thomas grinned.
Margaret explained she had met Thomas after his father’s care crisis.
She helped him understand long-term-care planning.
Insurance.
Advance directives.
Care preferences.
Home modifications.
Respite.
Professional caregiving.
Facility selection.
She did not hold secret authority.
She was not executor of his life.
She was resource.
That distinction mattered.
“I have old notes,” she said.
“They are not current medical recommendations.”
“We need fresh assessment.”
“Good.”
“Thomas should participate as much as he can.”
“Good.”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“You need assessment too.”
“I’m not patient.”
“You’re caregiver.”
I sighed.
Everyone was conspiring to keep me alive.
Over next week, we did what we should have done months earlier.
Care conference.
Thomas.
Me.
Rachel.
Clinician.
Physical therapist.
Social worker.
Margaret Ellis.
We reviewed options.
More home care.
Overnight aides.
Equipment.
Respite stays.
Skilled nursing.
Thomas’s condition required increasing assistance.
Home could be made safer.
But twenty-four-hour professional support would be expensive.
Insurance policy had benefits after eligibility requirements and waiting
periods.
It would cover significant portion of qualified long-term care up to
policy limits.
Not everything.
No magical unlimited fund.
Thomas had also set aside dedicated investment account.
I stared at amount.
“Where did this come from?”
“Years.”
“How much?”
Enough to cover gaps for substantial period without draining my
retirement.
Not millions.
Planning.
Discipline.
He had redirected bonuses and part of inheritance from father.
I had known about inheritance generally.
Not allocation.
“Why hide this?”
“I didn’t hide money from you to deceive.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted it protected for care.”
“We should have discussed.”
“Yes.”
He looked ashamed.
“You’re right.”
That mattered.
Even loving secret can still be poor communication.
We corrected.
Financial adviser joined.
Everything transparent.
Policy.
Account.
Our retirement.
House.
No mystery.
No heroic sacrifice.
Willow Terrace assessed Thomas.
They could meet needs.
We toured together.
This time I pushed wheelchair.
Thomas complained about lobby music.
“Terrible.”
“It is piano.”
“It is bad piano.”
Nurse showed room.
Thomas looked out window.
“Garden is decent.”
“High praise.”
He inspected television room.
Cary Grant poster.
“Propaganda.”
“You love Cary Grant.”
“Exactly.”
Then he asked nurse hard questions.
Night staffing.
Call response.
Transfers.
Therapy.
Medication management.
Emergency procedures.
He was not passive package being delivered.
He was choosing.
After tour, we sat garden.
“What do you think?”
I asked.
“I think we try respite first.”
“Two weeks?”
“Yes.”
“If I hate it, we reassess.”
“If you love it?”
“I will pretend I don’t.”
I laughed.
We scheduled two-week respite stay.
The night before, guilt returned.
I packed cardigan.
Watch.
Radio.
Letter.
Thomas watched.
“Stop making funeral face.”
“I don’t have funeral face.”
“You do.”
“I’m packing husband for nursing facility.”
“You are packing husband for two-week trial.”
“Still.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
I sat.
He touched cheek.
“You have kept me home almost two years.”
“You have done more than enough.”
“Don’t say enough like we’re done.”
“We’re not.”
“Then what?”
“We change how.”
That became phrase.
We change how.
Love did not end.
Care changed form.
At Willow Terrace, first three days were awful.
For me.
Thomas complained food needed salt.
I called four times daily.
Nurse finally said:
“Mrs. Bennett, he is playing cards.”
“Oh.”
“He asked us not to interrupt unless house is on fire.”
“That sounds like him.”
I went home.
House was silent.
I stood kitchen.
No alarms.
No walker scraping floor.
No television.
I cried.
Then slept fourteen hours.
When I woke, sunlight filled room.
For first time in months, body did not hurt everywhere.
I ate breakfast.
Showered without rushing.
Went grocery store.
I felt guilty for enjoying freedom.
Therapist said:
“Rest is not betrayal.”
I wrote that down.
During respite, Thomas improved somewhat with consistent therapy.
Not cure.
But better transfers.
More confidence.
He made friend named George.
They watched old movies.
Thomas called:
“George thinks Casablanca is overrated.”
“Move out immediately.”
“Finally something we agree on.”
At end two weeks, we met.
“Home?”
I asked.
Thomas looked at hands.
“I want another month.”
I blinked.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel safer.”
“And because you look ten years younger.”
I cried.
He sighed.
“You cry too much.”
“You fall too much.”
“Fair.”
One month became long-term placement.
Not because I abandoned him.
Because he chose with us.
His capacity remained sufficient for decision.
We documented preferences.
I visited four days weekly at first.
Then three.
Sometimes more.
Sometimes less.
Rachel visited.
Grandchildren came Sundays.
I brought homemade soup.
Thomas still criticized salt.
Our marriage continued.
Different address.
We had date nights in garden.
I wheeled him to courtyard.
We watched movies.
Held hands.
Argued.
One afternoon, I said:
“I feel like wife again.”
He looked.
“What were you before?”
“Nurse.”
“Bad nurse.”
I hit arm gently.
He laughed.
“I mean it.”
“At home, every conversation was medication or bathroom or food.”
“Here, staff handles some.”
“I get you.”
His eyes filled.
“That was plan.”
The insurance claim was approved after required documentation.
Benefits helped.
Dedicated care account covered gaps.
Our retirement remained stable.
I realized Thomas had not simply planned for his care.
He had planned for my life after caregiving.
Letter said:
If I go first, I want you to have enough energy and money left to live.
Do not spend every dollar keeping me in a room I cannot safely live in
just because you are afraid someone will judge you.
People will always judge.
Let them.
I read that line often.
Because people did judge.
A cousin said:
“I could never put my husband in home.”
I answered:
“I hope you never have to make that decision.”
No defense.
A neighbor said:
“Must be nice to have your house back.”
I hated that.
I did not want house back.
I wanted Thomas healthy.
But health was not available option.
Safety was.
Support was.
Marriage was.
We chose those.
Six months after move, Thomas had another decline.
Hospitalization.
Then return to Willow Terrace.
Staff knew him.
That mattered.
No emergency search for bed.
No unfamiliar facility.
No panic.
Planning turned crisis into transition.
Not painless.
Manageable.
Margaret Ellis stayed involved periodically.
She never made decisions.
She helped ask questions.
“What matters most now?”
“Comfort?”
“Rehabilitation?”
“Social connection?”
“Proximity?”
“Cost?”
“Care needs?”
Priorities changed.
That was allowed.
Thomas’s condition progressed.
Speech became softer.
Hands weaker.
Mind remained mostly clear for long time.
We updated advance-care documents while he could participate.
Not because death was imminent.
Because clarity is kindness.
He chose healthcare proxy.
Me primary.
Rachel alternate.
He discussed preferences with clinicians.
No hidden instructions.
No guessing.
One evening, he said:
“I’m sorry about secret folder.”
I smiled.
“It saved me.”
“Still should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I thought if I told you, you’d say we were too young.”
“I would have.”
“Exactly.”
“That doesn’t make secrecy right.”
“No.”
We held hands.
Marriage can contain both gratitude and criticism.
I was grateful he planned.
I wished he had trusted me enough to plan together.
Both true.
After a year at Willow Terrace, Thomas’s room looked like home.
Photographs.
Radio.
Books.
Grandchildren’s drawings.
His old watch.
He rarely wore it because band irritated skin.
Still wanted it nearby.
One afternoon, I asked:
“Why watch?”
“My father gave it to me.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask?”
“Making conversation.”
“Terrible at it.”
He smiled.
I kissed forehead.
At home, I rebuilt life.
Lunch with friends.
Book club.
Walks.
I started gardening again.
At first, every pleasant moment produced guilt.
Then less.
Thomas encouraged.
“Go to Florida with Rachel.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here.”
“I will still be here when you return.”
“What if something happens?”
“Something can happen while you’re grocery shopping.”
“Helpful.”
“Go.”
I went four days.
Called daily.
Thomas bragged to nurses that he “sent wife on vacation.”
When I returned, he said:
“You look rested.”
“I missed you.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
“Means we’re still married.”
Two years after placement, Thomas died.
Not suddenly.
Not alone.
Rachel and I were there.
So was nurse named Angela who had cared for him from first month.
Old movie played quietly.
Not Cary Grant.
Thomas would have complained.
His hand rested in mine.
I told him:
“You kept promise.”
He could not answer.
I think he heard.
After funeral, I returned home.
Nightstand remained.
I had moved it from bedroom? No, it stayed at home. The envelope had
been found there. Keep.
I opened the same drawer.
The space behind it was empty.
For a moment, I considered putting the letter back.
Then I placed it in a fireproof document box.
Not hidden.
Rachel knew location.
Planning should not depend on discovery.
That was one lesson Thomas and I had learned too late.
Months later, insurance benefits ended with his death according to
policy.
Dedicated care account had remaining funds.
They passed according to ownership and estate plan.
No secret fortune.
Enough.
Thomas’s planning protected my retirement.
At sixty-eight, I was widow with grief.
But not financially ruined.
That mattered.
I joined caregiver support group as volunteer.
Not expert.
Just someone who had lived it.
New caregivers often said:
“I promised to keep him home.”
Or:
“She made me promise never to put her in facility.”
I never told them what to do.
Every situation different.
Care needs.
Finances.
Capacity.
Family.
Safety.
I said:
“Ask what promise was meant to protect.”
Usually:
Love.
Dignity.
Safety.
Not a particular building.
Sometimes home care works.
Sometimes facility is safer.
Sometimes families need respite.
Sometimes Medicaid planning or veterans benefits or insurance matter.
Professional advice matters.
No single moral answer.
One woman cried:
“My husband will think I’m abandoning him.”
I told her:
“Talk to him if he can participate.”
“Bring care team.”
“Don’t carry decision alone.”
Thomas’s words.
Do not make decision alone.
Years later, Willow Terrace invited me to advisory council.
I almost said no.
Then joined.
I advocated for caregiver education before crisis.
Clear cost information.
Family conferences.
Resident autonomy.
Respite options.
Staffing transparency.
Not because facility was perfect.
It wasn’t.
There were late call responses.
Food complaints.
Staff turnover.
One medication error caught and corrected through proper process.
We had frustrations.
Professional care is not magic.
But accountability existed.
Multiple people.
Documentation.
Supervision.
At home, I had been single exhausted point of failure.
That was unsafe for both of us.
I finally understood.
Love does not make one person physically capable of twenty-four-hour
skilled care.
At seventy-two, I found old brochure Rachel brought.
Smiling elderly couples.
Garden.
I laughed.
Still hated cover.
It made care look too easy.
I wrote on back:
Real life was harder.
Still worth asking for help.
Then put it in support-group folder.
Rachel became caregiver years later.
Her husband had surgery.
Temporary.
She called:
“Mom, he won’t let me hire aide.”
I said:
“Put him on phone.”
He protested.
I told him Thomas story.
Not guilt.
Not scare.
Just:
“Let people help before wife collapses in bathroom.”
He hired aide.
Rachel texted:
You are terrifying.
I replied:
Inherited from father.
Thomas would have loved that.
At seventy-five, I moved to smaller condo.
My choice.
No care needs yet.
Less maintenance.
Elevator.
Walkable grocery.
Rachel asked:
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That was difference.
Choice.
After Thomas moved to Willow Terrace, I met with a financial planner and
an elder-law attorney.
I created my own care plan.
Not copy of his.
Mine.
Home-care preferences.
Facility preferences.
Financial reserve.
Healthcare directives.
Powers of attorney with safeguards.
Rachel knew everything.
No envelope behind drawer.
I told her:
“If day comes, ask me.”
“If I can answer, listen.”
“If I cannot, follow documents and doctors.”
“And don’t destroy yourself.”
She cried.
“Stop.”
“You started.”
“True.”
I kept Thomas’s watch.
It stopped at some point.
Repair shop could fix.
I chose not to.
Not symbolism.
I simply liked it as it was.
Time had done enough.
On what would have been our fiftieth anniversary, I visited Willow
Terrace garden.
They had replaced benches.
Trees taller.
I sat where Thomas and I decided to extend respite.
I remembered asking:
“Home?”
And him saying:
“I want another month.”
At time, it felt like loss.
Now I saw courage.
He admitted what he needed.
So did I.
That saved last years of our marriage from becoming only exhaustion.
We had conversations again.
Jokes.
Movies.
Arguments.
Trips to garden.
Grandchildren.
I became wife again.
Not because staff loved him more.
Because staff carried tasks love could not safely carry alone.
That distinction is everything.
The letter’s first sentence still hurts:
Claire, if you’re reading this, then you’ve already taken care of me
longer than I ever had the right to ask.
He was wrong about one phrase.
He had right to ask.
Spouses can ask.
We can choose.
What he did not have right to demand was my destruction.
He knew that.
Better than I did.
The official document beneath letter had seemed like secret rescue.
Insurance.
Care fund.
Consultant.
But real gift was permission.
Not legal permission.
I never needed husband’s permission to seek help.
Emotional permission.
He knew guilt I would carry.
He tried to speak across years to woman I would become.
Tired.
Scared.
Sitting on floor.
He told her:
Stop.
Talk to me.
Do not disappear inside my illness.
That was love.
Not heroic sacrifice.
Not martyrdom.
Preparation.
Honesty, even if delayed.
Choice.
When people ask whether I “put my husband in nursing home,” I still
dislike wording.
It makes Thomas sound like furniture.
Something I placed.
We chose a higher level of care together.
Later, when he needed more help, clinicians and family adjusted with
him.
He lived there.
I remained wife.
Those facts can coexist.
The day I found envelope, I thought I was about to betray wedding vow.
Instead, I learned I had misunderstood vow.
“In sickness and in health” did not mean I had to personally perform
every act of care.
It meant I would not abandon him.
I didn’t.
I visited.
Advocated.
Held hand.
Learned staff names.
Brought soup.
Watched terrible movies.
Sat beside hospital bed.
Signed forms when authorized.
Listened when he could speak.
Followed wishes when he could not.
And when he died, I was there.
Not because I had exhausted myself proving love.
Because we had built enough support that I still had something left to
give.
Presence.
That was what Thomas had been protecting inside nightstand.
Not money.
Not insurance.
Me.
Years before illness, he had looked at future and understood something I
did not.
One day, love might require more people.
So he prepared.
Imperfectly.
Secretly.
Too quietly.
But he prepared.
And when I finally found the envelope, the first line took strength out
of my legs.
The last line gave some back.
You promised to love me.
You never promised to become my entire medical system.
I still repeat it.
Not only to caregivers.
To myself.
May you like
Because sometimes the most loving thing we can do is admit that love
needs help.
