I realised recently that my level of anxiety about Anthony was very high when I was home and unable to visit (due to flu or whatever). I was anxious about everything from him being cold (because his internal thermostat is wonky) to his confusion about why I wasn’t there.
Today, as soon as I entered his room, my anxiety dissipated. He was in sleepy mode and couldn’t remember how to eat his lunch, but he was still there – my husband, my rock.
As Anthony slept, and I watched re-runs of “Neighours” (because I forgot to bring my box of paperwork in), I kept my hand on his shoulder or head, as I usually do, and, gradually, his easy breathing gave me a sense of peace.
Sometimes I cry and cry into Anthony’s shoulder and he gives me comfort just by whispering, “Jules, Jules?”
We are now into our fifth year of Anthony being in a home away from home so he has outlived predictions that he would die either of prostate cancer or Parkinson’s disease by now. His dementia is an offshoot of PD and getting worse but he still knows who I am, who Ming is, and who most family members are.
And, out of all of my friends, family, staff, guess who gives me the most comfort?
Anthony himself.
jmgoyder 