After the crazy flurry of activity of the first few weeks after diagnosis, life has settled into a new normal – Steve is weary but otherwise seemingly fit and healthy (if we ignore the amount of morphine he is taking daily to keep the pain and cough at bay) and it’s been easy to push the thought of his illness to the back of my mind and almost feel as if this isn’t actually happening, and that everything is going to be alright.
Today we had a visit from one of the nurses from the hospice, to introduce herself and talk about the team and what they can offer for all of us.
She expressed her shock at how quickly this had all happened for us, and said that it was unusual to be as far along the process as we are, this soon after diagnosis.
We both got emotional while we were talking to her, it was a very honest conversation and as we spoke about symptom control and the future, for me it was a real reminder that, actually, my husband is really poorly.
And I’m classed as his “carer”, and will be considered his main carer as “the disease” progresses. This worries me – I’m not a natural carer. I was always the patient when we played hospitals as kids, when we were looking after Dad in his last days, I was “communications”, Lou and Mum were “carers”. I’ll do it, of course I will, but I’m just not sure I’m going to be very good at it.
Hopefully this will all be a long while off, but today just brought it all acutely back into focus for me, and the tears which haven’t been around much in the last few weeks have flowed again today.
(This was all typed yesterday – this morning I sobbed on Steve, he reassured me, and we have been for a 2.5 mile dog walk in the pouring rain, and I’m feeling more positive again)
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