Yesterday my partner's doctor came to visit her and said that the chronic sleepiness (and 20 hour sleep marathons) as well as her inability to put words together (different from her typical confusion, which manifests in things like her telling me she had been in Boston) were likely due to a brain bleed. He said that people on blood thinners (she has been on blood thinners, first Warfarin, then Eliquis, for 13 years) often get them.
He said I had two choices. I could have her taken to the ER, which would mean that she would lie on a gurney in the hall for hours, not have her diapers changed, and then be shunted all over for tests. The last time she was in the ER (for something acute and life threatening that could be dealt with with treatment) she was on a gurney in the hall from 6 pm until 1 am, when she went for a CAT scan. They didn't change her diapers very often and she came home with bed sores that took months to get rid of. Or, I could have a consultation with a hospice nurse. I chose the latter.
I know that this is not necessarily the end. The doctor also prescribed an antibiotic for a UTI that she might have, and already, less than 24 hours later, she is a little better. She knows that Sunday is her 85th birthday, for example, which she didn't know yesterday. I think what the doctor meant was that what she mostly needs is comfort care. What could they possibly do for a brain bleed that would enhance her quality of life all that much? He said if she wants to sleep, let her sleep. If she wants to consume nothing but Ensure and cookies, let her do that.
But the end will be sooner rather than later and I am desolate. All the love that I didn't give to the parents I didn't love (my father, who died when I was 14 had a violent temper, and my mother, who died when I was 60, did everything she could to squash and squelch every independent thought that I had). I did not feel much sadness when either of them died. When my father died I felt relieved (although several decades later I saw what a disruption his death was, mostly socioeconomically, but also because his death removed the only person who could tell my mother she was wrong, and make her listen) and when my mother died I felt liberated. Sometimes reflecting on this makes me think I'm a monster. I hear people talk about the deep grief they feel, even over a decade later, over the death of a parent and I feel nothing.
I also didn't have any children. All the love I might have given to a parent or a child I gave to my partner.
When she goes I will be inconsolable. No, she was never perfect, and we had terrible fights. But what she gave me was the gift of letting me know that I was enough. I felt loved. I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. We laughed, we snuggled, we made a safe haven for each other.
This morning, after having a new rug put down in my dining room and doing some cleaning, I realized that it was my partner who taught me to be a person. She taught me how to cook and keep house (my mother was a wonderful cook, but as she was always obese, I didn't want any part of cooking when I lived with her), how to watch the news and learn about the world. When I met her I was 25, newly sober, had almost nothing in my apartment and less in my refrigerator, and didn't even know the name of the governor of New York State.
Right now all I want is to spend as much time with her as is reasonably possible. I am waiting to hear from the hospice nurse. One wonderful thing is that he or she will stop by regularly and let me know when the end is near. My greatest fear is that my partner will die alone.
But life needs to go on, I know. I am 15 years younger than she is and I still want to sing. I will not give that up. I cannot lose ground whatever happens. Luckily it is the summer, so I have more time.
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