Now it frightened me.
For nearly two years, every noise inside our home had meant something connected to David.
The scrape of his walker.
The medication alarm.
A cough from the bedroom.
The sound of the television because he couldn’t sleep.
His voice calling me.
Now there was nothing.
I entered the kitchen.
Opened the refrigerator.
And suddenly realized I could cook whatever I wanted for dinner.
There was no dietary restriction to consider.
No texture requirement.
No medication that needed to be taken with food.
I could eat at six.
Or eight.
Or not cook at all.
That tiny freedom made me cry again.
So I ate a bowl of cereal.
At nine o’clock, I went to bed.
And then something almost unbelievable happened.
I woke up.
Sunlight was coming through the curtains.
I looked at the clock.
7:15.
I had slept for ten hours.
Ten uninterrupted hours.
For the first time in nearly two years.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
And immediately felt guilty.
How could I sleep that well the first night my husband was gone?
Then I saw his letter on my nightstand.
I remembered its opening warning.
I had waited too long.
So I took a shower.
Not a three-minute emergency shower.
A real one.
I ate breakfast.
Not half a piece of toast standing at the counter.
I actually sat down and ate.
Then I drove to Meadow Ridge.
David was outside in the garden.
Teresa had taken him there because the weather was pleasant.
The moment he saw me, he studied my face.
“You slept.”
It wasn’t really a question.
“Ten hours.”
He nodded approvingly.
“Show-off.”
I sat beside him.
“How was your night?”
“Awful.”
My heart jumped.
“What happened?”
“The man across the hall snores like industrial machinery.”
I stared at him.
“That’s it?”
“And the oatmeal looked like wet cement.”
I started laughing.
Then he laughed.
And for the first time since making the decision, I felt the smallest hint that perhaps we would survive this.
Part 6 — Becoming His Wife Again
Not every day was easy.
Some were terrible.
There were mornings when David asked me to take him home.
There were times when his illness worsened and nurses had to help with deeply personal things I used to handle myself.
I hated those moments.
I hated needing to step aside.
I hated seeing someone else learn the routines I once knew better than anyone.
