For as long as possible I held on to the hope that somewhere deep inside some part of Doug recognised something about me. The sound of my voice, the feel of my hand in his, my scent - something, anything. And then I held on still longer.
There are two bookcases, every shelf double-stacked, with Doug’s collection of non-fiction. Sometime in the future, when I can no longer stack my books against the sides of our other bookshelves, or when Piper knocks them down yet again, I will box up his through tears, and deliver them to a place where they can be discovered and enjoyed - maybe even read - by someone else.
I am better at giving away his clothes to people who need them. Better, but his kilts, a suit we bought for a super special dinner, his Maple Leafs hockey sweater, a few of his favourite ties, and a few other items are still hanging in our bedroom closet. His last pair of walking boots and his poles are tucked into the front hall closet. His golf clubs and guitars are taking up space.
When Mum and I cleared out Aunt Em’s flat we shared memories about the objects we were packing and donating until we ran out of time. It was lucky, we agreed, that anything we wanted to keep had to be shipped to Canada. (Though I do regret being quite so harsh in my refusal to bring back much at all, I have photographs to remind me of the happy memories the objects sparked.) We left her wardrobe for last, so that we had to rush through everything that still held the suggestion of her fragrance.
But Doug hasn’t died. And nothing in our house smells like him. (And, in reality, he no longer smells like him. Not the Doug I knew and loved when we lived together. That’s gone, along with his voice, his mobility, his recognition of me.)
‘Whose needs are you meeting by visiting your husband?’ My therapist asks me.
Today I can speak the truth she has known for much longer than I have. Mine. My needs.
He doesn’t know me. There is nothing about me that differentiates me from any of the other people who care for him. Even when I read him one of our scrapbooks, recounting our past adventures. Even when I sneak us away to an empty room and take off my mask to show him my face in one of the rare moments his eyes are open. Even in his heart of hearts. (And yes, this is also a blessing. I am confident his intelligent, active mind is not trapped inside his deteriorating body. That would break me.)
But I know him. I recognise him. I need to sit beside him, to feed him some of his meals, to hold his hand, to read to him, to hug him, to kiss his forehead. I don’t know how else to express my love for this man. The person he was, the person he is now.
The other day he was napping, and, whispering a memory of another time we’d tried to share a single bed, I squished myself next to him. His hand had been raised above his head and it fell over my shoulder. As close to a hug as I could imagine.
I am holding on to that moment.
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