I know I’ve quoted Garrison Keillor before:

Nothing bad ever happens to a writer;
Its all material.

And I’ve probably written the same thing:

I could do with a little less material.

This last week has been fairly quiet.  Lew has been himself, mostly.  But he’s sliding quickly.  He’s in bed, sleeping most of the day.  Adjusting his meds has helped straighten his head immensely, but now he feels the nerve damage left by the shingles.  Walking is very painful.  He hasn’t had the dry heaves for three days — a tremendous blessing.

I left Benny with Lew this morning, confident that Lew wouldn’t get into trouble as long as Benny “need looking after.”  I thought I had stepped into the Twilight Zone — there were only two people at the counter when I got to the DMV office to register my new van!  Six clerks and only two customers!

Back at home . . .  I’ve arranged for someone from Hospice to come tomorrow to help Lew bathe.  I flooded the bathroom yesterday, so I set out to clear the clog this afternoon.  After asking Lew where the hose was to hook up to the faucet, I retrieved it from the garage.  While out there, I went to set the garbage cans back upright (they had just been emptied) and I heard Lew in the garage — he was looking for the hose.

Back in the house, with Lew back in bed, I took the screws out of the doohickey and fished out a big glob of my hair.  A few minutes later, Lew decided I wasn’t making the appropriate noises and came to look over my shoulder.  Next thing, he was down on the shower floor “helping.”  I watched as he struggled back up to his feet.  And I lost it.  I blew up in his face.  My “forgive the dying man” attitude was completely shattered that instant.  Lew was freezing cold and shaking from weakness and not understanding why I didn’t want him helping.

A few minutes later, after slamming a few doors, I was lying in bed, my head on his shoulder, sobbing and telling him how much I hate him for getting so sick.  He felt terrible and apologized for getting in the way and for being so confused.  Then he started telling me how much more work it was to have to fill out all the forms to get a plane ticket.  He was gone again, back at work again.

I had convinced myself that the confusion had been from too many drugs.  Now I look at him, his skin hangs in folds — he weighs less than 110.  He walks, shuffling.  His voice is weak and scratchy.  His arms brush against something and he bruises and bleeds.

But, tomorrow is another day.  And tomorrow will bring new material — Lew’s first time bathing with someone other than me.