I don’t need a calendar to tell me what week this is.

I don’t need a calendar to tell me that three days ago, six years ago, Leroy was moved to a hospital bed in our family room.  It had a special, inflatable mattress that had a pump attached to it so it stayed inflated.  It kept him more comfortable than a regular flat mattress.

I don’t need a calendar to tell me that tomorrow, six years ago, the hospice nurse, who had just arrived today, six years ago, suggested that Leroy use a morphine pump to ease his pain.  He reluctantly agreed and I watched carefully as she put the needle in his arm.  I remember looking up at him.  He was already watching me.

I don’t need a calendar for any of these details because there is something about this week that triggers so many unsettling emotions inside of me.  It only happens during this week.

I don’t think anyone can tell that I’m different this week.  No one at the gas station or the grocery store notices the change, but I know.

It’s a week that leads up to a day and I promise you, I don’t need a calendar for that day.

 

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