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.